INSTITUUT VOOR TAAL-, LANDEN VOLKENKUNDE

74

EXPLORATIONS IN THE ANTHROPOLOGY OF RELIGION

ESSAYS IN HONOUR OF JAN VAN BAAL

edited by

W. E. A. VAN BEEK ,and J. H. SCHERER

mE HAGUE-MARTINUS NIJHOFF 1975

VAN HET KONINKLIJK INSTITUUT

VOOR TAAL-, LANDEN VOLKENKUNDE

74

EXPLORATIONS IN THE ANTHROPOLOGY OF RELIGION

ESSAYS IN HONOUR OF JAN VAN BAAL

edited by

w. E. A. VAN BEEK and J. H. SCHERER

THE RAGUE-MARTINUS NIJHOFF 1975

IN THE

ANTHROPOLOGY OF RELIGION

v

Editorial Preface

SECTION I : THEORY AND METHOD

K. o. L. Burridge, University of British Cotumbia Other peoples' religions are absurd 8 Th. P. van Baaren, University of Groningen Religions of faction and community-religions 25
D. J. Hoens, University of Utreaht Rites of initiation; a contribution to the methodology of comparative religion 29
A. J. F. Kó~ben, University of Amsterdam Opportunism in religious behavior 46

w. E. A. van Beek, University of Utreaht

The religion of everyday life; an ethnoscience investigation into the concepts of religion and magic 55

ct. Lévi-Strauss, CotZège de Franae, Paris

Histoire d'une structure 71

SECTION II MELANESIAN AND AUSTRALIAN RELIGIONS

J. Pouwer, .viatoria University of WeZlington Structural History: a New Guinea case study 80
J. W. van Nieuwenhuijsen & C. H. van Nieuwenhuijsen-Riedeman Institute for SoaiaZ Saienae Researah in Devetoping Countries, (IMWOO), the Hague Eclipses as omens of death; the socio-religious interpretations of a cosmological phenomenon among the Suki in South New Guinea 112

Bemdt, university of Western Australia Life in death; a Lungga (Gidja) mythic corollary 121

A. C. van der Leeden, Roman Catholic University of Nijmegen Nunggubuyu Aboriginals and Marind-Anim: Preliminary Comparisons between South-Eastern Arnhem Land and Southern New Guinea 147
J. W. Schoorl, Pree university of Amsterdam Salvation movements among the Muyu-Papuas of West-Irian 166
A. Ploeg, university of Utrecht Wok kako and wok bisnis 190

SECTION 111 RELIGION IN CHANGE

H. U. E. Thoden van Velzen & W. van Wetering, university of Utrecht On the political impact of a prophetic movement in Surinam 214
G. W. Lacher, University of Leyden Myth, ideology and changing society 234

J. D. J. Waardenburg, University of Utrecht

Religion and the Dutch tribe 247

P. H. Vrijhof, university of Utrecht Religion and Christian faith: some sociological comments 280
SECTION IV 8IBLIOGRAPHY OF PUBLICATIONS BY J. VAN BAAL UP TO 1975 298

PREFACE

This Festsohrift is dedicated to Prof. Dr. J. van Baal on the occasion of his retirement from the chair of cultural anthropology at the University of Utrecht. The essays presented here are written by fellow schol ars in recognition of his outstanding contributions to the field of anthropology. In order to arrange the papers around a theme that has never :eased to fascinate van Baal, we have asked the contributors to concentrate on a religious subject. Within this broad area no specific topics have been solicited, and the authors-- mainly fellow anthropologists and students of religion--have been able to pursue their own personal interests in the artieles. Nevertheless, when the papers were collected, we found it possible to group them under three headings, each of which represents a facet of van Baal 's enduring interests. Of course, some overlap is inevitable, as it is in any categorisation of heterogeneous items. The topics of the three sections by no means represent an exhaustive inventory of all fields van Baal has successfully explored. The focus on religion necessarily leaves out many problems van Baal has actively occupied himself with during his many-sided career. Thus the academie stance of the Festsohrift in no way pays tribute to his prolonged concern with admi. istration and government. During his 25 years of civil service, many of which were spent in New Guinea, van Baal always tried to combine anthropology as a science with its practical applications. His knowledge of and publications on cultural change and acculturation are duly recognized in the contributions but on the whole fall outside the scope of this volume. The same can be said of a related subject which for a long time has profited from van Baal 's stimulating influence: the educational problems in the Third World. As the problems associated with religion have longer and more profoundly aroused van Baal 's interests than any other topic, we felt we could justly honour him by focussing on this subject. Inevitably, this concentration implied a slight exclusiveness as to possible contributors, so that not everyone

PREFACE

associated with van Baal has Deen aDle to contriDute. We apologize for anyone who has Deen excluded Dy the limitations brought aDout Dy this decision or Dy the more practical limitations as to the maximal size of the volume. At the same time, we should like to than~ the contriDutors who al most without exception eagerly accepted the invitation. The essays can oe regarded as contriDutions to three themes in religious anthropology which are strongly represented in van Baal 's writings:

1. THEORY AND r:ETHOD. Van Baal's two major contributions to the fundamental theory of religion, OVer Wegen en Drij{veren der ReZigie (1947) and SymboZs tor aommuniaation (1971), indicate his lifelong fascination by the phenomenon of religion itself. Tertull ianus' "aredo quia absurdum" reflects some of the wonder the nearly universal belief in a reality that cannot be verified has always provoked in him, a wonder and awe he has always been keen to pass on to his students. The notion of communication, the existential basis of human thinking and feeling, the incorporation of affective factors in the fundamental analysis and explanation of religion and the need to resort to formal structural methods in order to unravel fundamental patterns of thought--these elements, so important in van Baal 's conception of an anthropological theory of religion, prove to be the guidelines for the authors in this section. Burridge's essay, in its title allusive to Tertullianus' credo, focusses on the different attitudes rampant in the two categories of people actively involved with the religion of aZter, missionaries and anthropologists. A historical survey of the discussion between proponents of the two paradigms shows that both have been amply and ably represented in the past. His thesis is that the gap between those two paradigms is not as wide and unbridgeable as some see it, in the description of other people's religion as well as in the definition of science and missionary endeavor. Van Baaren's contribution attempts to place Christian and Muslim religion in one major analytic frame with tribal religions, a type of comparison always strongly favored by van Baal. He does so by establishing a minor typology in which both varieties fit. For Hoens, van Baal 's major essay in comparison (van Baal 1947) has been the guideline. His thesis is that comparative religion has to be empirical; less empirical approaches to the study of religion should be classed as as phenomenology of religion. In order to demonstrate the validity of this division, Hoens compares religious behaviour in three initiation rituals. The contribution by Kobben also concentrates on empirical religious behaviour. Kobben not only sees religion as a rule-based behavioural system,

1960, 1963), van Beek proceeds with a formal semantic analysis of all religious activities within one religious system. The internal division of the religious field appears compatible with the notion of magie and gives some fruitful suggestions as to the position of magie in the whole field of religion. Lévi-Strauss' essay bears on a central problem in structuralism, viz. the relation between synchronie and diachronie research. In a way van Baal 's Marind-Anim analysis (1966) can be considered as an example of how the synchronie and diachronie approaches ean be integrated for one society. Lévi-Strauss presents an Amerindian case in whieh the importance and possibility of combining synehrony and diachrony is elueidated very elegantly and convincingly.

2. MELANESIAN AND AUSTRALIAN RELIGIONS. Van Baal is generally considered to be one of the foremost Dutch specialists on Melanesia and Aboriginal Australia. His major Marind publication (van Baal 1966) is a milestone in this field. Therefore we feel grateful to be able to include a substantial section dealing with this area. The first artiele in this section uses, just as the last two of the preceding section, a structuralist approach. Pouwer's essayl in a way is geared to the problem which engaged Lévi-Strauss' attention. The relation between structure and history is analysed by Pouwer on another level of abstraction as the dialectic between paradigmatic and syntagmatic relations. Using Barthes' semiology, Po uwer advocates an integration of paradigmatic, syntagmatic and symbolic dimensions of signification. The usefulness of this "Holy Trinity of Articulation" is demonstrated in an analysis of Mimika structural history. Signification and interpretation of natural (though uncommon) phenomena are the subject of the artiele by van Nieuwenhuizen and Riedeman. They present information on a little-known subject, the reactions to eclipses bya Papuan community. The related belief-system is shown to be tied in with the social structure in an interesting way. The artiele by Berndt pursues a fundamental theme in van Baal '5 thinking on primitive religion, and especially Australian religion. Two songcycles emphasize-- within the context of the "Dreaming"--the dialectical relation-

r~u'yu-movement Schoorl descri bes is an interesting variation on this recurrent theme. The term "salvation" in the title, as is amply demonstrated in the detailed description, includes temporal as well as more spiritual salvation. Ploeg's contribution bears on the economic impact and after-effects of cargo cults. The role of the latter and of the traditional "Big Men" in the development of an entrepreneural climate, is sketched in a historical survey, leading to an analysis of "bisnis" (pidgin for business). Bisnis is shown to have retained some unex- pected cargo-characteristics.

3. RELIGION IN CHANGE Many of van Baal 's publications and professional activities had a bearing upon culture change. His long-standing concern with the administration of peoples in the Third World made him acutely aware of the rate and impact of culture change. Moreover, this subject formed part of his teaching assignment (the ethnological theory of acculturation). A section on change in religious systems therefore seemed more than appropriate. Thematically, the first contribution in this section coincides with the last two articles of the preceding one as it also concentrates on a millen- nial movement. Thoden van Vel zen and van Wetering are concerned with the political impact of a prophetic movement. lts actual content, however, is totally different from that of the cargo cults described in the preceding section. The anti-witchcraft rebellion among the Djuka Maroons with its many-sided political effects provides a fascinating story of religious change on a micro-level. In a way, the chain of causality in Locher's article runs opposite to the one exposed in the contribution on the Djuka. In Locher's essay, the change in the mythic corpus does not result from the action of an individual, but from a change in the political structure. Locher examines the relation between ideology and mYth (which in the three examples he gives

-van Baa1's examp1e in "Over wegen en drijfveren der religie" (1947), he gives a critica1 description of this "tribal" re1igion. The methodo10gica1 part of his essay, together with the e1aborate appendix and bib1iography on "Dutch re1igion", aims at stimu1ating further research in this field in order to obtain another kind of information. The conc1uding paper in this section tackles the prob1em of Christian re1igion in a wholly different manner. Vrij hof starts from a Barthian theo1- ogica1 distinction between religion and Christian faith. The pivota1 point in the essay is an ana1ysis of the functiona1 continuity of heathen re1igion and Christian faith, as appears to have been the case in the convers ion process. According to Vrijhof, the dualistic interpretation frames, up to now prevalent in Christian thought, are due to that origin. Af ter the dec1- ine of the function of Christian faith, this dualistic thinking is no 10nger acceptab1e. Thus ways have to be sought for new interpretations of u1timate rea1ity. As to the editing of this Fe8t8chrift, we want to express our thanks to the Department of Cu1tura1 Anthropo10gy of the University of Utrecht, which put its many faci1ities at out disposal. Likewise we thank the Roya1 Institute of Linguistics and Anthropo10gy for the permission to have this co11ect- i on of essays pub 1 i shed inthei r "Verhandel i ngen". Mrs. Meyer and Ik. Duyker, who typed out the who1e rook with ski11 and dedication, amp1y deserve our gratitude as does Mr. Wirr. Hoogbergen, who drew up the bib1iography. A special debt of gratitude is owed Mrs. van Baal for her many he1pfu1 suggestions and her kind attempts to keep her husband from knowing too many details about the book during its preparation.

Drs. W.E.A. van Beek, Dr. J.H. Scherer.

• Our gratitude to the editors of Oceania, University of Sidney, who were so kind as to grant us permission to use part of a copyrighted pub1ication.

I

THEORY AND METHOD

PEOPLES' RELIGIONS ARE ABSURD 1)

K.O.L. Burridge
The events of the New Testament, in particular the Nativity, the Miracles, the Resurrection, and Pentecost, are central to the European intellectual tradition from which both missionaries and anthropologists take departure. Believing in the historicity of these events, however, must surely constitute an intellectual affront and scandal to the anthropologist. Whatever it was that actually happened, the events as related cannot be accepted at face value. They are to be considered as post hoa symbolic constructs whose elements may be related to pre-existing structures of social relationships and their accompanying symbolic systems, but whose speaifia integration (Cf. Fabian 1971:9) is presently beyond us and may be conveniently passed over or left to future generations. For missionaries, on the other hand, the events of the New Testament are held close to the heart, preached, and insisted upon. Those events are essential to the specific integration, and however the latter may have been brought about without the events it could not have been brought about. The sociological gap is the missionary's truth and sine qua non. There is here the expression of a dialectic which, always inherent, has become more marked with the differentiation or individuation of the missionary, who was always an anthropologist, into the missionary on the one hand and the anthropologist on the other. One arm of the dialectic is emphasized and given over-ri ding importance by anthropologists, the other by missionaries: the intellectual elegance and orderliness exampled by Plato's RepubZia is opposed by the random disorderliness of events which secrete experience and move men to action; the machine or system of rational relations is set against that which might make it a quite different kind of system. In principle, the praxis of the event is caught between history and symbolic representation. Pinning their faith to the predicative nature of the principles underlying existential social relations, anthropologists seek that order in social

O. L. BURRIDGE 9
relations which, when informed by or seen in the light of a theoretical and abstract model, they can call the structure. The field worker, to be sure, may witness events. But the evidence he actually uses to construct his model consists of words --the rationalizations or explanations of the actors. These, qualified by the perceptions and rationalizations of the investigator, are moulded into the shape and order in which the structure becomes evident. That structure, moreover, has certain properties of permanence. First, as a logical model of social relations, whether or not they do in fact model the live situation from which the moments of the model were abstracted. Second, anthropologists are generally obliged to insist that the model describes that which is persistent in the social relationships they have observed and analyzed. Finally, because ideology cannot abide disorder, and must postulate order, order and persistence or permanence weld themselves into ideology. Thus, for example, Marxism, essentially a critique of society and tool of analysis, becomes ideology. And the same goes for evolutionism, functionalism, structuralism and their combinations. The mode of discerning order becomes ideology because it has discerned order. Order is illusory and a contradiction, a disorder, if it does not reiterate its persistence and probable permanence. Because the truth of things should persist, that which does persist tends to become identified with the truth of things and is, therefore, deserving of conservation and nourishment. Each element in the syndrome feeds into and reinforces the others. At one level methodologies and theoretical constructs breed in their adherents a religious intensity --because they seem to reveal the truth of things. At another and perhaps more trivial level the field situation which confirmed or revealed that a methodology or theoretical approach could reveal the truth of things becomes sacrosanct. Agents of change become anathema; a pristine innocence should be preserved; if change must come th en it must be an orderly transition reflecting the truths the construct has already elicited. The discrepancy of some exaggeration matters little. The perpose is simply to accentuate a paradigm. For missionaries are explicitly and purposively agents of change. Moreover, in seeking to communicate the meaning of the events of the New Testament the intention, explicit or implicit, is to initiate change through those experiences of the surprising and disorderly events which bring about altered perceptions of the nature of the truth of things. Missionaries work towards that appreciation of particular events which will disrupt a given system of symbolic representations and rationalizations and bring about a particular apprehension of history. They want to engender transformations in awareness and outlook: they look

ARE ABSURD for spiritual renewal and a moral regeneration both in themselves and those they address. They would like particular personal transformations to be the starting points of continuing transformations which will eventually inform and transform the whole society. In embracing the stranger and bringing him or her within the fold, missionaries look for that movement towards a universal and ideal morality which is contained within the platonic moral ideal and is, for a missionary, brought into peculiar focus by the command "Go ye and teach all nations."

The kind of change that missionaries specifically wish to bring about is summed up in the notion of metanoia: that change of heart and mind which, going beyond what is normally meant by conversion, entails a quite different appreciation of the self in relations to others, the hitherto accepted categories of relationship, and reality itself. A metanoia 'grows the person', widens horizons of awareness, contains that which can seize the event to br'ing about change in the self's relation to other. Including a repentance, a definite 'no' to the past (which relives and repeats that 'no' to nature which made man a cultural being), the metanoia which a missionary seeks to bring about may entail an equally definite adoption of new ways (particularly, as we shall see, in relation to polygyny:monogamy) but more properly entails the adoption of ways which are but newly informed. If, usually, the metanoia being sought turns out in fact to be simply a conversion, the transference from one state of being to another, a true metanoia ideally envisages an on-going series of transformations each one of which alters the predicates of being. A wholly successful missionary, in short, would bring about an on-going and developing situation in which, because the structure would be changing continually, there could be no structure in the ordinary sense of the term. Just this, indeed, is the central Christian dilemma. Human groups must organize themselves within terms of acceptable roles and statuses with mutual obligations. A structure becomes evident through a social organization and its symbolic representations; and within such an ambience corruption is wont to flourish. In both affirming the world and that love of one's neighbour which over- rides the requirements of roles and statuses, Christianity -- and the European intellectual tradition --is caught in a conflict which re- expresses itself in a variety of ways: in, for example, the oppósition between structure and history, or the diachrony and synchrony; in the relations between missionaries and anthropologists; and in the ways each sets about investigating and defining 'religion'. The theme may be expanded by a brief recapitulation of the debate between Las Casas and de Sepulveda

O. L. BURRIDGE 11
in the sixteenth century. Born in 1474, Bartho10mé de Las Casas went to the Americas in 1502 to join his father, a settler in Espano1a. He participated in settler va1ues and attitudes, particu1ar1y those obtaining towards the Amerindians. Ordained priest in 1510, a year later he was 1istening to a disturbing sermon given by Fray Antonio Montesinos. That sermon changed his 1ife, started a metanoia. Three years later Las Cas as had comp1eted the first of a series of succeeding transformations whose basic and essentia11y Christian theme was, "Mankind is one, and all men are a1ike in that which concerns the creation and all natura1 things, and no one is born en1ightened ... the 1aw of nations and natura1 1aw app1y to Christian and genti1e a1ike, and to all peop1e of any sect, 1aw, condition, or co10ur without any distinction whatsoever (Hanke 1959:112-3)." Pursuing and rea1izing this theme in the widening horizons of its inte11ectua1, administrative, political and re1igious ramifications occupied Las Casas for the next half-century and more unti1 he died in 1566. He was forever seeking interviews with and presenting reports to viceroys, governors, administrators and his sovereign, drumming up support where he cou1d find it. He found the time to write a long ethnographic ar'd historica1 report of the Amerindians 50 far as he cou1d piece it together; he p1anned a Utopian community and missionary enterprise, executed it, and for a few years was successfu1. He defended his views against estab1ished and entrenched political and economic interests and continua11y moved over to the offens i ve. In round terms Las Cas as was a Christian neo-p1atonist. He envisaged an idea1, a mora11y informed situation, and sought to rea1ize it by direct action in spite of the chaos that might ensue. His antagonist, de Sepu1veda, was a noted Aristote1ian who advocated p1anned and order1y change. It was first necessary and in accordance with natura1 1aw to subjugate the Indians, making war on them if necessary, in order to protect them from their own ignorance and vices, and 50 create a situation in which it wou1d become possib1e to educate them and lead them gradually into Christianity. In this way (as we might say today), Spaniard and Amerindian wou1d, in the course of time, overcome epistemo10gica1 and onto10gica1 barriers. The necessary mutua1 metanoia which wou1d bring this about wou1d come about on1y slow1y, a1most imperceptib1y. Then, standing on common ground, the varieties of pOlitical and physica1 coercion characterizing the re1ations between them wou1d disappear. The issues between Las Casas and de Sepu1veda, which came to a head in the great debate at Va11ado1id in 1550-51, was never reso1ved. And it remains unreso1ved today.

OTHER PEOPLES' RELIGIONS ARE ABSURD

Las Casas was much too busy with politicians and administrators, and with organizing the general missionary enterprise in his part of Spanish America to be much of a practical missionary himself. He never seems to have had time to master any of the native languages, though he had a smattering of many. Vet he and de Sepulveda live in most anthropologists and missionaries today. Las Casas is most evident in the field anthropologist and working missionary: the strangers are human selves like oneself, differentiated by social conditions certainly but nevertheless with the same potential. How otherwise could there be any communication? The scientific de Sepulveda is more evident in the missionary administrator, the Victorian armchair anthropologists, and those modern anthropologists whose field work experiences are forgotten, or who work with the data of others. The interaction between selves which is the essence of the field work situation, and which albeit temporarily breaks down epistemological and ontological barriers, is the working missionary's ideal situation. Events en force such interaction. But the strain is too much. Events and interactions become smothered in categories of orderliness. And these, because at best they are syntheses of different categories, tend to re-erect the barriers in the form of confrontations. The epistemological and ontological confrontations. implicit in any encounter with the members of another culture, must become explicit in the attempt to study and describe another culture. Are they to be overcome with the directness and action of Christian love, or by the patient development of intellectual tools and the planned development of social institutions? Is a view that maintains the confrontations likely to be more accurate in the description of 'religion' than one which seeks to dissolve them? The most fruitful answer, surely, is not one or the other but to engage the dialectic they represent.

In the preface to his Moeurs des Sauvages Ameriquains, aompar6es aux moeurs des premiers temps (1724:(1)1-27), Père Lafitau makes his position plain. For him 'religion' embraces all aspects of life (and is therefore a quality, attribute or determinant which may be abstracted from any observed activity or statement) and the activities and relations of social life flow from faith and belief. Deploring the fact that many accounts of primitive peoples contain little to show that they had any 'religion', Lafitau makes clear not only that a 'religion' is revealed through its symbols, but that these symbols form a system which can be translated into the symbols of another culture. But this can only be done in the

O. l. BURRIDGE 13
light of the clear conviction that human beings have a common humanity, creator, creation and ancestry. Moreover, since God is infinite, neither civilized nor primitive can grasp His nature: this is approximated in symbol And thoughtthere are difficulties in matching symbol with symbol, they can be overcome through (as I would put it here) that mutual metanoia which is capable of perceiving the common referent of different kinds of symbols. fILe sentiment de la Divinité emporte nécessairement avec foy un Culte religieux, c'est-à-dire, un assemblage de devoirs, par lesquels 1 'homme, reconnoissant la superiorité d'un Dieu, lui fait un humble aveu de sa dépendance, par les hommages qu'il rend à la dignité de son Estre, par son obeissance a se soûmettre aux loix qu'il lui prescrit, par sa reconnoissance pour les biens qu'il tient de luy, et par le recours, qu'il est obligê d'avoir a luy, pour ceux qu'il en attend, ou qu'il en espere (p. 151)." The presumption of a common underlying human ontology --roughly equivalent to what used to be called the psychic unity of mankind -- makes it possible to work towards the comparison of symbolic systems as culturally differentiated signs ultimately signifying the one reality. And this is one way of surmounting the epistemological barrier. Moreover, the corollary to the opposition between Christianity and social organization -- that Christianity (matter of faith and belief in the experience of particular disorderly events) may be transferred to any social organization or structure --is intellectually consistent. And this indeed is the general missionary position. But, swinging over to the other arm of the dialectic, the further implication, pragmatically utilized but intellectually dormant, that it might be possible to change social institutions, which would change the symbols, which might approximate the nature of the divinity more accurately, did not really find general intellectual support until the nineteenth century. And it did so, from Montesquieu through to Tylor, under the umbrella of a growing body of opinion which began to attempt to account for particular religious cults in terms that were thought to be far wider than any one of them. And these terms could only be terms of orderliness. When lafitau (p. 6) warns that a failure to investigate religious matters (faith and belief informing social relations) leads into the hands of atheists who claim that religion is an invention of man for the maintenance of peace and order, he may be supposed to have been alive to the problems involved. Unless epistemological and ontological barriers are hurdled, other peoples' 'religions' must take on the appearance of rules of order rather than paths to wholeness, fulfillment or psychic development.

OTHER PEOPLES' RELIGIONS ARE ABSURD Nineteenth century anthropologists used the word' 'believe' with easy abandon. They deduced 'belief' from ill-observed activities. they were preoccupied with distinguishing 'religion' from magic. mYth. science and ritual. They sought to find the 'origin' of religion. and they tried to fit particular kinds of 'religion' into evolutionary frames. Many missionaries co-operated. Max Muller (1875:276) was constrained to quote Patteson and remark rather sadly that English missionaries were attempting to make their charges into Englishmen rather than Christians. That is. they were attempting to change institutions rather than that faith and belief from which new institutions (not necessarily model led on the English) might flow. It is easy to resolve the epistemological barrier unilaterally. to demand that the other conform to the self. In their own peculiar modes sol di er. administrator. anthropologist. merchant. traveller. and even missionary could and did resolve the problem in this way intellectually or politically. Making Englishmen out of South sea islanders or Africans or Indians was one expression. the arrogant address of most anthropologists of the time was another. Vet the proper missionary can only solve the problem through a mutual metanoia: mutual epistemological appreciations on both hands resulting in an on-going transformational process on both hands. Bishop Codrington was one nineteenth century missionary who drew attention to the problems involved in making Christians and describing another 'religion' (Codrington 1891:116-27). He emphasized the difficulties and subtleties of linguistic usage in relation to social situations, experience. and role. status and interest. That is. he drew attention to our confrontations or barriers. While it cannot be said that the anthropologists of the time ignored him. not placed to engage the problem in a fruitful way they had to set it aside. And in his own description of Melanesian religion. Codrington himself. lacking any other models. lent himself to the prevalent and established modes. Vet he hewed closely to his own warnings. and his observations have an authenticity and subtlety entirely lacking in his anthropological col leagues. Indeed. 50 good was his detail on the linguistic evidence. that it has been possible to reconstitute the religion of those days purely from this data (Bradfield 1973:(1)243-418). Moreover. as he was bound to do. in drawing attention to the problems attending a too rapid conversion to Christianity Codrington was talking about a false or incompleted metanoia. And if one looks closely at the context in which Codrington (and for that matter. Lafitau too) discusses Melanesian religion on the one hand and the business of making Christians on the other it becomes clearer that the metanoia required for

O. L. BURRIDGE 15

both endeavours tends to agglutinate the separate problems into a single problem. Malinowski would have none of this. If the missionary-ethnographer had already differentiated into the armchair anthropologist and field missionary, the field anthropologist had to be decisively separated from the missionary and any other amateur ethnographer. Malinowski made this quite clear in a letter to Man in 1932 (Man 1932:44). And from that moment it becomes quite clear that if a missionary must always be something of an anthropologist, an anthropologist must not be a missionary. Vet 'lal inowski -- and indeed many an anthropologist since -- seems not to have betrayed any real understanding of the metanoia necessary to describing another religion. Nor does he seem to have appreciated the nature of the metanoia ideally being sought and of ten approximately realized by many a missionary within his experience. The 'science' of his functional method wedded to field work sufficed to push the epistemological problem aside, and the very important transformation: into Christian and European ways of 1 ife seems to have become assimilated to his dislike of particular missionaries and the messiness of social changes that were in fact taking place. Indeed, as we now know from his diaries, Malinowski was in a state of continuing antagonism towards his own situation and the islanders while he remained in the Trobriands. Without a metanoia, without being able to bridge the ontological divide, and 'unable to overcome the epistemological confrontation, Malinowski, despite his facility in the language, was forced to retreat from reality. He might, like Fraser, have written about those savages 'out there' on another evolutionary plane. In fact, he chose a framework of pristine idealism. Not simply a question of the 'swing of the pendulum', the choice between 'caliban' and 'noble savage' hinges on that which informs the criteria of orderliness and consistency. Reo Fortune, a much more sensitive and perceptive field worker than his mentor, realized a metanoia that Malinowski never did. Manus ReZigion was outside its time. No one took very much notice. Vet here was a field anthropologist who seems to have been acutely aware that areligion could not be described by saying that the natives believed this or that. Nor did he simply separate 'social' from 'religious' institutions in an attempt to show their interface. Instead, he tried to demonstrate the connections between events, experience, social relationships, and the ways in which the Manus people represented these to themselves. The result was that his analysis has an authenticity lacking in the studies of others. But it was another thirty years before a few other anthropologists began to follow in Fortune's footsteps.

OTHER PEOPLES' RELIGIONS ARE ABSURD

Had the inclination touched him, Fortune might have made an excellent Christian missionary. He would know how to go about his business --though this would not necessarily guarantee 'success'. Malinowski would have made exactly the kind of missionary he himself said he 50 heartily disliked. He preached, taught and insisted upon his brand of social science and functionalism just as 50 many English and Australian missionaries in Melanesia preached, taught, and insisted up on their own peculiar brands of Christianity. Malinowski could no more escape from his chosen 'scientific' background and framework than the local missionaries could rid themselves of the social institutions in which their own Christianity had expressed itself. But Fortune did what every field anthropologist and missionary ideally should do: he had been able to cross the divide and become -- even if only briefly -- as though a Dobuan or a Manus islander. Unless informed by the self's intuition of other selves -- which alone leads into the perception of the significanee of events and 50 to their praxis -- the interrelations of experience, social relationships and symbolic representations can of ten come close to idle chatter.

Roberto de Nobil i's Adaptation (1971), written early in the 17th century but only recently made generally available, allows us a further insight into the themes under discussion. Hindu caste society has been notoriously immune to change in its general structure. And those who have sought to change it have, at best, succeeded in making yet another caste out of the movements they started. Either de Nobili knew this in a historical sense, or, since he was accustomed to hierarchical social orders, his missionary service persuaded him that Christianity should be grafted onto the caste system. That is, he saw readily enough that Christianity was not in itself a social organization, though it was organized; and that it could be communicated and transferred into different social organizations and structures. The main bulk of Part I of his Adaptation is concerned to show how Christianity had never been associated with a particular and defined social organization or structure. He considers the epistles, the first missionaries and their successors: they used existing social institutions and grafted Christianity on to them. Why should not he and his fellow missionaries do the same in India? "Now, please, open your eyes!" pleads de Nobili (op. cit., p. 19). "What do you see? Here is a preacher of the gospel. He preaches. Not a single high caste listens to him. The reason? He sticks to his European way of life! All who work in this vineyard are the sad witness to it. Why, oh! (sia)

O. L. BURRIDGE 17
Why have we left Europe, if it is to preach in vain, because we refuse to give up our European way of life?" Je Nobili hangs his argument on four missjonary principles:

(I) That a missionary should be a man of learning and holiness prepared to adapt to the customs of the country; (11) That the Church has never condemned a national custom that is not sinful;
(111) That when an act has two ends, the secular and superstitious, a Christian may participate in it for legitimate reasons; (IV) That purely superstitious rites have been converted by the Church for Christian use.

Many questions, it is clear, go begging. Af ter all, the argument has ever been how far a social institution corrupted the purity of the Christian message, what social institutions could best reflect that message. What is of more interest in this context, however, is the way in which, in Part 11 of his Adaptation. de Nobili attempts to isolate the specifically religious. And though de Nobili must have known that Christianity's most fertile recruiting ground has always been among the disfranchised, slaves and outcasts, his particular political understanding leads into a concern with the Brahmins. If they could be converted, the rest would follow. De Nobili uses only three categories: 'religious', 'sodal', and 'superstitious'. Since he nowhere explicitly defines these terms, it would seem that he could take them for granted: those for whom he was writing, fellow Churchmen, would know what he meant. He argues that the diacritical signs of the Brahmin --the thread, tuft of hair, use of sandal paste, etc.-- are social and not religious because the specifically religious (Sanyasis) abandon them, atheists do not abandon them, and outcasts have to abandon them. These signs are, therefore, emblems of rank and status and are not of religious concern. Moreover, in demanding th at converts to Christianity give up such signs, missionaries are asking that they should be disgraced in the eyes of their fellows. And this is inappropriate. On the other hand, on matters of faith and belief things were very different. Thus, many Brahmi ns "refuse to speak wi th our neophytes, or to take thei r mea 1 s together; and when a discussion arises concerning our faith, they do not at all tolerate our Christians to quote the scriptures which belong to their sect. A year ago, a Hindu Brahmin was holding a discussion with a Christian Brahmin who had been a doctor before his conversion. One of the assistants looked at our Christian and shouted in an angry tone: "You pretend to know the laws of the Mayavadis, and you dare to quote them, whilst at the same time you declare them to be erroneous!" Vet never has a single gentile told

PEOPLES' RELIGIONS ARE ABSURD any of our Brahmin Christians: 'Why do you wear the string and the tuft. '" Of course, de Nobili is far more detailed and subtle than space allows one to demonstrate here. Vet it is possible to appreciate that whatever 'superstition' may have meant -- and it seems to have meant 'false' religion as distinct from 'true' (i.e., Christian) religion -- for de Nobili 'religion' is distinguished from the social by those criteria which remain when roles and statuses have been subtracted. And as much for de Nobili as for his Brahmin adversaries this remainder was very positive: the sacred scriptures and the doctrines deriving from them which provided the grounds of being, knowledge and purpose. If it is an exaggeration to say that for de Nobili the metanoia he was seeking was linked to arguing the merits of one collection of books against another, and their respective relations to the truth of things, it is not 50 very far from the mark. Vet his accomplishment was no mean one. Certainly he did no worse than his successors. He saw very clearly that if a 'religion' may be inferred from its symbols, 50 far as these symbols related to roles and statuses th~y were social rather than religious. For him 'religion' was, roughly, that content in faith and belief which, relating to the truth of things and 50 to ultimate reality, could make symbols religious rather than social. Or, transforming into more positive terms, leaving the signs intact, that which they signified would alter with a change in faith and belief -- which must refer to the events and experience of the New Testament.

Like the good Abbê Dubois (1906) a couple of centuries later, de Nobili seems to have been seized with a social and intellectual pride and arrogance. Perhaps, as has been suggested, it was simply a political reflex that made him 50 very much more concerned with the Brahmins than with the outcasts and disfranchised. We may take it from his writings that de Nobili was no less versed in Hindu traditions and history and experienced in Hindu ways than the Abbê Dubois. But neither of them seems to have thought it worthwhile to work from the bottom upwards. And both, accepting cas te as a given, sought to match wits with the Brahmins by arguing the merits at an intellectual level rather than attempting to demonstrate the relevance of the latter in relation to events and experience. No doubt the convers ion of Brahmins, powerful, assured, trained in philosophy --and to wh om the forgiveness of sins, personal salvation, the conquest of death and eternal life, and universality would have seemed threats to their status both on earth and hereafter if not meaningless -- must have seemed a greater victory than the conversion of those who had little to lose and 50 much

O. L. BURRIDGE 19
to gain. Vet there is surely something more fundamental to Christianity than its intellectualizations: the egalitarian soul which, whether in man, woman, or child, is a refraction of the god-~ead and has equal access to salvation and repose. That the social relations and institutions of those who call themselves Christians have not always reflected this is but to contemplate human imperfection and, again, to pose the question of 'religion' and social institutions. The opposition between monogamy and polygyny focusses the issue. It has been a recurring problem which has brought missionaries into conflict with their audiences as well as with anthropologists, and it also illustrates the dilemmas attendant on describing 'religion'. Traditional Christianity has ever set its face against polygyny and, until the reformation, was opposed to divorce. The Roman communion is still opposed to divorce, though not to annulment under particular circumstances. Vet Christian polygyny has made its appearance from time to time. Taking departure from the Old Testament, many movements of renewal within the Christian fold have elected to relinquish monogamous marriage and base themselves on polygyny (Cairncross 1974). In time, however, these movements have either foundered of themselves, been suppressed by more powerful outsiders, or for a variety of reasons have in the end returned to monogamy. One of the most crucial difficulties that Christian missionaries have faced, and still face, is the changeover from polygyny to monogamy. How is it possible to communicate Christianity, leave the main elements of social traditions secure, and yet insest that an institution as fundamental to a small community as marriage be changed? Indeed, because of its count in ordinary human suffering as established plural family groups are torn apart, many missionaries have sought to legitimize polygyny temporarily if not permanently. Nevertheless, the rule of monogamY has remained firm. Is marriage a religious institution, a social institution, or both? Some missionaries have undoubtedly accepted monogamy as a sine qua non more or less unthinkingly, as a 'given' into which it is both inappropriate and ridiculous to enquire. Many -- and not only missionaries here -- have been chauvinistically male orientated and seen polygyny simply as a question of male lusts and sexual gratification. But they rarely ascribe the same lusts to females in polyandrous relationships. Others, like anthropologists, have appreciated the status, economie and political securities that are built into polygyny. Very few seem to have asked themselves why, apart from the automaticisms of received doctrine, the established denominations should be so obdurate about monogamy. Even fewer seem to have asked themselves about the ontological implications of polygyny and what these

ARE ABSURD might mean in a Christian context. Apart, I repeat, from theology and received doctrine, is there some underlying epistemological or ontological principle making for the opposition between monogamy and polygyny which an anthropologist might infer? For those Christian denominations which adhere to the sacramental life, matrimony is one of the seven sacraments. That is, matrimony is a religious institution, "an outward sign of inward grace". But in one major respect it is quite different from the other six sacraments. For these -- baptism, the eucharist, penance, confirmation, holy orders, and anointin~ or extreme unction --though they involve attendants, intermediaries, and a variety of ritual procedures, are essentially concerned with the relationship between a single person (with a soul) and the godhead. The social relationships that go along with or follow from the sacraments are secondary. Matrimony, however, necessarily and crucially involves a social relationship -- between husband and wife -- as well as a triangle of spiritual relationships between two souls and the godhead. Moreover, whatever the social statuses and roles of the two persons involved, the two souls aré equivalent and can only be judged by the godhead. Ideally, the supposal is that the two souls, in reciprocal relations with each other but in equal subservience to the godhead, should 50 develop the physical and social and spiritual complementarities that each soul finally merges with the other in the godhead. Does adding a third soul to this delicately balanced ideal necessarily vitiate the process involved? Destroying the symmetry, reciprocity and complementarity of one-to-one in relation to a third"by substituting one-to-~ in relation to a third inevitably bestows a superiority on the one. Nor is such an i mba 1 ance necessa rily avoi ded th rough monogamy. But it remains a feature of the ethnographic experience that among peoples with polygynous or polyandrous forms of marriage, males and females are accorded different ontologies, different kinds of soul, soul-stuff or essences. This surely is what lies behind Christian monogamy. A Church or religion claiming universality could not possibly accord different ontologies to male and female, and could not permit a social institution which made such a basic discrimination. Among the Christian denominations which do not recognize parts or the whole of the traditional sacramental life, matrimony emerges as a sacralized social institution. But the formal and ideal equivalence of souls still emerges as a dominant underlying principle. And where Christian communities have adopted polygynous forms the same principle has reacted to break down the polygyny, either in the form of outside pressures exerted by monogamous Christian neighbours, or beneath

O. L. BURRIDGE 21
the weight of its own contradictions. The longest lived polygynous Christian community appears to have been the Mormons of North America. Despite severe internal doctrinal contradictions, they managed to persist in polygyny for a round half century. And there is little doubt that they were enabled to do 50 at first secretly, and then openly because of their territorial isolation and their pragmatic ability to defy federal legislation (Cairncross 1974:180-200). But as soon as frontier conditions were overcome and Utah became a State within the Union, polygyny as an overt and legal form of marriage was doomed. Aside from the many scurrilous contemporary reports of Mormon sexual aberrations and immorality, upon whose validity we can suspend judgment, more sober observers seem to have been agreed that polygyny relieved women from the domestic drudgery characteristic of monogamy in industrialized conditions, and gave them a freedom, economie security, social status and political voice denied their monogamous sisters. Still, it seems to have been explicit doctrine that a male found salvation through marriage and was the more glorified according to the number of his wives; and that a woman's salvation was dependent on being married, being glorified in heaven according to the number of wives her husband had. Thus, despite "eports of jealousies, rivalries and the like, it seems that wives themselves sought more wives for their husbands. On the one hand, they were the more glorified in heaven, on the other, there were more women to share the work of the household. Vet although Mormon polygyny gave wives (but not spinsters) a status and security they might not otherwise have had, ontologically, in their very grounds of being, females emerge as inferior to males, and female souls emerge as necessarily inferior to male souls. In the end, therefore, in spite of the very sensible social advantages to both men and women who were married, polygyny, a social institution, had to give way to a more fundamental ontoloqy. Outside pressures certainly helped. But even though there are stillsome Mormons who persist in a covert polygyny -- which is not unknown in other overtly Christian communities -- Mormonism persists today and, indeed, is expanding on a basis of monogamous marriage. While it could be said that the Mormons have relived and re-enacted the transition from the Old to the New Testament, what is important in the present context is that the Mormons did for themselves what de Nobili would like to have wrought among the Brahmins of India. In retransforming faith and belief, institutions may be left to look af ter themselves.

OTHER PEOPLES' RELIGIONS ARE ABSURD

Anthropology is of ten represented as the empirical study of human behaviour. In fact, anthropologists may witness human behaviour but they bring order to rationalizations. Vet in describing 'religion' -- representations or rationalizations which attempt to express and conserve the truth of things in the whole of experience -- anthropologists are generally reluctant to go beyond the ordering of the rationalizations to the experiences they indicate. In a recent publication, for example, Needham (1972) has argued that 'belief' has no empirical content. But nowhere does he mention metanoia, conversion, or the pentecostal syndrome to whose transformational experience triggered by the event the European 'credo' is inextricably linked. A 'credo' does not refer to a static and given piece of knowledge but to a growing awareness which seeks the right rationalization to fix the experience: from incredulity through hesitation to, ultimately, firm conviction about the nature of an experience. Even then, that firmness is subject to further hesitation and a renewal of conviction. More recently, Raymond Firth concludes a masterly volume on symbols with " .•. the primary problem for an anthropologist is not pronounce on 'ultimate reality'. It is to examine the forms of symbolic statement, to try and understand the system of ideas they express, the order of that system, and the effects associated with the use of such symbolic concepts." (Firth 1973:428.) A statement like that cannot be allowed to stand unchallenged. Missionaries have to pronounce on ultimate reality. That is their job. And to do that job properly they have to find those events and experiences in a strange culture which will tie in with the events and experiences of the New Testament, and they have to find those symbols and symbolic statements which will contain the meanings of those events and experiences and communicate them not to the uni verse (Cf. Van Baal 1971:VII) but to the people involved. They face epistemological and ontological barriers in order to overcome them and enable themselves to transform people. Excising the last six words, that is surely what anthropologists also seek to do. The elegant solution to a crossword puzzle gives a certain pleasure to all who can appreciate it. But unless those solutions -- typologies, continuities and systems of relations -- indicate something about the nature of what ultimate reality is thought to be -- thus constituting a pronouncement -- an endeavour is reduced to an exercise. Assuming that Firth cannot be referring to some absolute ultimate reality which no human can know, the corpus of literature on Tikopia would not have been possible without some idea about the nature of ultimate reality. And if that corpus did not tell us something about

O. L. BURRIDGE 23
ultimate reality it would hardly have been worth the writing. But of course it does. That is what anthropology and science are about. Distinguishing science from religion and anthropologists from missionaries is of ten useful but can reach points of absurdity. The inarticulate maunderings and gasps of astonishment of American astronauts sacralized what would otherwise have been a merely technological achievement. Bringing order to those gasps and maunderings might be a pretty little puzzle. But outside the particular event and experience, whose semblance was communicated to others by television --thus enabling onlookers to approximate the ground of the participants --the ordering of the utterances might as easily have referred to a football match, a circus, or the sight of a pedigree veteran motor car. What remains to be seen is whether the astronauts were so well trained in the rationalizations they should make that the event itself has been effectively obfuscated in symbolic representation, or whether, in the course of time, an astronaut will make a statement which will show that the event has indeed wrought in him a new appreciation of historical reality.

NOTE

1. I gladly take this opportunity of acknowledging with gratitude a grant from the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation which enabled me to work with missionaries in the field during 1972-73.

OTHER PEOPLES' RELIGIONS ARE ABSURD

REFERENCES

Baal, J. van 1971 SymboZs for Communication. Royal Van Gorcum Press Ltd., Assen. Bradfield, Richard Maitland 1973 A NaturaZ History of Associations. vols. I & 11, Gerald Duckworth & Co., London. Cairncross, John 1974 Af ter PoZygamy was made a Sin. Routledge & Kegan Paul, London. Codrington, R.H. 1891/1969 The MeZanesians. Clarendon Press, Oxford. Dubois, J.A. Abbê (1815) 1906 Hindu Manners. Customs and Ceremonies (translated and edited by Henry K. Beauchamp), Clarendon Press, Oxford. Fabian, Johannes 1971 JAMAA: A Charismatic Movement in Katanga. Northwestern University Press, Evanston. Firth, Raymond 1973 SymboZs PubZie and Private. George Allen & Unwin, London. Hanke, L. 1959 AristotZe and the American Indians. Hollis and Carter, London. Lafitau, J.F. Pêre 1724 Moeurs des Sauvages Ameriquains. Paris, vols. 1 & 2. Malinowski, B. 1932 'Pigs, Papuans, and Police Court Perspective', Man 44, vol. XXII pp. 33-38. London. Muller, Max F. 1875 Chips from a German Workshop. Vol. IV, Longmans, Green & Co., London, pp. 251-280. Needham, Rodney 1972 BeZief. Language. and Experienee. Basil Blackwell, Oxford. Nobili, Roberto de 1971 Adaptation (Edited by S. Rajamanickam S.J.) De Nobili Research Institute. Palayamkottai.

OF FACTION AND COMMUNITY-RELIGIONS

Th. P. van Baaren

A few religions are commonly called world-religions or universal religions. In particular Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam are distinguished from the other religions in this respect, though, I consider this description inapt because it does not portray a factual situation but expresses the ideal of these religions: to transcend the state of being a religion in the midst of others by becoming the one and only rr.ligion. I should like to name them religions of faction as distinct from and opposed to community-religions such as most of the non-literate and ancient religicns. Neither name implies any ethicalor religious approval or disap- proval; both are chosen simply to find a designation that fits the matter to which it is applied. Naturally a great number of mixed types exist between the two extremes, and probably one or two other types of religion may be distinguished, but these may be neglected in this preliminary and exploratory paper. Not all religions of faction have been successful. The initiative of Achnaton, for example, has not led to a stable religion, but virtually died with its instigator. A comparison between religions of faction and community-religions shows us:

1. Religions of faction arise from a real faction, originate from a schism, from a disagreement followed by asecession, the memory of which is kept alive consciously and actively. This is, for instance, the case in Bud- (the apostasy of the Buddha from the Brahmins and his persecution by them); in Christianity (the opposition of Jesus to the Jews and his crucifixion by them); in Islam (the expulsion of Mohammed by the infid- el Meccans against wh om he preached). Community-religions do not, as far as is known, originate from a

VAN BAAREN

faction or schism, or, if this should be the case, the original dis- sension is forgotten, or, in any case, is not insisted upon and not actively kept alive.

2. Religions of faction are expansive. The need to prove itself the one and only true religion by becoming the all-embracing religion connects this type of religion with political and other ideological parties. They are missionary religions. Community-religions are not expansive. This may be true even when they belong to an expansive culture. In the Ancient Orient, religion, as a rule, was not exported. Even when one power conquered another, the religion of the conquered power was left intact and the victor went no further than the creation of a few extraterritorial enclaves in the foreign country for the purpose of worshipping his own gods. Neither the Egyptians nor the Babylonians nor even the Assyrians ever tried to convert the vanquished people to their own religion. In that part of the world, Israel was probably the first power to follow a different course. Missionary practices are practically unknown in community-religions. Expansiveness can lead to aggression (as in many cases in Christianity and Islam), but it does not necessarily do so (only rarely in Buddhism, and Christianity and Islam have long records of peaceful missions as well). Neither are community-religions free from aggressive and bloody elements, but these function differently in the structure of the whole because they do not serve purposes of expansion, while in the religions of faction expansion is one of the pillars upon which the whole building rests: "Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creaturen (Mark 16,15).
3. Religions of faction bring faction and division wherever they come. By coming into the area of a community-religion they transform it willy- nilly into a religion of faction by considering and treating it as such, but because community-religions are not well prepared to defend themselves against this kind of attack, they will in most cases be the los- er. Community-religions lack the quantitative ambitions of the religions of faction.
4. Religions of faction are constitutionally unable to attain their goal universally, because, long before they have reached this end, they begin to divide within themselves. They are essentially and not only accidentally self-dividing religions. Factions appear and division starts. In this way Christianity split into Eastern Orthodoxy and Western

AND COMMUNITY-RELIGIONS 27

Catho1icism; Catho1icism was divided into Roman Catho1icism and Protestantism, Protestantism into Lutheranism, Ca1vinism, etc. Dutch Ca1vinism in the 19th century split into the Dutch Reformed Church (Nederlands Hervormde Kerk) and the Reformed Church in,the Netherlands (Gereformeerde Kerken in Nederland). The latter were again divided not so long ago when the Reformed Churches maintaining artic1e 31 (Gereformeerde Kerken onderhoudende art. 31 K.O.) seceded from them. Many other examp1es cou1d be chosen to demonstrate the way in which re1igious of factions tend to split up. It is, as a matter of fact, the tragic paradox of re1igions of faction that the same constitutive element to which they owe their existence and their greatness at the same time prohibits them from ever attaining the glorious goal they see before them. Again in community-re1igions this situation does not arise, or hard- 1y ever. They do not need the reassurance of the first victory to which they owe their existence to brace them in the battle for spiritual wor1d dominion, because they are content to stay within the confines of their own community, sma11 though it may beo As long as they are satisfied to stay at home and to cu1tivate their own garden, to quote Voltaire, they wi11 never be ab1e to overcome the restrictions of this provincia1- ism and they wi11 1ack an effective appeal for outsiders. As S00n as they come into contact with a re1igion of faction they wi11 either disappear or be compe11ed to transform themse1ves into some kind of re1igion of faction a1so. In this way the Peyote Cult spread as the Native Church of America over the United States. Many tribal re1igions in Africa have practica11y disappeared and have been rep1aced by a mu1titude of Christian sects fo110wing the pattern set by the history of Christianity, on1y more so, one is tempted to say. On the other hand, one of the new voices of Africa, stressing the essentia1 "Africanism" of all re1igion in Africa whatever its origin and inc1uding Christianity and Islam, is introducing the theme which may lead to the formation of new re1igions of faction. Africa, as a matter of fact, is known to have had its own re1igions of faction, but our know1edge of the older on es is scant.

Hinduism, which is neither a rea1 community-re1igion nor a true re1igion of faction, seems in some degree to have solved the prob1em of having one's cake and eating it by conceiving the p1uriformity of re1igious form and truth neither as something of no importance nor as a regrettab1e circum- stance that shou1d be redressed as soon as possib1e, but as a basic and essentia1 premise of all re1igion upon this earth. Nowadays, there are a

Christianity are, at least up to a point, willing to concede some truth to this principle byaccept- ing the idea of an intra-Christian pluriformity (Ecumenical Movement), in rare cases even trying to come to terms with non-Christian religions on the same basis. In fine, the appellation world-religions or universal religions confuses the issue by presenting an unattainable ideal goal as if it were historical reality. The term religions of faction or self-dividing religions fits the origin and historical development of these religions better, since it draws attention to a constitutive and essential element of their structure. If we restrict our attention to the mainstream of Christianity, to choose an example, we see that however many ideal goals this religion has been able to abandon, at least for long periods, it has never been able to give up the claim to religious dominion of the world without danger of losing its own identity.

INITIATION: A CONTRIBUTION TO THE METHODOLOGY OF COMPARATIVE RELIGION.

D. J. Hoens
1. Prof. J. van Baal belongs to that small minority of ethnologists in our time who have dealt intensively with religion for more than thirty years. In his book, Wegen en drijfveren der religie (1947)1), he compares the religion of the Marind-Anim of New Guinea (now Irian Barat) with the religion of the so-called "ethische richting" ("ethical" movement) in the Dutch reformed church since the second half of the 19th century.2) His second book, SymboZs for communication (1971)3), is both a handbook for students in ethnology (it surveys schools of ethnology, sociology and psychology of religion and comparative religion) and a presentation of van Baal 's own ideas about religion. Shortly af ter its appearance De boodschap der drie illusies (1972) was issued. 4) In this essay, the author analyses the three illusions: religion, art and play. This analysis leads i.a. to the conclusion that these illusions are of great value for man 's existence. "By means of these illusions man is finding again and corroborating his partnership with his world: they are the means by which he remains connected with his world.,,5) Consequently, the department for religious studies of the Faculty of Theology at the University of Utrecht was happy indeed for the opportunity so add Dr. van Baal to its staff, be it for but a short period only. This contribution to the Festschrift for Dr. van Baal is a token both of respect for his work in the field of the schiences of religion and of appreciation for his enthusiastic cooperation in a circle for their empirical study which originally operated on an inter-faculty basis and since the past year, on an inter-university level.

2. Discussion on the name and the methods of that special field of science cal led comparative religion, systematic science of religion or phenomenology of religion is still going on. One gets a good impression of it from a recent German publication, seLbstverst~is und Wesen der ReLigionswissensohaft (1974) 6) and from P. Lambrechts, De fenomenoLogisohe methode in de Godsdienstwetenschap. 7) I will not deal with this discussion extensively, but a few points seem to be of great importance:
   a.Is this field of study considered to be either a comparative and systematic description of data taken from the religions of the world as concrete historical phenomena, or a study of specific reLigious data in contradistinction to political, economic, artistic or psychical data?
   b.In what way is the object of study structured: 8) af ter studying as many aspects of the data as possible, or af ter studying a few aspects?
   c.What data can be used in phenomenological research --those which are of similar importance, or those which are of great importance in some religions but of minor importance in others? Can one use only those which belong to similar periods of history, or also those which belong to wholly different periods of history? should like to make a few remarks on these points. ad a. In my opinion, both approaches have their own right to existence. But the first approach should be precede the second, and they should
   not be mixed. If I am correct, the first approach is the one J.A. Oosterbaan had in mind wh en he describes the task of the phenomenology of reUgion as "systematische beschrijving van reUgieuze fenomena aLs deeL van historisohe onderzoekingen. ,,9) This task is st;]l far from completion; hence C.J. Bleeker in his answer to Oosterbaan too easily pushes it aside as being antiquated. Moreover, as every real historian does more than merely draw up an inventory of items, and in fact gives them a structure that may be different from the structure Bleeker has in mind, I do not accept his equation of this approach with the "Inventur in einem antiquierten Museum".IO) A problem form the so-called primitive religions because of our lack of knowledge about their history. In my opinion, this should only lead to a more careful and limited use of the material on these religions in historical analysis. ad b. As I just have pointed out, every scientist is trying to get at a structure. Regarding the kind of structure and the ways in which it is achieved, opinions differ. At this point it is of great importance to distinguish between different points of view. From the very beginning, comparative religion or phenomenology of religion has been considered to be a field of study midway between history and philosophy.

INITIATION 31

Now, those phenomenologists who stress the historical side of their field of study will attempt to achieve a structure of an object of study af ter having studied as many aspects of it as possible. 11) However, those phenomenologists who are more interested in religion as an aspect of the human mind and psyche without regard to its historical and cultural conditions are more apt to achieve a structure of an object af ter having studied only a few aspects of it. 12) Here again I should like to stress the equal legitimacy of both types of phenomenology. Representatives of each type should try to refine its methods. I would suggest the name comparative reZigion for the first type and phenomenoZogy of reZigion for the second type. The first type could be considered a field of science parallel to comparative philology, etc., whereas the second is connected with the phenomenological school of philosophy represented by Husserl, Scheler, et al. The representatives of the second school should stop making remarks about antiquated museums, etc., when dealing with the conceptions of the men of comparative religion, and they should take proper notice of their work. The adherents of comparative religion, on the other hand, shoul d stop sayi ng "j ourna 1 i sm" when deal i ng wi th the work of the phenomenologists and instead should give careful attention to their studies. There is still enough work to be done. Each type should work with i ts own methods and not mi x them because each is wJrki ng on a different level. ad c. At this point, the question of the function of data is brought into the field. I should plead for a careful use of those data which are of similar importance in several religions. 13) Otherwise, one runs the risk of using data with too divergent significance for description of one particular phenomenon as, for example, did van der Leeuw in the first chapter of his Phenomenology. Dealing with the phenomenon of power, he mentioned in the same breath mana, which holds a central .place in the religion of the Melanesians, and wakanda, which is only of minor importance in Sioux-religion. 14) In my opinion, both the students of comparative religion and the phenon- enologists should be careful with the data they use in their description of religious phenomena. It is hardly credible how many representatives comparative religion, pretending a close relationship of their field of study with the history of religions, use material of wholly different periods of history.15)Even Widengren, who critisizes Pettazoni on this pOint,16)seems to have no objection to put the high-god conceptions of nomadic people living in Iran in the sixth century B.C. on the same level as those of nomadic people living in Africa in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. 17)

HOENS

3. Below I shall try to make a small contribution to refining the methods of Qomparative religion while at the same time avoiding the pitfalls I observed in the previous section of this article. By way of example I shall deal with rites of initiation: those rites accompanying the process whereby boys become young men.lS)1 have chosen three groups where these rites are of great importance:
   I. The upanayana rite of the Hindus in Northwest India, which together with the wedding rites, are the only examples of the many sams~as19)formerly in existence in India still to be practised by the highest classes of Hindu society.20)
4. Initiation of boys or young men of the Kwakiutl Indians living in British Columbia into a dance society of the highest rank. In wintertime, when the two main activities of the Kwakiutl (fishing and gathering berries) cannot take place, there is ample opportunity for dramatic dances. These are not only social and artistic manifestations; by means of them, the Kwakiutl also hope to get a fruitful summer season. 2l)onlY in winter are the Kwakiutl organised in dance societies; in summer, they are organised in clans.
5. The boro, the initiation of boys or young men into the Kamilaroi tribe living in Gundabloui, New South Wales in Australia. We have reports by reliable eye witnesses of all these rites as they are practised in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. 22) With regards to the refining of the method of investigation, the following remarks can be made. While reading the introduction into comparative religion written by Th. P. van Baarsen (Groningen) cal led Doolhof der gOden,23)1 was especially touched by his treatment of the sacrifice. 24) He distinquishes the following elements: 1) the sacrificer; 2) what is offered; 3) place and time of offering; 4) the way of offering; 5) the receiver of the sacrifice; 6) motive and aim of offering. By means of this approach all the major aspects of a religious phenomenon can come to light. Having dealt with the seven questions, one may be able to give a full description of it. This is precisely the task of comparative religion. I was wondering if these or similar questions could not be asked in dealing with the phenomena which are object of comparative research. So I tried and found out that the questions have to be modified accord- to the object involved, but always have to refer to place and time, the people involved, motives, aims and means.

OF INITIATION 33

50, regarding the rites of initiation among the Hindus, the Kwakiutl and the Kamilaroi, the following questions will be dealt with: 1) What are rites of initiation? 2) Where andi 3) Wh en do they take place? 4) Who is the initiator? 5) Who is the initiandus? 6) What are the aims andi 7) The means of initiation? 8) How is the initiation performed?

4. COMPARATIVE ANALYSIS
   4.1 What are the rites of initiation? It is quite clear that a full answer to this question can only be given af ter the investigation has been concluded and not before. 8ut a simple description, be it only a working hypothesis, should be given here. Rites of initiation are rites accompanying the transition of adolescent young people from a certain state into another state, from one group into another group. Before the rites they are boys, and af ter them they are men with all the rights and duties involved. In India it is an individual, among the Kwakiutl and Kamilaroi a aolleative ceremony.
   

   4.2 Where do the rites take plnce?

ad. I. (India). The upanayana takes place in a booth resting on five posts (the fifth post represents Brahman 25)) erected near the parental house of the boy who is going to be initiated. In this boott. some preliminary rites are performed: a) Ganesa and a number of goddesses are worshipped to remove every possible obstacle and for protection of the upanayana-ceremoniesi a) oilseeds are thrown into each of the four corners of the booth to ward off evi 1 spi ri ts .26) During the upanayana in the booth, the sacrificial fire is burning on the altar (the fire has been taken from the charcoal in the hearth of the house). Into the fire the oblations of ghee are poured by the officating person. ad. II. (Kwakiutl). The rites of initiation take place a) partly in a forest which is at some distance from where the Kwakiutl live and partly in the festive hall, being the centre of the dance society concerned or b) in the latter only. Now the forest is the place where the ghosts have their dwelling place. 27) As far as the festive hall is concerned the rites are performed in a separate part of it above the entrance of which ghosts have been painted. This part of the festive hall obviously has the same meaning as the forest. 50 the rites are performed not in the daily world but in the world of the ghosts. ad. III. (Kamilaroi). The bora takes place on three different locations, all situated at a certain distance from the normal camp. The women and

HOENS

children are living in one circle (70 feet wide) with an ent rance and the men in another circle (45 feet wide) with no opening at all during the rites. Between the two circles there are sand paintings i.a. representing Baiamai (the first ancestor and god and head of the bora) and twelve important men. These seem to symbolize the first camp of the ancestors: a sacred spot. 28) At the beginning of the ceremonies the boys who are going to be initiated are in the great circle. During a certain period they stay in a special at a di stance of 45 feet from the smaller circle: this place is not sacred--it marks the position of the novices who do not belong any more to the group of women and children and do not yet belong to the men. At a certain stage in the ceremonies the boys stay for a while near the the ever burning fire of baiamai. a holy place.

The rites are always performed at some distance or in a place separated from the area of daily life. Of ten the place where the rites occur is a sacred one: booth with sacrificial fire (Hindu). forest and separate part of the festive hall (Kwakiutl) and original camp and fire of the divine ancestors (Kamilaroi). This is not always the case: the camp of the novices (Kamilaroi) is not a sacred spot.

4.3 When do the rites take pZaae?

ad. I. (India). The upanayana is performed in a month. on a day and point in time fixed by astrologers as auspicious. 29) Auspicious are the five months in which the sun is northwards to the ecliptic and thereof the bright moonlit half of the month. Astrology still is and always has been of great importance in India. It is connected with the idea of a close relationship between man as a microcosmos and the universe as the macrocosmos. 30) ad. II. (Kwakiutl). The rites of initiation are performed in winter time since the ghosts are supposed to be present. 31)Moreover. the summer-winter rhythm is predominant in Kwakiutl life. Summer time is working time: fishing and gathering berries and clan time; the clans are meeting. Winter time is festival time and the time when the dance societies are to perform their dramatic dances in order to get a fruitful summer season. ad. III. (Kamilaroi). The bora which Mathews observed took place from February 12th until March 10th. 1894. Mathews does not give any direct explanation. There is not a single indication that the period concerned is a special period.

INITIATION 35 No general statement can be made about the time of the rites of initiation. In India the upanayana (being an individual rite) is performed in an auspicious month and on an auspicious day and in a sacred time. The time of the initiation at the Kwakiutl is also a sacred time but at the same time a period of force leisure since the normal activities cannot be carried out. The period is a sacred one because the spirits are present and the spirit dances take place.

4.4 Who is the initiator? ad. I. (India). The upanayana being an individual ceremony, the father of the boy concerned chooses a preceptor (aaarya) or a guru. 32)The name of the ceremony upanayana literally means: the leading of the pupil by the preceptor up to himself. Formerly the pupil had to stay for a certain period at the preceptor's house af ter the upanayana in order to receive instruction for his future tasks as a head of the household and in public life. Nowadays the pupil does no longer get his instruction for his future occupation from the preceptor but only for some ritual performances as a head of the household which can be given in one to three days. So the boy is no longer staying at the preceptor's house. 33)The preceptor and the guru always have been and still are venerated as a kind of divine being. At the same time, the Hindus are warned against "false" gurus. 34) ad. II. (Kwakiutl). The full members of the dance society are the initiators of the young men. Of ten they wear the outfit of ghosts and are treated like ghosts. ad. III. (Kamilaroi). Here the chiefs of the tribes involved, the war- riors (kurringa~) and some specially chosen old men are the initiators of the young men. Some of these old men have the task of being attendants of the initiandi and instruct them in hunting, etc. Others, especially from the kurringa~. represent the dema 35)with the exception of Baiamai who is not shown. His son Dhurramu~~am. the dema who has instituted the bora ceremonies (also represented by a kurringa~), has a prominent part in the ceremonies. 36) Some initiators are partly considered to be (the preceptor and guru in India or to represent divine beings (Kwakiutl and Kamilaroi) and others to be skilled teachers (Kwakiutl and Kamilaroi), depending on the task which they have to fulfill in the rites of initiation.
4.5 Who is the initiandus? ad. I. (India). According to the ancient grhyasütras37 )the age in which the boy should be initiated was different according to the class he belonged to: a Brahman boy at eight, a Ksatriya at eleven and a Vaisiya

HOENS

at twe1ve with postponement in difficu1t situations. Nowadays every boy of the higher classes is initiated at the time of ado1escence. Former1y the pupil had to stay at his master's house to be instructed for a period of severa1 years before his education had been comp1eted and before the samävartana (returning home ceremony) cou1d take p1ace. Nowadays this rite is performed immediate1y af ter the upanayana. Af ter that the young man 38)is entit1ed to marry and to raise a fami1y. ad. II. (Kwakiut1). One or severa1 young men of the 1eading clan or fami1y of shamans are initiated if there are one or more vacancies in the dance society. Exact information about the age is not avai1ab1e. Since it is a society with a restricted number of members and there is not a fixed age when a member has to 1eave the society, there may be no initiation of new members in some years. Physica1 and/or psychic inabi1ity are the on1y causes for 10sing membership. Among the Kwakiut1 there are severa1 dance societies, each with a different rank. They know simi1ar rites of initiation. ad. III. (Kami1aroi). The bora attended by Mathews were performed with twenty young men between twe1ve and twenty years old with the exception of three or four who, not yet being initiated, were between twenty four and thirty years old. No special qua1ifications have been recorded but it seems obvious that the difference of age of the boys has something to do with certain qua1ifications which are required for the initiation. The initiation was a joined matter of some neighbouring tribes.

Not every hea1thy young boy is going to be initiated at the time of his ado1escence. In India the upanayana is confined to the higher classes of society most1y Brahmans. The Kwakiut1 know severa1 dance societies with a different socia1 rank. So in principle every young man can be initiated. But there have to be sufficient vacancies; otherwise the young man has to wait. The Kami1aroi do not seem to have socia1 restriction on initiations. But here too there is a considerab1e difference of age-- probab1y according to the qua1ifications which they have or do not have ach- ieven •

. 6 What is the aim of the initiation? ad. I. (India). The name of the ceremony (upanayana) and svera1 of its acts and words still c1ear1y betray that the main aim of the upanayana was the introduction of the boy into the period of instruction by his preceptor. It is equa11y c1ear that the main aim nowadays is a different one; the instruction being confined to the teaching of one verse of the Rigveda.

INITIATION 37

The main aim seems to be now the introduction of the boy into manhood. Before the upanayana the boy was eating with his mother; af ter this with his father. 39) Just before the upanayana the boy has a last feast with other boys who are not yet initiated and eats for thelast time together with his mother and, during the upanayana, the boy has to impersonate the mantra as a young and lovely girl. The connection with this first aim there is the instruction of the mantra Rigveda 111; 62:1040)which he has to recite every morning from then on, and the investiture with the sacred cord 41)which he has to wear always. Both the mantra and the cord point to his future task as the ritualist of the family. In the mantra which is whispered into the ear of the boy by the preceptor in complete segregation the boy meets the divine world. A further aim of the ceremony is help, strength and illumination for the new period of life,42)protection against evi1 43)and a long life. ad. II. (Kwakiutl). The first aim of the instruction of young men of the Kwakiutl in a dance society is quite clear: to become a full member of it. In this particular case the society being of hi9h social rank its membership includes a high social state of its members. Above something has been said about the functions of these societies. The Kwakiutl, believing themselves dependent on the spirits for a fruitful summer season, want to be in contact with these spi rits. For the young men concerned, the initiation is also the first opportunity to get into touch with the divine world of the spi rits. ad. III. (Kamilaroi). The first aim of the bora of the Kamilaroi is obvious: full membership of the tribe. Therefore the rites initiate a relationship with the first divine ancestral camp of Baiamai and especially with Dhurramuttam, the institutor and leader of the initiandi of the bora. 44 ) Thus included in the initiation are: -confrontation with white and black spirits (the good and bad powers) and instruction in sexual life, tradition, games, dances and songs. -contact with the Kangeroo dema--the kangeroo is an important means of living of the Kamilaroi. -contact with grasshoppers or cicadas which point to sexuality and/or fertility.45)

tr;be~ he ;s tak;ng part ;n man's occupat- ;ons (H;ndu and Kam;laro;)~ he can get marr;ed and ra;se a fam;ly (H;ndu and Kam;laro;). In r;tua1 respect, he can take part ;n the r;tua1s (most ;mportant ;n the Kwak;ut1 soc;ety~ of ;mportance ;n the other ones). In Ind;a other a;ms are: rece;v;ng protect;on aga;nst ev;l, and strength, ;llum;nat;on and long l;fe to come.

4.7 What are the means of initiation? ad. I. (Ind;a). The boy ;s ;n;t;ated w;th a number of objects: -a new p;ece of ye110w c10th, wh;ch ;s a s;gn of a new stage of l;fe, a~ -a sacred cord cons;st;ng of three tw;sted threads, symbo1 of the three gunas 46)and t;ed together by a knot. It represents the new r;tua1 state of the boy. -a sma11 ye110w 10;nc10th to be worn permanent1y, represent;ng sexua1 matur;ty.
- a g;rd1e of munja grass for protect;on aga;nst ev;l.
- a sma11 p;ece of deersk;n threaded on a str;ng put around the boy's neck, probab1y represent;ng fert;1;ty.47) -the mantra R;gvda III~ 62:10 dealt w;th ;11 sect;on 4.6. -a staff represent;ng the pup;l 's state as that of an ascet;c. 48)
- a new name. ad. II. (Kwak;ut1). The young men of the dance soc;ety are ;n;t;ated w;th: -a wh;st1e, horns, masks, r;ngs of cedar bark of the sp;r;ts represent- ;n9 the;r vo;ces, faces and c10thes. From now on the young men can act l;ke sp;r;ts. -new names, ;nd;cate;ng that the men are new be;ngs.
- yells, songs and dances represent;ng the 1anguage, the s;ng;ng and danc;ng of the sp;r;ts. -;nstruct;on ;n the r;tua1 of the dance soc;ety. ad. III. (Kam;laro;). The young men of the Kam;laro; are ;n;t;ated w;th: -the elements of a man's outf;t: a belt, a sk;rt, etc. -a head-dress cons;st;ng of feathers of ahawk, an eagle and a swan.
- wh;te and b1ack str;ps on the;r bod;es, ;nd;cat;ng that they are no 10nger boys but men.
- a new name, a s;gn of manhood a1so. -;nstruct;on ;n games, songs, spec;a1 dances and ho1y trad;t;on. The means a1ways have a symbo1;c, somet;mes even sacramental, mean;ng. They represent a new state of ex;stence (new robe, new

OF INITIATION 39

outfit, a new name) and a new ritua1 state: acting 1ike spirits in dramatic dances (Kwakiut1): performing domestic or tri bal ritua1s (Hindu and Kami1aroi). They a1so represent a new socia1 state: sexua1 maturity (Hindu and Kami1aroi) and man's occupations (Kami1aroi). With regard to the other means used in India we can refer to section 4.7, ad. I.

4.8 How is the initiation perfoPmed?

ad. I. (India). Initiation rites consist of the fo110wing activities: -the head of the pupil is shaved and his body is bathed. -he is dressed with a sma11 10inc10th and a new ye110w piece of c10th and jewe1s. This marks the end of the former period of 1ife and indicates a new one. -the preceptor pours ghee into the sacrificia1 fire, as an offering, with a prayer for we11-being. -the pupil is provided with a gird1e of munja grass, with the sacred cord and with a piece of deerskin. -the boy is dec1ared to be a brahmaa~in and commandments concerning this state are given: a part of the ritua1 now devoid of socia1 meaning. -an inti mate re1ationship between the preceptor and the pupil is estab1ished by a ritua1 which is the same as in the wedding ceremony. A ritua1 that no 10nger makes sense in modern time (see above). -the pupil receives a staff. -he receives a new name. -he receives the famous mantra Rigveda lIl: 62:10. -the pupil stretches out his hand to the f1ames, pulls them back and presses them to his heart, saying: May Agni49)proteat me and give me heZp; may sarasvati50)give me inteZZeat and may the Sun give me Zight. -the preceptor b1esses the pupil and wishes him a long 1ife. ad. 11. (KWakiut1). The young men of the Kwakiut1 are initiated in this way: -by the whist1ing of the spirits the young men f1ee in ecstasy into the forest or the c10sed part of the festive hall; possessed by the spirits they fa11 down unconscious. They are swa110wed up by the spirits. Abi1ity to fa11 into a trance is presupposed. -the initiandi are instructed in complete segregation in the ritua1, the yells, the songs and dances of the spirits and the myth. They receive new names. -the young men give a dancing performance in the festive hall. -the spi rits which have taken possession of the young men are driven

HOENS

out by the singing and dancing of the full members of the dance society. Spi rits should be contr01led. -the tamed novices are ritually purified by diving into the sea and by being purified by means of burning cedar bark. In this way the normal society has to be kept clear of the spi rits. ad. III. (Kamilaroi). The young men of the Kamilaroi are initiated in this way: -every afternoon, if the weather was good, the novices danced together with the women and men. Af ter that, women and novices sit together.

• while the novices and their mothers are lying down face to face with blankets covering their heads, the dema Dhurramu~~am appears. -the novices with their heads bowed are led along the path between the two circles where Baiamai is dwelling with the ancestors. -they are instructed in games, certain dances, songs, hymns and holy traditions and take part in hunting. -they are initiated in sexuality by the old men making obscene gestures. -they are confronted with dancing men clad in white birch bark. -thereupon, while looking at the sun, they are suddenly confronted with black painted men near GOmee. the fire of Baiamai. -in the sound of the bullroarer appears the voice of Dhurramu~~am. -near a water pool the novices see men hopping. -the novices are then allowed to stay in the men's camp during one night. -the next day the novices see men disguised as grasshoppers or cicadas sitting on branches of trees. -confrontation with men who are jumping in bent attitude and cal led warringu, a pantomime of a general type, for which no explanation has been given.
• acquaintance with bullroarer.
• women fumigate the initiated ones and the other men. On the whole, clearly, the position of the young men is something midway between children and men and women. On the one hand, they take part in activities of the adults and, on the other, they still belong to the children. The boys gradually come in contact with the divine world of Baiamai, Dhurramu~~am and the other dema. The contacts are increasingly strong. First, the novices see the pictures of Baiamai, then they are allowed to he ar divine sounds and at last they are allowed to look at the

INITIATION 41

objects representing the divine beings. Before they return to normal life, the initiated and the other men who have taken part in the rHes and "infected" by the divine world, have to be "disinfected".

The following aspects of the initiation can be gathered from the way in which the rites in question are performed. The initiation is a transition from one stage of life into a new one--from childhood into manhood (Hindu and Kamilaroi). Moreover, there is an intensive contact with the divine world; the young Kwatiutl even become possessed and swalled up by the spirits (Kamilaroi and Kwakiutl). It seems therefore not accidental th at with the Kamilaroi and Kwakiutl all pers ons concerned have to be fumigated before entering ordinary society, and that with the Kwakiutl the boys have to control the spirits because from then on they have to play their part in two worlds: the divine and the human.

5. IMPORTANT ASPECTS OF THE RITES OF INITIATION. Af ter analysing the rites of initiation the following statements can be made:
   a. The rites show a mixture of social and religious elements. The place and time in which the persons are involved, and the means and the ways in which the rites are performed, give sufficient evidence for this statement.
   b. They accompany the transition from childhood into manhood, which is considered to be a transition into a completely new stage of life. Being shaved and bathed and dressed with new clothes and attributes and receiving a new name are clear indications of this newness.
   c. Not every boy is initiated because rites of initiation sometimes are confined to a certain class or group of the society. Not every boy is initiated at the time of his adolescence since there are no vacancies in the group or since he has not given evidence of certain qualifications.
   d. The aims of the rites of initiation are: getting the state of manhood in social and ritual respect. As far as the social respect is concerned, especially, the following aspects can be mentioned: -full membership of the tribe, class or group; -taking part in man's occupations; -being qualified for marriage. The last two points mentioned are missing wit~ the Kwakiutl for the obvious reason that the rites dealt with only concern initiation in-

HOENS

to a dance society. The social initiation among them is a simple affair. S1) The new ritual state includes the right of performing domestic or taking part in tri bal rituals or even the right of acting like spi rits in spirit dances.

e. Where the religious elements are stronger, purification of the participants takes place at the end of the ceremonies.
f. During the rites also symbolic acts or prayers take place, pointing to protection from evil, fertility, strength, illumination and long life. More could have been said if the sources had given more information about the contents of the formulas and songs spoken or sung during the ceremonies. S2)
6. FINAL REMARKS. The investigation made in this paper is only a restricted one. It is confined to rites of initiation in three small areas of the earth and, moreover, to a small part of their history. Many comparative studies concerning different religious groups living in different areas and' in different times should be made before a fuller description of these rites can be given, including a history of their aspects. On the other hand, the results of our investigation should not be underestimated. The rites we re taken from rather different cultures. Had we confined ourselves to three similar cultures, fewer aspects would have come to light. Of more importance is that our picture is richer and more colourful than other ones which have been the result of a different approach.
NOTES

1. On varieties and motivations of pe~igion; the work appeared only in Dutch at Noordhollandse Uitg. Mij; Amsterdam.
2. Represented by a.o. D. & P.D. Chantepie de la Saussaye, J.H. Gunning, Is. van Dijk and later by H.Th. Obbink, M. van Rhijn & G. van der Leeuw.
3. Van Gorcum & Co.; Assen.
4. De boodsohap dep drie i~~usies (the message of the three illusions); van Gorcum & Co.; Assen.
S. See o.c. p. 118.
6. See: Wege depFopsohung. Band CCLXIII, ed. G. Lanckowski, Wissenschaft- liche Buchgesellschaft, Darmstadt.

INITIATION 43

7. "The phenomenological method in the science of religion", which appeared in the MededeZingen van de VZaamse Aaademie van Wetensahappen, letteren Schone Kunsten van België, Klasse der Letteren, jrg. XXVI; 1964; 6; Brussel; p. 49.
8. This concept is used in the following sense: ~ay in whiah a aompZex ~hoZe is buiZt up; see van Dale's Nieuw Groot Woordenboek der NederZand- se TaaZ; M. Nijhoff, 's-Gravenhage, 1950; p. 1770.
9. "Systematic description of religious phenomena as part of historical research" in NederZands TheoZogisah Tijdsahrift, Veenman, Wageningen, 13e jrg.; p. 105.
10. See SeZbstverständnis und Wesen etc., p. 234 and cf. W. Baetke ibidem
    p. 144.
11. See for instance in SeZbstverständnis und Wesen the contributions of
    W. Baetke, pp. 144 ff. and of H. Clavier, pp. 284 ff.
12. As for instance M. Dhavamony did in his PhenomenoZogy of P.eZigio~, Gregorian University Press, Rome, 1973; pp. 180-194.
13. See also Baetke om o.c. p. 147.
14. See French edition, Payot, Paris, 1948; pp. 10, 12.
15. Cf. lambrechts in o.c. p. 41.
16. See SeZbstverständnis und Wesen, p. 266.
17. Cf. also Dhavamony in o.c. pp. 180 ff. and 185 ff. who simply puts together the upanayana of ancient India and the rites of initiation in Africa observed in the 19th century and the 20th century.
18. The initiation of girls is not treated here.
    19. Sanatifying aeremonies.
19. The upanayana always has been restricted to the higher classes.
20. See W. Müller in Die ReZigionen des aZten Amerika von W. Krickeberg,
    H. Trimborn, W. ~üller, O. Zerries, Kohlhamer; Stuttgart, 1961; p.
    244.
21. The upanayana is described by Mrs. S. Stevenson in The rites of the ~ae-born; Oxford, 1920; ch. 11, pp. 27-45; the rites of the Kwakiutl by J. Haekel in " Schutzgeist und Jugendweihe im westlichen Nordamerika" in Ethnos, Stockholm, 1947, 3/4, pp. 106-122; and J. Haekel, "Initiationen und Geheimbünde Nordwestküste Nordamerikas" in MitteiZungen der AnthropoZogisahen GeseZZsahaft in Wien, Bd. 83, 3; Wien, 1954; pp. 167-
22. Those of the Kamilaroi by R.H. Mathews, "The Bora or Initiation Ceremonies of the Kamil aroi Tribe" in JournaZ of the RoyaZ AnthropoZogiaaZ Institute. vol. XXIV, 1895, pp. 411-427 and vol. XXV, 1896, pp. 328-
    339.
    23. The Zabyrinth of the deities (in Dutch only); Salamander G77, Em. Querido's Uitg. Mij; Amsterdam, 1960; p. 154.
23. My assistant J.G. Platvoet drew my attention to E.E. Evans-Pritchard, Nuer ReZigion, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1966, pp. 197 ff. where the author is dealing with the sacrifice in the same way. Cf. also W. Baethke in o.c. p. 147.
    25. The AbsoZute and permanent Being of the Hindus.
24. See Stevenson in o.c. pp. 29-30. She calls the goddesses, mother godess- es; this must be amistake.
25. See Haekel in "Initiationen und Geheimbünde", p. 169.

HOENS

28. Cf. Worms-Petri, "Australische Eingeborenen-Religionen" in Die ReZigionen der Südsee und Austratiens, W. Kohlhammer, Stuttgard, 1968. pp. 240 ff.
29. The same applies to the wedding rites.
30. This idea al ready existed in vedic times.
31. See Haekel in "Initiationen und Geheimbünde", pp. 168, 169 and ct. W. Müller, "Die Religionendes alten Amerika", ReZigionen der Men8ahheit, 8and 7, XX, Kohlhammer, Stuttgart, 1961; p. 244.
32. Brahmans normally have a preceptor, members of other classes a guru (spiritual master). Of ten the family already had contact with the preceptor or guru before.
33. It is quite obvious that the boys get their educational training in the schools nowadays.
34. Cf. i .a. Hoens in C.J. Bleeker, "Initiation", Studies in the hi8tory of retigions, X, Brill, Leiden, 1965; pp. 73, 74.
35. "Mythical beings of prehistoric times" cf. A.E. Jensen, Mythus und Kult bei den Naturvötkern, Steiner, Wiesbaden, 1951, pp. 113 ff.
36. Cf. Mathews in o.c. pp. 332, 336.
    37. Gobhitagrhyasütra, 11; 10; pp. 1-4. and Hiranyakedingrhyasütra. I; I, I, pp. 2-3 in the Grihya8~tras, 11 (translated by H. Oldenberg), Saared Books of the Ea8t, ed. F.M. Müller, vol. XXX, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1892; pp. 63 and 137.
37. Cf. 4.7 ad. I.
38. Cf. Mrs. Stevenson in o.c. p. 30.
    40. om bhüh 8vah. tatsavitur varenyam om bhargo devasya dhünahi. dhiyo yo nah praaodayät; Om, earth, atmosphere, sky: May we receive that desirable light of the god Savitar who may impel our thoughts: (modern translation: Om, earth, atmosphere, sky: That excellent glory of Savitar, the god on whom we meditate, may he stimulate our prayers!)
39. The so-called upavrta (laid on) which probably is the remnant of a vest- ment worn by former generations.
40. See Mrs. Stevenson in o.c. pp. 32, 37.
41. By means of the girdle of munja gras8, see Stevenson in o.c. p. 31 and cf. the accompanying mantra which twice mentions the word protection. Gobhitagrhya8ütra 11, 10, 37 in o.c. p. 67.
42. See 4.4 ad. III.
43. Sexuality is implied by the obscene gestures of the men representing the grasshoppers or the cicadas; if fertility is implied depends on the fact if the insects really are the cicadas. Of these little animals the young co me out simultaneously in great quantities af ter 17 years; see Mathews in o.c. 46 The \',hole psychical-physical world consists of three gunas (strands), 8attva intelligence), rajas (energy) and tamas (inertness).
44. Cf. my paper in Fratidanam, Mouton, The Hague, 1968.
45. In the 8amävartana-rite which follows immediately af ter the upanayana the staff is replaced by an umbrella the insigna of prosperity and dominion representing the state of a householder (grhastha).
    49. Agni: since vedic times the god of the (sacrificial) fire.
46. The goddess of speech and intellect.

OF INITIATION 45

51. Cf. F. Boas, The soaiaZ organization and the searet soaieties of the KWakiutZ Indians, Government Printing Office, Washington, 1897; pp. 341, 342.
52. See M. Dhavamony in o.c. pp. 190-193. At the same time one may ask if statements such as "Rites of death and rebirth form the central theme of all initiation rites" (p. 191) and "Initiation equals finally a spiritual maturing" (po 193) in the light of our investigation can be maintained.

IN RELIGIOUS BEHAVIOUR1)

A. J. F. Köbben
"I1 es t des accoRlllodements avecleciel." Moliêre.

THE PROBLEM.

In an artiele on the Bush Negroes of Surinam written over half a century ago, Van Lier (1922: 2-5) strongly advocates the bringing of "civi lization" to these people by the colonial government. According to him the Bush Negroes in their traditional state live gloomy lives indeed, terrorized as they are by their own religious convictions and practices. As he puts it on page 3 (my translation):

Whereas they succeeded in liberating themselves from physical slavery, they made themselves mentally but no less really into
the slaves of the supernatural .... Their life is one long divine
service in which continuous offerings have to be made. ... Even an involuntary and insignificant human act may enrage the gods and the ancestors who ruthlessly punish man, particularly by sending illness and death.

The Bush Negroes are Maroons 2) (descendants of runaway slaves) living in the vast forests of the Surinam interior where they sti 11 largely maintain their cultural and social identity (cf. Köbben 1968). Their religious system is highly complex, so much so that I can present it here only in its barest outline. Apart from the supreme deity and the awe-inspiring "Great God" who contlats witches, there are at least four pantheons, each consisting of a number of deities and having its own priests, shrines, rituals and secret language. Each matri-clan (Lo) has i ts ancestors (.iol'ka) and is possessed by one or more avengi ng spirits (kunu); everything in nature (trees, animals, streams, rocks) may be (the dwelling place of) a minor deity or spirit. Finally, witchcraft (wisi) is an all pervasive force. To the Bush Negroes, young and old, male and female, the supernatural

KOBBEN 47

in a very real sense shapes the circumstances of their lives. Indeed, the neat distinction we in our society draw between the Natural and the Supernatural is far from their mind 3). This picture of Bush Negro religion seems to tie in well with Van Lier's point of view. Still, in my opinion, there is no question of the Bush Negroes living under the sway of religious terror. In order to substantiate this statement, I shall start with an episode from my fieldnotes 4) :

Case 1.-I go hunting with Ba ('brother') Fanaili and Ba Mansooi. On the path leading to the forest we find a large tortoise. This is held to spell bad luck to the hunter (the logic being th at a man who catches something without doing any effort has had luck enough for the day). So my friends talk to (the spirit of) the tortoise: "Listen, we leave you here on the path, on your back with a stick between your legs. But if we have a good hunt, we'll set you free tonight". We (or rather they) shoot three monkeys and one aguti. When we come by the spot where the tortoise is lying, he is put into the gamebag without further ado. When I remind them of their promise, they laugh and simply say:"We deceived him".

The Bush Negroes have untold obligations to fulfill vis-A-vis the surernatural, t>otl-t of the "do ut ces" anc! of tIJe "do ut aheas" variety. Towards some deities (e.g. the ancestors) promises are mostly of the "do ut des" sort (" I gi ve i norder thót th ou gi ve"), towards others (e.g. the avenging spirit or kunu) mostly of the "do ut abeas" sort ("I give in order that thou go away, i.e. abstain from troubling me"). But in case one has evoked the ire of the ancestors a "do ut abeas" promise is in order; on the other hand, a "do ut des" promise may even be done to the kunu. I talk about peZigious oppoptunism when the fulfilment of such promises is unduly postponed or simply never carried out; also wh en a religious prescript is desregarded under one pretext or another. And I contend that the religious behaviour of the Bush Negroes is characterized by such opportunism. This is not to say that religious awe or fear is non-existent; people do have such feelings, especially towards witches and the "Great God" as well as towards the avenging spi rits (kunu). But even in these cases they are aware that, in the words of the poet, "there are arrangements possible with heaven". Van Baal (1971: 219) rightly points out that in some tribal societies sceptics or "freethinkers" are present. However, opportunism (in the sense in which I define the term) and scepticism are different phenomena. Whereas most or perhaps all Bush Negroes think they can to a certain

OPPORTUNISM IN RELIGIOUS BEHAVIOUR

extent manipulate the gods, I h~ve never met a sceptic among them.

CASES: Some further cases may illustrate how much opportunism is part and parcel of Bush Negro religious behaviour.

Case 2.- The giant silk-cotton tree (aeiba) is held to be sacred. Oe Goeje (in Van Lier 1940: 191) says: "A Bush Negro who would cut down such a tree would die." Hurault (1961: 261): "it is absolutely unthinkable to cut such a tree down." Sti 11, near the village of Pikin Santi. a cut silk-cotton tree is lying! "It seemed very suitable for the making of a boat", the villagers offer as an excuse. "Besides, before cutting it down we have poured a fine libation" ("un ben wasi en moi").

Case 3.- Wen someone dies a witeh, his or her belongings are confiscated by the (pri ests of the) "Great God". Duri ng the mourni ng period of about one year, the goods lie stored in a hut specially built for the purpose. Af ter that period the goods are shipped to the god's sanctuary, and the hut has to be torn down, its wreckage thrown away on penalty of rousing the wrath of the "Great Deity". In the case of Sa ("sister") Batia, however, I noticed a man who laid aside the solid planks in order tu use them later for other purposes.

Case 4.-An offering (sreka) is done on behalf of a sick child. The man who officiates prays: "0 gods, here is an offering. let the child live, give him health, then we'11 give you more." A bystander mutters: "It remains to be seen if we'11 do so in fact."

Case 5.- A man should not marry a woman from the Pata-clan and at the same time one from the Pinasi-clan; such women can't be co- wives (meti) as their clans share a kunu. In fact, my informants phrase thi s not as a precept but as an empi ri ca 1 fact ("such marri ages are not concl uded"). When I noti ce a case of such a po lygynous marri age my informant cOllll1ents "It is true, i t i snot a good marriage. But Ti ("uncle") Nendisi had already married a Pata-woman and wanted the Pinasi-woman badly. So he married her and prayed the kunu for forgiveness."

Case 6.- When a man dies, the widow (or widows) have to mourn for a period of at least one year. Again, wh en a woman dies the widower and the possible co-wife have the same obligation. This is held to be one of the strictest and hardest of all religious duties: the individuals in question should behave as if grief-stricken, should not go and see others; should not leave the village; should not work, and -paramount prohibition-should not have sexual contacts in this period for fear of the deceased marriage partner taking revenge. In fact, it is this custom th at provides Van lier's (1922: 5) main argument for "ei vil i s i ng" these peop 1 e: "The mi sery the wi dowers and wi dows must endure is unfathomable". Here also, however, there is a gap between theory and practice. Officially the notables exhort the mourner to adhere strictly to the rules; but privately an elderly kinsman may advise a widower how to solve the delicate problem of cohabiting with his second wife without offending public opinion, the (spirit of the) deceased wife and the gods. Even where a widower has no legal wife left he may secretly have sexual intercourse with one woman or another; also, a widow with a man, although this

A. J. F. KOBBEN 49

is held to be very dangerous. One informant: "Sa Moimama (a young and attractive widow) tried to seduce me. I said to her: Didn't they tell you how to behave as a widow? She answered coquettishly: yes, they did, but still ... However, I didn't dare to touch her and fled." This is an instance in which a man's behaviour is determined by a religious rule! In other such cases, however, sexual contacts do occur.

The belief that the supernatural can be manipulated serves to reduce or to prevent cognitive dissonance: the Bush Negroes have untold religious obligations, they simply cannot think that every infraction brings swift and harsh retaliation because this is contrary to daily experience. To take the example of case 1: that very night the tortoise was boiled and eaten and nothing untoward happened, so apparently the hunters' behaviour was tolerated. Had, however, one of their near or distant kinsmen fallen ill, they would hastily have done penance. Thus whatever misfortune occurs, people are never in want of supernatural explanations. Oracles are consulted not to find out ~hether the supernatural is involved but ~hat supernatural explanations among the many ones possible are to be accepted. When a grave misfortune befalls a village, one or a few people may be cast in the role of scapegoat. A case in point is the seemingly convincing example Van Lier (1922: 5-7) mentions to explain his standpoint. An epidemie of influenza breaks out causing the death of many people. At the same time a widower in the mourning period is caught red-handed having sexual intercourse. The epidemie is seen as caused by the wrath of the deceased wife and the widower is punished severely**--** not so much by the gods this time as by his co-villagers. The reader might think of an obvious explanation for the difference between Van Lier's picture of religious behaviour and mine: the time elapsed between our respective stay among the Bush Negroes. Isn't the happy-go-lucky attitude towards the supernatural simply a result of a crumbling religious system? Vet, as I have explained elsewhere (Köbben 1968: 57,70-76), even today**--or at least when I did my fieldwork--** Bush Negro society in many respects constitutes a state within the state. New culture elements are accepted, but as additions to the existing culture rather than as substitutes. This is also true in the religious sphere. As noted, Bush Negro religion consists of a number of pantheons, each having its own gods, shrines, priests and secret language. Christianity, as an addition, fits perfectly into such aconception.

IN RELIGIOUS BEHAVIOUR

To us, a church choir of Bush Negro children singing in Latin ("dies il'ae, dies il.Za") may appear bizarre; but for the Bush Negroes it is self-evident: it is the secret language of this new pantheon. Besides, among most Bush Negroes the Christian "new pantheon" is of minor importance only.5) Still, there is no question of an all-or-nothing position here: the possibility cannot be excluded of the time lapse being one of the factors in the explanation.

RELIGIOUS OPPORTUNISM IN CROSS-CULTURAL PERSPECTIVE.

To what extent does religious opportunism occur in other cultures? As far as I know the question has never been investigated properly, presumably because anthropologists are more interested in religious models than in concrete religious behaviour. In an article for an earl ier Festschl'ift (1955, reprinted with some additions 1971) I present data from a number of societies on opportunism in one domain: taboe periods in agriculture. My conclusion is as follows (1971: 205): "If such a taboo is maintained stringently, it concerns one or a few individuals only or is of short duration. In case of longer taboo periods for an entire community practical considerations are predominant and there is no question of people integrally observing the rules." As an Agni (West Afri ca) informant put it: "It is true that this is an disadvantageous week for working in the fields. But what are we to do? Can we stop working in this period of harvest?" (1971: 200). One might of course try and canvass the Human Relations Area Files or some other data bank to look for further examples. But here the perennial problem of all cross-cultural studies crops up: the fact that we see societies through the eyes of the ethnographer. This scarcely poses a problem when well-defined phenomena are the subject of inquiry -- as, for example, slavery, or matrilineality, or cattle herding, although even here borderline cases are difficult to categorize. But what does it mean if we don't find examples of religious opportunism in a particular society? That the phenomenon does not occur or simply that the ethnographer had no eye for it? Imagine the anthropologist who takes Van Lier as the sole spokesman for the Bush Negroes -- he is bound to classify this people under "no religious opportunism present". Here it should be added that Van Lier -- although an amateur ethnographer -- is an excellent observer in many respects who would stand the test of all Data Quality Control criteria (Naroll 1962, Naroll et al. 1970).

KOBBEN 51

1 submit as a hypothesis that religious opportunism is a widespread phenomenon. My oldest example is in the Iliad of Homer, book 21 lines 442-457 (translation by Lattimore, 1962: 430) where Poseidon addresses Apollo as follows:

"to proud Laomedon

we aame down from Zeus and for a year were his servants for a stated hire, and he told us what to do. Then I built a wall for the Trojans about their city,
.•.•• and you, Phoibos, herded his shambling hornaurved aattle ....•
But when the ahanging seaSDnS brought on the time for our laboÀr to be paid, then headstrong Laomedon violated and made void all our hire, and sent us away, and sent threats af ter us. 11

As far as modern ethnography is concerned, apart from stray remarks (Konter, 1974: 130; van Binsbergen, 1971: I 91-92, van Rouveroy van Niewaal, n.d.: 30), the only explicit example I can offer -but I am sure I have overlooked others -is in Sol Tax's (1975) recent paper:

It is universally said in Panajachel (Guatemala) th at it i~ a sin
to work on Sunday .... Sickness or some other misfortune ... comes
precisely from the breaking of this taboo ..•• One sunday we noticed that our neighbor Marcelino was building a tablön -the hardest work-at the worst time of day. When I pointed this out to Catarina, she responded at once: 'Of course, he is so poor that he has no alternative, and has to take a chance on getting sick.' But then a few weeks later we saw Juan, the rich man's son, doing the same thing and, needless to say, we challenged Catarina to explain why. Her answer now was equally sure: Juan had to work on his father's land all week, and only on Sunday could he do anything on his piece which his father let him work for spending money. And 'of course, the family is so rich,' said Catarina, 'that they don't have to worry about getting sick,-they can afford the medicine.

If more data were available one might try and establish correlations betl'!een the amount of rel i gi ous orrortuni s~ on the one hand and other cultural or social phenomena on the other hand. (Interestingly, W.M.J. van Binsbergen tells me th at in one region where he did fieldwork -Khroumirie, Tunisia -religious opportunism is rampant, while in another -Kaoma, Zambia -it is a minor occurrence). As the situation stands, the only thing I can do here is to pose some questions and attempt tentative answers. One hypothesis would be that the manipulation of superhuman beings is concomitant with the manipulation of human beings. In other words, that religious opportunism is related to the individual 's latitude vis-à-vis his fellow men. There is some slight evidence for this as far as agricultural taboos are concerned (Köbben 1971: 198). Secondly, one might

OPPORTUNISM IN RELIGIOUS BEHAVIOUR

suppose that re1igious opportunism is causa11y re1ated to infant and chi1d rearing, in the sense that where rearing practices are tolerant and 1enient more re1igious opportunism is found than where they are rigid and rigorous. Here the resu1ts of a cross-cu1tura1 study by Lambert, Minturn Triandis and Wolf (1959: 162-169) are suggestive. They found that there is a corre1ation -a1though not a very high one -between be1iefs in the ma1evo1ence of the supernatura1 wor1d and punitive rearing practices. Again, a corre1ation obtains between be1iefs in the benevo1ence of the supernatura1 wor1d and nurturant rearing practices. There must be a wea1th of material on this score in the minds and notes of fieldworkers. If the schol ar to whom this book is dedicated allows me to do so, I wou1d 1ike to invite anthropo10gists who have suggestions and data on the subject of re1igious opportunism to communicate them to me. 6)

NOTES.

1. My thanks are due to Si1via W. de Groot, C.J. Ruijgh and W.M.J. van Binsbergen for usefu1 suggestions and help.
2. For an excellent survey of Maroon societies in the Caribbean and a usefu1 overview of the extensive 1iterature see Price, 1973. There are six Bush Negro tri bes in Surinam whose cultures are very simi1ar; most data in this paper bear upon the Djuka, the 1argest Bush Negro group who number about 20,000 peop1e.
3. A discussion of various aspects of Bush Negro re1igion is to be found in Hurau1t, 1961: ch. 7; Thoden van Velzen, 1966; Van Lier, 1940: ch. 2-5; Van Wetering, 1973. I use the term "religion" here in the broad sense of Van Baal (1971: 3), which inc1udes witchcraft and sorcery.
4. I did fieldwork among the Djuka in 1961-'62. My thanks are due to the Netherlands Organization for Scientific Research in Surinam and the Netherlands' Anti11es (WOSUNA, now WOTRO) for subsidizing my fieldwork.
5. It may be necessary, though, to distinguish between the various Bush Negro tri bes in this respect. Among the Paramaccans and part of the Saramaccans Christianity nowadays seems to be more than just an addition. But, in other parts of the Djuka tribe the impact of Christianity is still a1most ni1. The tenacity of the traditional re1igious system, even among parts of the Creo1e popu1ation of Surinam, who were christianized generations ago, is we11 demonstrated in Wooding, 1972.
6. Any communications reaching me wi11 be proper1y acknow1edged if used in a pub1ication. Address: Antropologisch-Sociologisch Centrum, Keizers- gracht 397, Amsterdam-C.

KOBBEN 53

SIBLIOGRAPHY Hurault. J. 1961 Les noirs réfugiés Boni de la Guyane Française. Mémoires de l' Ifan. Dakar. Köbben. A.J. F. 1955 Wet en werkelijkheid ("Theory and practice"). In: De wereld der mensen ("The world of men"). Wolters, Groningen-Djakarta. Reprinted in: A.J.F. Köbben: Van primitieven tot medeburgers ("From primitives to co-citizens"). Van Gorcum, Assen 1971. Köbben, A.J.F. 1968 Continuity in change; Cottica Djuka society as a changing system. Bijdragen TaaZ-Land-en VoZkenkunde 124: 56-90. Konter, J.H. 1974 Facts and factors in the rural economy of the Nyakyusa, Tanzania. Ph.D. thesis Tilburg. Lambert. W.W .• L. Minturn Triandis, M. Wolf 1959 Some correlates of beliefs in the malevolence and benevolence of supernatural beings: a cross-cultural study. JournaZ of abnormaZ and sodaZ psyahoZogy 58: 162-169. Lattimore, R. 1962 Translation of the Iliad of Homer. University of Chicago Press. Naroll, R. 1962 Data quality control. Free Press, New Vork. Naroll, R. et aZii 1970 A standard ethnographic sample; preliminary edition. Current AnthropoZogy 11: 235-248. Price, R. ed. 1973 Maroon societies; rebel slave communities in the Americas. Anchor Books, Garden City. Tax, S. 1975 The bow and the hoe: reflections on hunters, villagers and anthropologists. CUrrent AnthropoZogy 16. Thoden van Velzen, H.U.E. 1966 Politieke beheersing in de Djuka maatschappij ("Political control in Djuka society"). 2 vol. Ph.D. thesis, University of Amsterdam. Van Baal, J. 1971 Symbols for communication; an introduction to the anthropological study of religion. Van Gorcum, Assen. Van Binsbergen, W.M.J. 1971 Religie en samenleving; een studie over het bergland van N.W. Tunesië ("Religion and society; a study on the highlands of

N.W. Tunisia"). University of Amsterdam.
Van Lier, W.F. 1922 Bij de Aucaners ("Among the Aucan [Djuka)"). Westindisahe Gids 3: 1-30. Van Lier, W.F. 1940 Aanteekeningen over het geestelijk leven en de samenleving der Djoeka 's in Suriname ("Notes on the spiritual life and the society of the Djuka in Surinam"). Bijdragen TaaZ-Land-e'1 VoZkenkunde 99: 131-294.

OPPORTUNISM IN RELIGIOUS BEHAVIOUR

Van Rouveroy van Niewaal, E.A.B.

n.d. Mbambim, un chef de famille d'Ayikpèrè (Nord Togo). Afrika Studiecentrum, Leiden.
Van Wetering, W. 1973 Hekserij bij de Djuka; een sociologische benadering ("Witchcraft among the Djuka; a sociological approach"). Ph.D. thesis, University of Amsterdam. Wooding, C.J. 1972 Wi nti; een Afroameri kaanse godsdi ens t in Suri name ("Wi nti; an Afro-american religion in Surinam"). Krips, Meppel.

OF EVERYDAY LIFE: AN ETHNOSCIENCE INVESTIGATION INTO THE CONCEPTS OF RELIGION AND MAGIC.

W. E. A. van Beek
1. THE PROBLEM The empirical study of religion is haunted by a plethora of conceptions and pressuppositions deriving not from the phenomena studied but from the chairborne division of theoreticians and theologians. Classification of religious phenomena still follows the lines set by students of religion in the nineteenth century; categories ~uch as prayer, sacrifice, divination and magie are centuries old, deriving ultimately from the analysis of classical and Hebrew religion. Though their origin does not necessary invalidate them, their general applicability still has to be proved. In this paper we shall try to clarify one pair of those concepts, i.e. the age-old distinction between religion and magie. Prof. van Baal, among others, has applied himself to this problem in his inaugural lecture, "Magie as a Religious Phenomenon" (Van Baal 1960, 1963). In this lecture he demonstrated why the fields of magie and religion should be considered as one logically coherent phenomenon, giving ample proof of the fundamentally religious character of magical rites. In a later publication (Van Baal 1966), the term "private rites" has been used, but it has since been abandoned because of limited app 1 i cabil i ty. The awkward express i on "magi co-re 1 i gi ous" i ndi cates similarity between the two concepts but as it sheds no light on the internal division of the field, it is too easy a way out of the problem.
2. METHOD Within the field of comparative religion Van Baal has always upheld

fo~maZ semantia anaZysis. In the confrontation of native classification with categorisations from outside, ethnoscience methods .have the advantage of starting from those classifications relevant to the informants. It also has developed a rigorous method for internal validation of systems of classification. In ethnoscience terminology, our problem is one of contrasting the emia categories of religious activities in one particular religion with the etia categories of religion and magic. 2) Ethnoscience analysis depends heavily on language data, as it entails a formal semantic analysis of the organisation of the native terms; hence the major part of our analysis will be concerned with these native lexemes.

3. DESCRIPTION AND ANALYSIS OF THE SEMANTIC DOMAIN. We will analyse here the religious system of the Kapsiki and Higi in North Cameroon and Northeastern Nigeria. 3) In the Mandara mountains on the northern border of Nigeria and Cameroon, the Higi-Kapsiki

OF EVERYDAY LIFE 57 tribe consists of a loose conglomerate of highly autonomous villages, each of which is characterized by its territory and its own set of village-specific patriclans. Inside the village the virilocal polygynous nuclear family forms the basic unit of society. This family, rhe, is fully autonomous and privacy permeates Kapsiki culture. Constraints from other people, including the village chief, never exceed the level of advice, even if backed by respect for the office holder. The domain of religion is composed of several parts in Kapsiki thought. The 4 relevant categories are (the labels are ours):

1. Lexemes indicating ritual action;
2. Lexemes indicating objects used in religious behaviour;
3. Lexemes indicating non-human individuals;
4. Lexemes indicating aspects of human beings. 5)
   Not all four semantic subdomains partain to the problem posed. As our purpose here is an analysis of religious activities, we have to concentrate on the categories or subdomains 1 and 2. The lexemes under 3 and 4 either indicate general characteristics of people such as "misfortune", "soul", "taboo" (these are shorthand translations of course) or form an inventory of more or less supernatural beings, human or non-human. In order to demonstrate the semantic dimensions we will analyse the ways in which the terms differ from each other. To facilitate reading, the terms have been given a translation label, but as translation forms one of the key problems in religiography (Evans Pritchard 1956: vi, vii), one should beware of attaching too much value to the labels. The semantic value of a term can only be seen it

(festival)

~a gwe~a (first marriage of a gi rl)

W. E. A. VAN BEEK

lIpisu (to spit on someone, in order to bless) bedZa (to curse)

LEXEMES INDICATING OBJECTS USED IN RELIGIOUS BEHAVlOR

(n~dicine

ba~

hwe~e (medicinal plant species) ha~gedZe (medicinal plant species) be8he~u (harmful medicine) W~shi me~eZe (miracle objects)

The relevant divisions have to be explained and the separating ;Jimensions have to be ascertained, b.v analvsinQ the sDecific semantic content.

3.1 LEXEMES INDICATING RITUAL ACTION

The terms "geske" is a blanket term indicating any festival in which the whole village takes part. The range of "festivals" includes the main village communal rituals: Za. ba. RhometZa. The Za-ritual forms the final act of the Kapsiki year. In it, the initation of boys (gweZa) and the first marriage of girls (makwa) are concluded. The time is just before harvest, af ter the last rains. The whole village participates in a week of dancing and drinking and many "foreigners" (people from other villages) are present. The ritual part of it centers on the gweZa. the feast on the newlyweds. The gwela initiation has started one month before the coming of the rains. The young initiandi of the village gather frequently and as a group pass through a series of rituals and symbolic tests. In all phases they are assisted by little boys from their clan or ward, and in most instances they serve in the rituals as a group. Though there is nothing secret about the gweZa. normally few people besides the gwela and their helpers are present. The makwa festival, held the same time as the gwela. is much more public for the people in the village. The co re of the festival is a

OF EVERYDAY LIFE 59

two day singing session of the newly wed girls, around which the whole village gathers. Foreigners are banned from it, for it is a strict intra-village happening. This is cal led Rhomet~a festival, af ter the mountain where it is held. In the ba-ritual, as in the initiation and ~a-rituals, the Kapsiki villages perform in a sequence each one waiting for its neighbours to finish. The purpose of the ba-ritual is to chase Death, who is thought of as a person, from the village. The women of the village gather in the early morning and perform the rite, assisted by the chief blacksmith. Usually no strangers are present at the rite, though the feast which may conclude it of ten attracts foreigners to the village. One rite that is very characteristic for the village of Mogodé is the "pe~i va", rainhunt. As by Mogodé's mythic charter no rainmakers should be consulted, rain making in Mogodé has a public character. Led by the hunting chief, all village youth gather in a ritual hunt following a traditional route. As rains are known to be capricious, all non-indigenous elements -- disturbing factors in any situation for the Kapsiki tend to be banned. Unlike the foregoing lexemes, the remaining three are verbs. Dzerhe me~e implies all behavior pertaining to sacrifice. Ir fact, it represents one of the core rituals in Kpasiki life, that of a private sacrifice performed on behalf of the rhe, the household group'inhabiting one compound. Though the rites are not at all secret and include a social function (a drinking session of the old men of the ward), attendance at the sacrifice is strictly limited to the people concerned. Any other type of sacrifice, done on a jar belonging to a clan, ward, or village is indicated with dzerhe me~e too. Mpisu, "to spit", is an action possible in a great range of situations. It always implies some kind of a blessing given. The person performing spits a mouthful of red beer over the one receiving and gives a verbal blessing. In most instanees the presence of ot her people is not intrusive at all and it sometimes adds to the ritual. An opposite category is represented with bed~a. The meaning "to curse" does not imply secrecy and privacy. Though a curse can be given in private, it must be divulged afterwards. If, for example, a mother's brother curses his sister's son, he can only do so if he has ample reason. Transgression on behavioral norms provokes bed~a. Some people should be present to witness, but normally this is restricted to a few who know about the relations between the people concerned, if only by its timing (mostly during the night).

W. E. A. VAN BEEK

The word verhe is used most frequently in "verhe makwa", meaning the feast at which the clan of the bridegroom celebrates the arrival of a new bride. Characteristic of this important social function is the distribution of food and beer, which takes place on a larger scale than on other occasions. Meat especially, has to be abundant. The clan of one bridegroom feasts many visitors from their own village or neighboring ones, and they all gather in and around the compound for a day of conversation and consumption, in which a number of rites are performed. Leaving aside the specific content of the rituals, the distinctive diacritical characteristics can be isolated. Relevant dimensions for this analysis seem to be:

1) collective action of the village as a whole; collective action in which an in-group within the village acts; individual action.
2) public versus private attendance. As Kapsiki life tends to be highly private in many respects (Van Beek 1975), one rightly expects this dimension to be relevant for the communal rituals, too. The continuum reads: publ ic/non-publ ic/private: In the first instanee, anyone is welcome; the second one means that spectators normally do not show up, though they are not prohibited from coming as is the case with "private".

Paradi gm I

ritual attendance: public non-public "private"

ritua 1 do ne by:

co 11 ecti ve: peU va

vill age

collective: verhe in-group

individual:

In this paradigm the criteria for the rows indicate the group of participants in ritual, while the audience for the performance is found in the column dimensions. The relevance of this division is indicated by the fact that other semantic components result in the same organisation of this field of lexemes. Thus, essential for any ritual to be

OF EVERYDAY LIFE 61

cal led verhe is the presence of food for everyone to eat. In this respect it is the opposite of Za, in which there is plenty of beer but practically no food whatsoever. The distinction village-rituals ingroup rituals corresponds with. the opposition beer/food. So the paradigm can be read as follows:

Paradigm Ia

consumption non-consumption indirect (male + female) (female) production (male)

1 i qu i d food Za ba peZi va

solid food verhe makwa gweZa (RhometZa) liquid + solid food mpisu bedZa daerhe meZe

These column dimensions should be explained. The consumptive side of Za and verhe is clear. Both rituals are "feasts of plenty", in which it would be a terrible disgrace to lack beer or food. In the "RhometZa" festival, the accent is upon singing, not on eating or drinking. In fact, the girls only get a few calebashes with water and some cola- nuts during their singing days. The ba-ritual is a particular case in point. Abstention from drinking during and shortly af ter ritual is essential for its efficacy. The gweZa have to cultivate more than ever during the rainy season of their initiation; as an integral part of their coming of age. they have to prove that they are independent cultivators. Any consumption during gweZa-time should be kept private. The productive liquid aspect of the rain hunt needs no comment. In the bottom row of the paradigm. the distinction between solid and liquid food is eliminated, and the relevance of the dimensions shows less clearly. In mpisu beer is essential, just as are beer and sorghum mush in daerhe meZe, and the ultimate purpose of daerhe mele is production of food and protection of people. BedZa has no bearing on food. The column dimensions in parentheses relate to the sexes dominant in the ritual action. Peli va and gwela are exclusively male-centered activities. Daerhe mele within the compound is mostly performed by the

On ward or village level, male dominance even increases. Ba-ritual is predominantly a woman's task, and makwa is female-oriented too, of course. BedZa has fewer logical connections with a particular sex; both men and women can threaten with or carry out bedZa, but in social life it is more a woman's weapon for redress of a social affront than one for men; e.g., curses or tales about curses by a mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law are frequent. In the activities of the first column, the participation of both sexes is in balance. Even if men and women perform in quite different ways in these rituals, their contributions to the whole ritual are of eaual importance. These latter semantic aspects of paradigm Ia give many leads for the analysis of other aspects of Kapsiki religion. But our purpose here has been to demonstrate the validity of the partitioning of the semantic field, 50 we will not follow through here with another type of structural analysis that would do justice to the actual contents of these categories. The dimensions of publicity and collectiveness emerge as relevant on several levels of analysis as they are cor- roborated by other semantic values pertaining to the same divisions.

3.2 LEXEMES INDICATING OBJECTS USED IN RELIGIOUS BEHAVlOR Not all lexemes listed here are terminal taxa in the Kapsiki taxonomy of objects. The blanket term for most of the lexemes is r~E.

rhwE includes bal)Wa
Rm"E is a very general term including a great number of different objects. The notion of rm"E will be central to our following comments, 50 we will analyse it by considering its components, while using the term "medicine" as a translation label. Bal)Wa is a medicine for war, preventing any kind of iron from entering the bearer. It can be made of any object that has shown its force and function. Usually these

OF EVERYDAY LIFE 63 medicines are packed into an iron medicine holder, mbZaza. MaketZaketZa protects against theft of crops. Know1edge of the exact process of fabrication is 1imited to one clan in the village. The same ho1ds for rlweredZea, a conica1 shell used.by chi1dren for p1aying. One clan knows how to use it as a medicine against theft. If one is protected by these items a thief wi11 be aff1icted by an inflammation which wi11 on1y hea1 if treated by the owner of the medicine. Sekwa is a much stronger "medicine" which is known to everyone, and functions in case of debt. If debts are unsett1ed, the debtor risks 10ss of his entire fami1y by some kind of epidemie death if the sekwa is put in his compound by the creditor. As it is deemed to work in any kind of debt re1ation, it traditiona11y functions as the central means for the enforcement of Kapsiki 1aw. In many instanees in traditional 1aw peop1e swear on special objects, in order to va1idate their claims. These objects, sekwa and shafa, are associated with death and are deemed very efficace in case of fa1se testimony. Both sekwa and shafa are made from we11-known materials that are not hard to find, the process of its fabrication is wide1y known, though the shere power of the medici nes makes it a tricky one. HWebe and ha~gedZe are both plant species (Crinum (Am) and CisjuS Quandrangu1atus) which cure specific i11nesses. Each plant is app1ied for one i11ness on1y. Recognition of the app1ication is very difficu1t and on1y possib1e for those working with that particu1ar plant specimen. Be8he~u is a general term for a very harmfu1 kind of rlwe, used on1y for ki11ing. Accusations of possession and use of beshe~u turn up frequent1y in village ta1ks, hot1y denied by the accused. Peop1e known to have it are forced to live on the outskirts of the village, if nothing e1se can be done about it. The different kinds of rhwe never are objects of pub1ic display, but on1y beshe~u had a negative connotation. The word rlwe a1so is used to indicate a specific medicine for any kind of i11ness. So rlwe ntsu (eyes) means the medicine against conjunctivitis (regard1ess of what medicine is used, indigenous or "white man's medicine"). Severa1 very special objects are inc1uded under the term "wushi meneZe": neo1ithic remains, stones of a special shape, etc. Each serves its own specific purpose. When someone finds one of these, he must search for its way of app1ication, most1y to secure an end1ess sorghum supp1y or we11-being for his catt1e. Other peop1e may know

VAN BEEK

of the object, but normally do not, and anyway are not very interested as it can serve only the finder; it is of strictly private utility. Rituals for the wushi meQeZe vary greatly. Eventually people can swear on them, which is considered as binding an oath as any. In establishing the criteria for this semantic field, the first division seeming to be relevant is that between those medici nes that work conditionally and those that do not. In the first case the relation between ego and alter or between ego and the object is relevant for its efficacy. Shafa, sekwa, rhweredZea, maketZaketZa and wushi meQeZe all work under specific conditions, and in most instanees of social life are quite harmless, while hwe~e, haQgedZe, baQWa and besheQu work whenever they are applied, for better for worse. A second criterion is whether its application and actual use are known to a larger circle than the users or makers themselves. The application of both criteria results in the following paradigm:

Paradigm 11

hwe~e

t

As the dimensions in parentheses show, the rhwe in the column "conditional" are those the use of which is non-secret and even somewhat publico In any case the fact of application of those rhwe should be divulgedo The use of the non-conditional column has to be very private, even secret; in the case of hwe~e, the economie importance of knowing exactly what plant to use is too great to spread the word aroundo

OF EVERYDAY LIFE 65

Both ba~a and besheQu are secret, but in the first case the lineage knows about its existence and has access to its use, while the existence of beshe~u is known only by its user, though suspected by outsiders. As we are here concerned about the major divisions of this semantic field, there is no need for going into much detail as to the further sub-divisions of the cells. In the first row a distinction "stronq" "weak" could be made, the upper lexemes indicating the stronger l"fzwe. The cell "conditional"/"known privately" can also contain the many unnamed l"fzwe which, though found to be efficacious by single individuals, have never gained wider acceptance. It should be recalled that beshe~u is a general name too; each individual has his own type. Any systematic comparison was of course out of the question. Our informants knew only about other people who had it!

4. INTERPRETATION What is the relation between the dimensions of paradigms I and II? In the latter the lexemes indicate primarily objects, while action sequences are meant in no. I. For our purposes the semanti c~na lys is the context is of dominant importance, so we have concentrated on the use and application of the l"fzwe more than on their material components.
   

   Paradigm Paradigm II

attendance Information about application

public non-pri vate non-private public private

collect-la ba peU va sekwa fzwefle general

ivity shafa vi llage

in-group vel"he Rhometla gwela l"fzwel"edlea ba~a in-group (makwa)

individual mpisu bedla dzel"he wushi beshe'lU individual mele me~eZe

ritual information on

participants fabri ca ti on

11 show, the semantic values

used in paradigm 11 are transpositions of those used in paradigm I. Going from left to right, there is a general shift from collective to individual, from group to person. The ~hw€ are means to individual ends, while the paradigm I items are means for collective ends, though the collectivities may not be larger than one nuclear family. With regard to timing in social life, the geske have to be done at the right time, in the right season, in the right way. Exactly how is as important as precisely when. Therefore all religious activities in paradigm I have to be preceded by divination; how they should be performed is known by any socialised person, but details and time of the ritual depend on other factors. This is not the case with ~hw€. A Kapsiki decides for himself whether and when to use or threaten with sekwa, plant a stick with maketZaketZa in his sweet potato field, or search for and eventually use b€8h€~u. In this he is guided by the exigencies of everyday life, his knowledge of the medicines and his relations with his fellow-Kapsiki. There is no need to go to a blacksmith-diviner for that. But in the case of paradigm I, even if the starting date of the festival is fixed by a stable sequence of festivals held throughout the Kaps i ki teri tory as is the case with Za and ba, the 1 eadi n9 persons of the village or clan have to consult the diviner in order to ascertain the last details of the ritual. In all cases of paradigm I versus paradigm 11 this distinction is relevant: "surplus information needed"l"no further information needed". While this distinction conforms somewhat to a generally used distinction between religion and magie ("supplication to the willof higher beings"1 "automatic result following action"), the latter formulation does not suit the type of transformation from the dimensions of paradigm to those of paradigm 11. Automatism is not present. Moreover in each and every case th ere is a way out, and always an alternative interpretation to give: e.g., the ulcers thought to result from theft of property protected by ~hwe~edZ€a can also be caused by drinking from a specific part of the beer of the ~hwe~edZ€a owner. Information remains highly ambiguous; nevertheless there is no divination. The relevant distinction lies in the frequency of the situations calling for religious action; in the cases of paradigm 11 this frequency is much ~igher than in the first instanees. The Kapsiki uses ~hw€ in those problem situations deemed normal, which

OF EVERYDAY LIFE 67

he encounters of ten, perhaps dai1y. He expects his fellow men to stea1 his crops, forget their debts and he is a1ways aware of the danger of fighting, carrying his ba~a a1ways on his body. Divination is reserved for those occasions in which his everyday experience is not sufficient -- viz. for those prob1ems not encountered dai1y: All cyclical rites ca11 for divination and cluster under the geske. The prob1ems to be solved here are of a much more latent character than those attacked by rhwe: worries over women, chi1dren, crops and general hea1th are long-range prob1ems to which the geske address themse1ves. As many rites in both domains are private, done by a sma11 in-group, the distinction between communa1 rites and private rites which is not relevant, shou1d be rep1aced by "religion for special situations"/"re1igion for normal situations" or "religion for short-range manifest prob1ems"/"re1igion for long range latent prob1ems". Rhwe is everyday re1igion, the common-p1ace re1igion embodying a high1y pragmatic aspect that is an integra1 part of any living re1igion. This prob1em-so1ving aspect is under1ined by the fact that the range of rhwe is wider than the traditional view of magic: rhwe i ncorporates medi ci na 1 app 1 i cati ons as we 11 as "supernatura 1 " ones, many items for the sett1ement of debts and protection against the i nfri ngements on "sacred pri vacy": i. e., those si tuat i ons whi ch, though occurring frequent1y, are considered as rea1 prob1ems in Kapsiki society.

5. CONCLUSION

We have ana1ysed the ritua1 activities in Kapsiki re1igion which fa11 into two categories. Both were "emic" units and the interna1 organisation of the two groups of action-terms showed considerab1e resemb1ances. The first group consisted of those ritua1s forming the core of most descriptions of re1igion: cyclical rites, "rites de passage", etc. The second group rough1y corresponds to the usua1 conception of magica1 rites. However, an activity such as cursing, not c1assed under magica1 terms, can be considered as more or 1ess "magica1" in content; in Goode's summary of characterics of magic (1951: 53-54) it fits in quite easi1y, having a specific goal, individua1 ends and a situation wherein the performer decides wh en and whether to carry out the ritua1. 4) Returning to the general prob1em posed under 1 and 2, we have to eva1uate what this ethnoscience ana1ysis has taught us about the concepts of re1igion and magic.

W. E. A. VAN BEEK
The 1exica1 subdomains divide the semantic field of re1igion in a slight1y different way from what the concept of magie wou1d have done. But this difference can be accounted for. Under certain conditions, one can ho1d that the concept of magie has emic properties, i.e. the division made by the concept of magie is a relevant one, if some fie1ds norma11y exc1uded from re1igion are seen as a part of the same semantic field, i.e. medicina1 and 1ega1 processes. However, the specific content and interpretation of magie are a different point. The forma1 ana1ysis has yie1ded some hypotheses about the specific content of Kapsiki magie, which can be tested in other cu1tura1 settings. Dur ana1ysis showed that magie and re1igion not on1y be10ng to the same semantic domain but that "magie" presents an irrmediate, pragmatic re1igious response to normal prob1em situations. Whereas "rel igion" in its narrower sense on1y pertains to specific situations with a much more latent prob1em content. Genera1ising from the ana1ysis one can state: Magie is commonp1ace re1igion, "the re1igion of the dirty hands", "religion of Monday". Dne significant distinction between the two fie1ds of action is the use of divination. Divination tends to be turned to in latent 10w-frequency prob1ems, viz. in those situations defined by the society as potentia1 prob1ems. "Magi cal" rites sol ve the everyday prob 1ems, anti ei pati ng and reacting on those behaviora1 responses of ones fellow men considered as normal. One of the bias factors in the study of re1igion has been the insistence on extraordinary behavior, and --in magie --a focus on quite extreme cases. In a way this has been a survival of the old "curiosa" heritage of anthropo10gy. Students of re1igion have tended to neg1ect the study of everyday phenomena in human 1ife. Though the view of re1igion and magie as a continuum has been a step forward (Goode 1951: 53, Norbeek 1961: 35) it still is mis1eading as it ho1ds magie to be a margina1 case of re1igion, whi1e in socia1 1ife it is one of the central phenomena. Af ter all, man has to live every day, so commonplace behavior is not trivia1 at all for a science of man.

OF EVERYDAY LIFE 69

NOTES

1. The tendency to isolate the scho1ar's c1assification as units of research is most marked in the worked of the phenomeno10gists. The ta"le of contents of van der Leeuw's "Phaenomenologie der Re1igion" makes this c1ear: "Heiliges Wasser und Feuer; Die heilige Oberwe1t; Die heilige Mitwe1t; Die Tiere; Wille und Gesta1t; Die Gesta1t der Mutter" (van der Leeuw 1933 cited in van Baal 1971: 90).
2. The concepts of "emic" and "etic" have been deve10ped by Pike (Pike
   1954). It is coined from the terms phonemic and phonetic. Emic properties are intrinsic to the system as a system, diacritica11y functioning as specifiers of the interna11y va1id distinctions within the system. These properties are resu1ts of the ana1ysis and cannot be observed direct1y. "Etic" properties are observab1e for any outsider, and are not system specific. Thus phonetic elements (sound patterns) can be heard, taped and reproduced, whi1e phonemes function on1y in separating 1exemes with different semantic va1ues. They have no semantic value of their own, but mere1y serve to separate words. This function is called diacritical. Apart from the direct1y observab1e behavior, concepts and c1assif- acations that do not derive from the system under study are called "etic" too.
3. Research on the Kapsiki and Higi has been carried out from February 1972 through August 1973, and has been made possib1e by a grant from the Netherlands Foundation for the Advancement of Tropica1 Research (W 52-91). The name Kapsiki wi11 be used for both parts of the tribe. The notation of Kapsiki terms fo110ws the orthography set up by the joint a1phabetisation programs in the Kapsiki area.
4. The demarcation of the four major subdomains as presented has been made by a special field technique. One of my informants, Sini Kwada Heru, has performed a card sorting test on the relevant 1exemes. af ter first helping estab1ish the tota1 field of 1exemes associated with re1igion. Dubious categorisation has been checked with other informants, but this type of termino10gy presented few prob1ems in c1assification, and agreement was easi1y reached. This type of field technique is an example of the general tendency in ethnoscience to invo1ve the informants in the ana1ysis of the data.
5. The absence of Kapsiki blanket terms for the subdomains presents no prob1em as to their emic status. Analyses of folk taxonomies have shown that a taxonomy can contain many non-1abe11ed taxa, especia11y non-terminal taxa, i.e. in the higher levels of abstraction (Ber1in, Breedlove, & Raven 1968).
6. Goode's 11 characteristics of magica1 rites can be summarized in four major aspects (Goode 1951): -Goal: concrete, individua1 and eventua11y anti-socia1. -Attitude: manipu1ative, unemotiona1. -Roles: professional decides where, when and whether to carry out the ritua1. -Action: private1y, with a major concern for the technica1 side (in case of fai1ure another technique is tried).

W. E. A. VAN BEEK

REFERENCES

Baal, J. van 1960 "Magie als Godsdienstig Verschijnsel", inaugural lecture 17-10-1960, Amsterdam 1960. Citations are from the english version "Magie as a Religious Phenomenon" in Higher Eduaation and Researah in the Nethertands VII, 3/4, 1963, p. 10-21. Baal, J. van 1966 Dema. Description and anatysis of Marind-Anim auUure (South New Guinea). The Hague 1966. Rp.a 1, J. van *1971 Symbots for aommuniaation. An introduation to the anthropotogiaat* study of retigion. Assen 1971. Beek, W.E.A. van 1975 "Les Kapsi ki", Contributions anthropotogiques à t 'histoire du Cameroun, Annales du Centre National des Recherches Scientifiques, Paris 1975 (in press). Evans-Pritchard, E.E. *1956 Nuer Retigion,* Oxford University Press 1956. Berlin, B. Breedlove, N, & Raven, K. 1968 "Covert Categories and Folk Taxonomies" Ameriaan Anthropotogist 70: 290-299. Goode, W. *1951 Retigion among the primitives.* Glencoe, Free Press 1951. Pike, N.L. *1954 Language in Retation to a Unified Theory of the Struature of Human* Behavior, SIL 1954. Norbeek, E. *1961 Retigion in primitive society,* Harper & Brothers, New Vork.

Lévi-Strauss

Au praticien de 1 'analyse structurale, on pose presque toujours la même question : comrnent, dans la réalité, s'opèrent les transformations mythiques ? Vous alignez, dit-on, des mythes qui, d'une population à 1 'autre, se contrarient, s'inversent ou manifestent entre eux des rapports de symêtrie sur plusieurs axes. Ce tableau est impressionnant, mais, pour le croire véridique, on voudrait saisir aussi la façon dont ces relations abstraites naissent les unes des autres. Dans quelles conditions historique ou locales, sous quelles influences externes ou internes, en rép'inse à quelles motivations psychologiques ces renversements s'engendrent-ils dans l'esprit de narrateurs et d'auditeurs qui, à tous autres égards, fonctionne -peut-on supposer -de manière plus banale? En somme, on refuse d'entérinE un inventaire de structures parachevées, et sorties tout armées de 1 'esprit collectif. Car cet esprit collectif, poursuit-on, n'est qu'une fiction derrière laquelle s'agitent une multitude d'esprits individuels : en chacun de ces esprits, vos structures ont résulté de certains procès, et ce sont ces procès empiriques qu'il faudrait déployer pour que le vécu se dégage des constructions théoriques. Sinon, celles-ci risquent d'apparaitre comme le produit plus ou moins gratuit d'exercices logiaues qui doivent leur caractère persuasif à la seule virtuosité. Ainsi formulée, la question revient à celle des rapports entre 1 'analyse structurale et 1 'histoire. Entre des mythes distincts ou entre les versions d'un même mythe, l'analyste infère des connexions logiques dont il distribue les termes sur les noeuds d'un réseau ou sur les branches d'un arbre. Dans ces graphes, tels mythes ou variantes de mythe se voient reconnaitre une position dominante, d'autres subordonnée. Jusqu'à quel point et dans quelle mesure ces relations hiérarchiques impliquent-elles une succession temporelle ? Ou fait qu'un mythe semble dérivé d'un autre au point de vue logique, en résulte-t-il qu'il est apparu après lui? Et, dans ce cas, comment le passage s'est-il réellement produit ? Par delà 1 'histoire conjecturale et implicite à laquelle nous aurions recours si nous pvstulions

CLAUDE LEVI-STRAUSS que le tableau général des connexions logiques, permettant d'interpréter un ensemble de mythes, recouvre leur genèse de façon au moins approximative, on nous demande d'atteindre et de démonter les mécanismes concrets qui, sur le plan local et A un moment précis de 1 'histoire de chaque groupe, ont fonctionné ic1 et lA pour que, de leurs effets cumulés, résultent les synthèses auxquelles on nous reproche de tendre avec trop de précipitation. A ces objections, il serait légitime mais décevant de répondre que, chez des peuples sans écriture, cette histoire courte et localisée no us échappe par définition. Plutöt que de dresser un constat de carence, 1 'analyse structurale sera mieux inspirée en se tenant A l'affût des occasions, même rares, ou 1 'on peut documenter les conjonctures concrètes dans lesquelles une transformation mythique a vu le jour. C'est ce que nous voudrions tenter A propos d'un exemple américain emprunté A la famille linguistique (et, dans une large mesure aussi, culturelle) Salish, dont les représentants occupaient en Amérique septentrionale un territoire pratiquement continu depuis les montagnes Rocheuses jusqu'A la cOte du Pacifique, entre les 46e et 54e parallèles, soit une aire correspondant aux moitiés nord de 1 'Etat de Washington et sud de la Colombie britannique. La plupart des groupes salish de la cöte continentale et de 1 'fle Vancouver possédaient un seul type de masque, communément appelé swaihwé, dont 1 'aire de diffusion s'étendait vers 1 'intérieur jusqu'A 150 km. environ en amont du delta du fleuve Fraser. C'est d'ailleurs dans cette zone orientale que se situe probablement 1 'origine du masque. Diverses traditions le font provenir du groupe Tait ou "de 1 'amont", dernier représentant vers 1 'est de ceux parmi les Salish qui se dénomment collectivement Stalo, autrement dit les gens du fleuve (Duff 1952 : 11, 19, 123-126). Au nord, les Tait jouxtaient les Thompson, tribu salish de 1 'intérieur, qui ne possédaient pas le masque. Plus précisément, selon une précieuse indication de Teit (1912 : 273, n. 3) les Thompson du moyen Fraser (groupe Utamqt) qui entretenaient avec les Tait (1) des relations très cordiales, en avaient deux exemplaires, chacun propriété d'une famille pour partie originaire du delta. Elles les avaient reçus, dit Teit, A une époque récente dont ses plus vieux informateurs gardaient encore le souvenir. Pourtant, malgré la nouveauté relative et les circonstances très spéciales de cette double acquisition, les Thompson méridionaux connaissaient le mYthe d'origine du masque swaihwé et le racontaient presque dans les mémes termes que leurs voisins Stalo auxquels, d'ailleurs, leur version renvoie de manière explicite. En effet, les Thompson Utamqt font remonter l'origine du masque a une époque ou des groupes du delta résidaient en amont, tout près d 'eux.

D'UNE STRUCTURE 73

Selon cette version (Teit 1912 : 272-273) il y avait une fois, chez les Stalo, un garçon malade dont Ie corps était couvert d'enflures et qui, las de souffrir, décida de mettre fin a ses jourS. 11 erra sans but dans les montagnes, parvint au bord d'un lac et s'y jeta. 11 échoua sur Ie toit d'une maison qui était au fond de 1 'eau. Alertés par Ie bruit de sa chute, les habitants Ie firent entrer. Le hé ros vit d'abord une femme qui tenait un petit enfant; il cracha sur lui au passage et lui communiqua sa maladie. Ses hOtes, qui étaient des esprits aquatiques, convoquèrent un sorcier- guérisseur, mais celui-ci ne put guérir 1 'enfant. On fit alors appel au responsabIe qui, pensait-on, détenait un pouvoir magique. 11 consentit a soigner sa victime moyennant sa propre guérison par les esprits, et les deux cures réussirent. Au bout d'un certain temps, Ie héros souhaita rentrer chez lui. On Ie conduisit a 1 'air libre par un souterrain plein d'eau mais qui se retirait devait ses guides, et on lui promit une récompense pour les soins donnés a 1 'enfant. Le héros regagna son village et se fit reconnaitre des siens. Le lendemain, il alla a la rencontre du peuple du lac pour recevoir Ie prix de ses services. Ce fut un masque, dont la description correspord en tous pOints a celle du masque swaihwé. L'homme exhiba Ie masque en dönsant dans les f~tes, et il devint un important personnage. Le masque passa a ses enfants, puis a leurs descendants, comme un privilège de lignée. Toutefois, un descendant se maria chez les gens de Spuzzum (en territoire thompson) dont les enfants acquirent aussi Ie droit au masque. Or, dans la méme section de la tribu Thompson, celle des Utamqt méridionaux, on trouve un mythe sur 1 'origine d'un masque dont, contrairement a 1 'autre, 1 'existence n'est nulle part attestée chez les Stalo. En fait de masque, on ne connait a ceux-ci que Ie swaihwé. Et cependant, Ie mythe thompson appelle ce masque tsatsa'kwé, mot qui proviendrait des langues du delta avec Ie sens de "poisson" ou "saumon" (Teit 1912; 273, n. 4) De plus, ce mythe d'origine (ibid. : 273-274) se déroule près de Vale, au pays Tait, et il met en scène des personnages de cette tribu. 11 y avait la, raconte Ie mythe, une fillette si désobéissante qu'un jour ses parents excédés la battirent, 1 'aspergèrent d'urine et la chassèrent. Un oncle la recueillit et la cacha. Ses parents, pris de remords, la cherchèrent en vain. Accablée par la méchanceté des siens et humiliée des traitements subis, la fillette résolut de se suicider. Après avoir erré dans les montagnes, elle arriva près d'un lac ou nageaient de nombreux poissons. Elle s'assit pour les contempIer; sous ses yeux, ils se changèrent en petits enfants dotés d'une longue chevelure, qui venaient a la surface de 1 'eau pour lui sourire. lIs étaient si charmants et semblaient si heureux qu'elle eut envie de les rejoindre,

CLAUDE LEVI-STRAUSS

et e11e se précipita dans les f1ots.

Aussitöt, 1e vent se 1eva en tempête, dévastant 1e pays et détruisant la demeure de ses parents. L'hérol'ne constata que son corps ne pouvait cou1er; rejetée par 1 'eau, e1le prit pied sur la berge. Au même instant, 1e vent s'apaisa. Dans 1e 1ac, e11e ne voyait plus rien ni personne. Mais e11e était devenue la maltresse du vent. E11e retourna au village, se maria et eut beaucoup d'enfants. Son histoire appartint désormais A sa fami11e et à ses descendants, qui scu1ptèrent des masques représentant les esprits tsatsa'kwé. Certains descendants possédaient de naissance ou héritèrent la maltrise du vent: i1s pouvaient le déchalner à leur gré. Teit déc1are tenir ce récit d'un viei11ard qui n'était qu'à moitié thompson et qui 1 'avait 1ui-même reçu de ses ancétres de Vale. A Spuzzum, parmi les Thompson, i1 avait seu1 droit à porter 1e masque, mais partageait ce droit avec ses parents de Vale. Voilà donc deux traditions recueillies chez les Thompson, qui renvoient 1 'une et 1 'autre à 1eurs voisins. La première concerne 1e masque swaihwé, bien attesté dans les groupes du moyen et du bas Fraser ou i1 existe encore aujourd'hui; les musées en possèdent de nombreux spécimens anciens ou contemporains. On connalt aussi p1usieurs versions du mythe d'origine recue·il1ies dans les mémes groupes; à quelques détai1s près, e11es sont semblab1es à ce1le des Thompson, qui la leur ont manifestement empruntée. En revanche, chez les Stalo, aucun objet, aucune tradition mythique ne suggère 1 'existence de 1 'autre type de masque que seu1s narrateurs du mythe d'origine, les Thompson sont aussi seuls à leur attribuer. 11 serait surprenant qu'un témoignage étranger, au demeurant unique, pût étab1ir la présence d'un trait cu1ture1 dans une population. On est p1utöt tenté d'invoquer une innovation locale, apparue dans une zone de contact et d'échanges très intenses entre des peup1es voisins; comme si, sur cette frontière ou 1 'usage du premier masque se perd, on avait vou1u compenser cet affaib1issement en créant ou en imaginant un nouveau masque, tout à la fois pareil et différent. Ce masque a peut-étre existé, mais aucun exemplaire n'est parvenu jusqu'A nous. On ne saurait donc écarter d'emb1ée une autre hypothèse : que 1 'énigmatique masque tsatsa'kwé ne soit simp1ement 1e swaihwé, rebaptisé, pour les besoins de la cause, par une 1ignée qui 1 'aurait adopté en inversant son mYthe d'origine et sa fonction ritue11e. En ce cas, la solution de continuité si bizarre que 1e mythe introduit entre le retrait des esprits aquatiques et la création du masque trouverait sa raison d'étre du fait de 1 'inversion génératrice du second mythe, qui s'étend au portrait que ce1ui-ci trace des esprits aquatiques, le masque et les esprits ne se ressemb1eraient plus. On comprendrait a10rs que 1e nouveau mythe préférät retarder la fabrication du masque et la confier à des descendants de

D'UNE STRUCTURE 75 l'héroïne, dispensés de travailIer sur Ie vif. Mais, dans l'une et l'autre hypothêse, Ie masque swaihwé tel qu'il existe chez les Stalo conserve une priorité absolue. En effet, que Ie tsatsa'k~é diffêre en nature du swaihwé ou qu'il en soit seulement 1 'écho, son caractêre dérivé résulte indubitablement de 1 'origine mythique qu'on lui prête et de la fonction rituelle qu'on lui assigne. Commençons cette démonstration par Ie mythe. 11 se déroule en gros comme celui sur 1 'origine de 1 'autre masque. Dans les deux cas, on nous parle d'un enfant mêprisé qui veut se noyer dans un lac. Sa tentative 1 'amêne auprês d'esprits aquatiques qui lui confêrent des pouvoirs magiques symbolisés par un masque. En outre, Ie tsatsa'kwé est, comme son nom l'indique, un masque-poisson. Or, les versions st~lo du mythe d'origine du swaihwé sont pratiquement unanimes à dire Qu'il fut pêché à la ligne; et certains exemplaires portent même 1 'effigie d'un poisson (Sydow : pl. 18). Les deux mythes ont donc une architecture commune; mais, dês qu'on les examine en détail, on constate qu'ils s'opposent de façon systématique. Dans 1 'un, 1 'enfant est un ga~on; c'est une fille dans 1 'autre. Le garçon est affligé d'une tare physique : la maladie; la fille, d'une tare morale la désobéissance. Lui est souillé par Ie dedans, en raison du mal qui Ie ronge; elle par Ie dehors, quand on 1 'asperge d'urine. Chassée par ses parents -alors que son homologue masculin fuit volontairement les siens-la jeune fille trouve aide et protection chez son oncle, parent masculin or, la plupart des versions stalo flanquent Ie héros d'une soeur dont il obtient 1 'assistance. Dans ces versions, les esprits aquatiques font figure d'ancêtres, notamment quand Ie héros épouse une de leurs filles et fonde une lignée; et les masques sont effectivement des ancêtres dans les versions de I 'ile Vancouver (qui ont avec cel les de la cOte continentale des rapports três étroits, étudiés par nous en détail dans un livre promis à une publication prochaine). Au contraire, les esprits tsatsa'kwé sont des tout petits enfants; et, tandis que des plumes, dressées "en guise de cheveux" dit la version thompson, ornent Ie masque swaihwé, les enfants tsatsa'kwé ont de longues chevelures pendantes -noires peut-on supposer compte tenu du physique amêrindien, et non blanches comme les plumes (de cygne, précise la version thompson) de 1 'autre masque. Dans les mythes d'origine du swaihwé, Ie héros est englouti par l'eau; dans Ie mythe d'origine du tsatsa 'kwé, cette même eau rejette I' héroïne, qui, rentrée au vi 11 age, se marie sur place (car Ie masque restera, à Vale méme, la propriété de ses descendants) en double opposition, donc, avec les mythes stalo du swaihwé 00 ce n'est pas Ie protagoniste principal -alors male -qui se marie, mais sa soeur; et non pas au village, mais dans un groupe étranger.

CLAUDE LEVI-STRAUSS On voit que les deux types de mythes sont en rapports de corré1ation et d'opposition; i1 en est de même pour les fonctions ritue11es assignées aux deux masques. Depuis les groupes sa1ish de 1 'i1e Vancouver et de la cOte jusqu'aux Kwakiut1 méridionaux (qui, sous 1e nom de xwéxwé, leur ont emprunté 1e masque) le swaihwé est associé aux séismes que ses danseurs ont 1e pouvoir de déc1encher (Curtis 1913 : 37. Boas 1895 : 497, 516; 1909 : pl. 49, fig. 5). Par 1à, et par 1à seu1ement, peut s'exp1iquer 1e pouvoir sur 1e vent attribué aux possesseurs du masque tsatsa'kwé. Séisme et vent s'opposent, puisque 1 'un re1ève de la terre, 1 'autre de 1 'air; mais ils sont homo1ogues par rapport à ces éléments dont i1s traduisent la commune instabi1ité. Dans 1 'ordre atmosphérique, la maîtresse du vent fait pendant au maître des séismes dans 1 'ordre te1lurique. Inféré sur 1e mode hypothético-déductif, ce double rapport de corré1ation et d'opposition entre vent et séisme peut être confirmé par une voie plus directe. Les Sa1ish de 1 'intérieur, notamment les Thompson, et les Be11a Coola (aussi des Salish, mais isolés de leurs congénères après une ancienne migration) imaginent 1e cie1 comme un pays plat, sans re1ief ni végétation arbustive, et perpétue11ement balayé par le vent (Teit 1898 : 22. Boas 1900:

28). Ils mettent donc en opposition majeure 1e monde cé1este, caractérisé par sa platitude, et le monde terrestre oû, au contraire et comme la géographie de leur pays 1 'atteste, prévaut un relief tourmenté. La même opposition entre ces faciès morpho1ogiques existe aussi chez les Sa1ish de la cöte, mais restreinte au monde terrestre dont e11e définit les aspects : terre p1ate et marécageuse d'une part, de 1 'autre re1ief plissé. Or, si dans la première conception, 1e vent est un attribut du cie1 plat, dans la seconde, 1e re1ief plissé, opposé au terrain dépourvu d'accidents nature1s, est un résu1tat des séismes. Des mythes explicitent cette re1ation : une femme et sa fi11e s'y transforment 1 'une en marécage, 1 'autre en séisme; et i1 est dit de ce11e-ci qu' "e11e pouvait modifier la surface de la terre, la plisser" (Adamson 1934 : 160, 172, 175). D'oû i1 résulte que, dans la pensée sa1ish, vent et séisme sont bien en opposition diamétra1e, comme 1e sont aussi pour e11e 1 'absence et la présence de re1ief qui caractérisent respectivement le monde d'en haut et le monde d'en bas. Par ce biais, nous retrouvons la conc1usion à 1aque11e nous étions parvenu après avoir analysé, d'un point de vue fo rme 1, la transformation dont les mythes des masques swaihwé et tsatsa'kwé i11ustrent chacun un état. Examinons maintenant un dernier point. Se10n les vieux informateurs de Teit, 1 'entrée du masque swaihwé chez les Thompson se serait produite de leur vivant (supra, p.3) c'est-à-dire au plus töt dans la première moitié du XIXe sièc1e. Nous croyons avoir étab1i que 1e mythe d'origine du masque

D'UNE STRUCTURE 77

tsatsa'kwé dérive du mythe d'origine du swaihwé, emprunté par les Thompson aux Sta10 avec ce masque. 11 faut donc que 1e mythe du tsatsa'kwé ait été é1aboré sur p1acc postérieurement a cet emprunt. Par conséquent, on aurait la un exemp1e particu1ièrement net d'un mythe recuei11i cinquante ans au plus après avoir été engendré par transformation : conjoncture historique assez récente pour qu'on puisse non seu1ement la restituer, mais saisir les mécanismes qui ont déc1enché toute 1 'opération. En de telles matières, i1 convient cependant d'être prudent. Les témoignages indigènes dont on dispose sur la diffusion du swaiwhé suggèrent tous que 1e masque, parti du moyen Fraser, arriva sur la cóte dans 1e dernier quart du XVIIIe siêc1e (Duff 1952 : 123-126). Les diverses chronologies convergent, mais convient-i1 de leur faire un entier crédit E11es sont, à notre avis, aussi sujettes a caution que les indications géographiques données par les mêmes informateurs quand, en relatant leur version du mythe d'origine, i1s précisent oü 1 'ancêtre dont chacun se réc1ame pêcha 1e premier masque : Burrard InZet (a la base du delta) dit 1 'un, 1e 1ac Kawkawa (près de Hope) dit un autre, 1e 1ac Harrison (a mi chemin) pour un troisième ... Au cours d'une conversation avec un informatel nous avons nous-même été frappé de 1 'entendre fonder son droit au masque sur une filiation aussi courte et directe que possible avec un premier détenteur; mais, du même coup, 1e 1ieu oü ce1ui-ci obtint 'le masque change, et, par un curieux hasard, i1 se situe toujours a proximité. Que ce soit dans l'ordre spatia1 ou dans 1 'ordre temporel, chacune des fami11es qui revendiquent un droit sur 1e masque en met 1 'origine au plus près; de façon paradoxale, les 1ieux géographiques se mu1tip1ient en même que les généa10gies racourcissent. Or si, comme tout 1 'indique, 1e masque s'est diffusé a partir d'un seu1 point d'origine, i1 ne peut être apparu pour la première fois en p1usieurs. Les 10ca1isations proposées semb1ent donc irrecevab1es, mais i1 n'en résu1te pas que les généalogies retracées soient fausses : chacune peut constituer un embranchement d'une génêa10gie plus 10ngue, tronc commun dont 1e souvenir s'est perdu a cause de son antiquité, ou qu'on s'est empressé d'oub1ier parce qu'i1 donnerait de la consistance a des droits concurrents de ceux qu'on fait valoir en priorité. Même en tenant compte d'ob1itérations probab1es, les mécanismes par 1esque1s un certain type de masque s'est répandu sur un vaste territoire par héritage, mariage, conquéte ou emprunt restent visib1es. On peut donc voir aussi comment, articu1és avec aux, d'autres mécanismes inversent 1 'image du premier masque la oü, avant de s'interrompre, sa propagation perd de 1 'é1an. L'exemp1e que nous avons brièvement discuté, pour rendre hommage a un savant qui n'a jamais pensé que 1 'analyse structura1e et les

100) montre au moins comment une transformation mythique pourrait s'engendrer dans les faits.
1) On ne confondra pas le nom de J.A. Teit, notre meilleure autorité sur les Thompson, et celui des Tait, voisins des Thompson sur le moyen Fraser.

OUVRAGES CITES

Adamson, T. 1934 "Folk-Tales of the Coast Salish", Memoirs of the American FolkLore Society, XXVII. Baal, J. van 1971 Symbols for Communication. An Introduction to the Anthropological Study of Religion, Assen. Boas, F. 1895 "The Social Organization and the Secret Societies of the Kwakiutl Indians", Reports of the u.s. National Museum. 1900 "The Mythology of the Bella Coola", Memoirs of the American Museum of Natural History, 11. 1909 "The Kwakiutl of Vancouver Island", Memoirs of the American Museum of Natural History, VIII. Curtis, E.S. 1913 The North American Indian, 20 vol., (1907-1930), vol. IX, Norwood. Duff, W. 1952 "The Upper Stalo Indians of the Fraser Valley, British Columbia", Anthropology in British Columbia, Memoir No. 1 (Reprinted by Indian Education Resources Centre, University of British Columbia, 1972). Sydow, E. van 1924 Ahnenkult und Ahnenbild der Naturvölker, Berlin. Teit, J.A. 1898 "Traditions of the Thompson River Indians". Memoirs of the American Folk-Lore society, VI. 1912 "'~ythology of the Thompson Indians", Memoirs of the American Museum f Natural History, XII.

HISTORY: A NEW GUINEA CASE STUDY

Jan Pouwer

1. INTRODUCTION This paper picks up the threads of argument where I left them in my article on the structural-configurational approach (Pouwer 1974: 238-255). I then said: "The study of structural history, that is basically the history of the succession of varying configurations of structuring principles in their dialectic interaction with the stream
   of signified events, has barely begun. It .... is logically possible
   because history and structure can be seen as 'going together', since the two of them are united in that they can only be known by way of signification. In terms of signification the distinction between the order of events, and the order of structure is only an ana lyti c one" (Rossi, 1974: 253). Let me point up and elaborate on this fairly cryptic statement.

Structure is to history what text is to context. I use 'text' in the sense given to it by Boon in his remarkable book Prom SymboZism to StruaturaZism (1972: 10): "I call a 'text' any body of data in any sorts of units**--**sounds played, phones uttered, acts effected, colors applied, senten ces writ, stars contemplated, geographical features surveyed etc.-- which smacks of systematization, given an obsel'Vel'''. Context may be defined as signified contingency. As the terms themselves suggest, text and context are complementary. In other words they are relational entities, given an observer and/or participant; they define each other and should not be defined intrinsically. That which is text in one complementary set, may be context in another. E.g. a myth may function as context, as signified contingency of the 'text' of a ritual. On the other hand, a ritual may provide the context of a myth, for instance wh en a myth is told during an inititation ceremony. There is neither a given and inherent text-ness nor a given and inherent context-ness.

POUWER 81

By structure I mean a non-contingent arrangement of signs, a configuration of complements rather than a correlation of elements.

By history or social process I mean a flux of chance-events subjected to signification by the members of a society. In other words, history 'happens' on the borderline between chance-events and non-chance, non-contingent structure.

The common denominator of text and context, of structure and history, is signification. By 'signification' I mean a process which relates the image of a thing to that which the image of a thing stands for. Please note that 'signification' has two components, not one; in that respect it differs from the monistic concept of 'meaning'. The process of signification is generated in turn by the process of articulation. Articulation has been described by the semiologist Barthes, following de Saussure, as a simultaneous act of cutting up and joining " •..• de Saussure used the analogy of a sheet of paper: if we cut out shapes in it, on the one hand we get various pieces (A,B,C,) each of which has a value in relation to its neighbours, and, on the other, each of these pieces has a recto and a verso whiah have been (JUt out at the 8cme time (A-A', B-B', C-C'): this is the signification"(Barthes 1969: 56, writer's emphasis). The mental, verbal and/or nonverbal process of articulation generates three relationships (see Barthes 1972: 205-206):

the symbolic one: the relationship between signifier and signified. 1 the paradigmatic one: the relationship of one sign in its relative position to other signs in a system (limited). the syntagmatic one: a chain of signs projected on a particular time and a particular space in a particular discourse, that is in a 'text without end' (non-limited).

The important thing to note is, that these relationships are all generated at once, and are complementary. There cannot be a sign (a relationship between signifier and signified) without a system, that is positional relationship of signs. But also: there cannot be a system without it being projected on particular time and space. Or rather, we cannot know a system unless it is expressed in space and time.

It is important to realize that the very expression of system in space and time feeds back on it, just like the very material used by an artist effects the pattern of his art. On the other hand, the pattern of art affects the material; it might lead to a search or even a construction of material which allows for an adequate expression of the pattern.

STRUCTURAL HISTORY In a similar vein, man constructs or rather re-constructs space and time. Time may be perceived by particular people or in particular situations as linear or as cyclical or as a combination of the two. The space-pattern of a house may reflect a social organisation or a cosmology.

The relationship between the paradigmatic and syntagmatic sets of signs is a dialectical one, comparable with the relationship between tangue (system) and parote (speech).2 Langue and parote, paradigmatic and syntagmatic relations, are complementary, which implies that neither part of the set can be reduced to the other. De Saussure tended to reduce speech to tangue by conceiving of parote as a mere execution of tangue (see Barthes 1969: 18, 34). Similarly, Lêvi-Strauss tends to reduce the discourse, the syntagmatic relationships, the chain of speech in myth to the paradigmatic ones by summarising his analysis in sets of oppositions and transformations, such as high/lew, raw/cooked, underrating/overrating of kinship; or he sums up by way of equations: a:b :: c:d.

In my opinion, we should respect under all circumstances the 'Holy Trinity' of symbolic, paradigmatic and syntagmatic relations generated by the process of articulation. There is no point in separating semantics from formal structure since we canr.ot study substance and meaning without studying form and structure. A monistic study of meaning such as embodied in the study of the meaning of meanings, would lead us into a limbo of meanings, into Turner's Forest of Symbols (Turner, 1967). Similarly, it is incorrect (and even impossible) to study paradigmatic relations, system and structure without taking into account syntagmatic relations, process, history or story.

There might be a difference in emphasis. The advent of structuralism was marked by a shift in emphasis from symbolic to paradigmatic relations (see Barthes 1972: 206). Similarly, the advent of structural history, a concept coined by Lêvi-Strauss in his inaugural address, The Scope of Anthropotogy (1967: 27), is or will be marked by a shift in emphasis from paradigmatic to syntagmatic relations. However, the three relations must go together in any analysis of text and context and cannot be reduced one to the other.

2. MYTH AND THE 'HOLY TRINITY' OF ARTICULATION. Our 'text' for this paper is a myth of Mimika (West New Guinea). The purpose of our exercise is to demonstrate the dialectical

1 mean any text (800n 1972) that can be considered a manifestation here and now of the universal logic of 'la pensée concrète' (see Lévi-Strauss, 1966, Ch.l) and that functions as a religious device. Religion may be defined as a system of signs of man-in-society which enables him by virtue of an act of faith to communicate with the incommunicable, know the unknowable, control the uncontrollable and to identify with the unidentifiable. In terms of this definition, myth may be a narrative but also a non-narrative: a song, a musical composition, a piece of art, etc., provided th at it embodies 'la pensée concr~te'. Abstract dogmas and ideologies are not myths in this sense.

It is the purpose of this definition to make paradox, ambiguity and ambivalence the cornerstone of myth and religion. A myth reflects and may justify everyday life as the versions of the Mimika myth so eloquently demonstrate; at the same time and of ten by the same sign, mYth transcends everyday experience. Religion is at once a matter of immediate and of ultimate concern. A myth denotes in a sometime~ graphic manner, but it also has elaborate, rich and subtle connotations. In their denotations and connotations myth and religion have and reveal system. Vet man is equally prone to contradict and change system in an ongoing process of doubting and gaining certainty in the sense given to it by the biologist Young 3 (1960: 11) by virtue of his potential for imagination, that is "the ht.:,l1d~' Îac:"lty of operating in the mind with images of things which are not rresent to tbe senses"4(8ronowski 1967: 78). The four versions of the Mimika myth are impressive evidence of the narrators capacity for imagj~il.tion ~nd innovation. I witnessed and even contributed unknowingly to myth making.

The amazing vitality and flexibility displayed by this myth and many other Paouan myths contrast sharply with the conservat.ive and dogmatic nature of Christian myths, in the eye of some beholders, that is. It seems as if the Mimika people have met the challenge of history much more successfully than many orthodox or fundamentalist Christians, who still find it extremely hard to cope, for instance, with scientific theories of evolution thrust upon them. Though the Old Testament creation myths (Genesis 1 and 2) are themselves a masterful Jewish bricolage of Mesopotamian and Summerian myths, thou shalt take it literally or leave it: Becoming conversant with Mimika myth and religion is a humbling experience indeed.

HISTORY

Meanwhile I could imagine that some readers are inclined to question the value of an analysis of myth per se for a dialogue between the history of historians (including Marxist) on one hand, and structural anthropology on the other. Is Lêvi-Strauss not right in claiming that the world of mythology is round (Lêvi-Strauss 1973: 13)? If this is the case, th en myth 'solves' or rather circumvents the problem of history, by the very act of assimilating and incorporating it. Myth seems to execute history by swallowing it. Or to reverse the metaphor by putting it in a Saussurean perspective: If the world of myth is round, does it not follow that history is simply an execution of myth, like paroZe was said to be an execution of Zangue? My answer would be : Yes and No.

Yes: In its paradigmatic dimension the world of myth is round. From this angle, there is no beginning and no end; or, rather, beginning and end are irrelevant. For instance, Jesus said: "Verily, verily, I say unto you, Before Abraham was, lam" (John 8: 58). That is: Jesus i sin the Christian myth a spaceless, timeless, panchronic or achronic mediator of the opposition between Creator and created. The God and the Angel of the Revelation of John proclaim: "I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last" (Revelation 21: 6 and 22: 13). In other words, God and the Angel do not even mediate between first and last, beginning and end, they identify with the two polar terms. The distinction between first and last, beginning and end, is irrelevant and in a sense even non-existent.

No: In terms of the syntagm of myth, time and space are the very condition of the syntagmatic chain of signified events. Jesus came to earth at a particular point in time. He was born out of a particular woman. He was Jesus of Nazareth, a particular social space with a particular connotation: what one can expect from a man of Nazareth. He lived among and with his fellowmen and was killed by them. He left the earth and will come back when the trumpets shall sound: Jesus of the syntagmatic chain, the historical Jesus. The sign Jesus on the paradigmatic and the syntagmatic plane yields the fundamental Christian paradox: "Thy Kingdom is. Thy Kingdom cOIllé." This paradox constitutes the very dynamics of the Christian faith. It keeps faith on the move; Christ is, hence will come; He will come, hence He is.

Now I realize that non-believers might not be convinced. They still might maintain that the Christian myth executes history by swallowing

CULTURAL CONTEXT OF THE MIMIKA MYTH

The geographical boundaries of the fairly homogeneous Mimika culture in southwest Irian Barat (West New Guinea) are the Otokwa river in the east and Etna Bay in the west. There are many similarities with the Asmat culture east of the Otokwa but not so many with cultures west of Etna Bay. The people live in the lowlands which fan out from the northwest to the southeast. The area is a vast swamp, traversed by numerou~, ti dal creeks, and swamp as well as mountain rivers. The landscape is continuously changing, due to the strong maritime currents, the movements of the tides and the rivers which destroy everything in their path. Many settlements along the river have had to be moved to new sites from time to time because of changes in the shoreline.

Along a coastline of approximately 300 kilometres lives a population of approximately 8,600 settled in 31 villages. Formerly there were 47 mini- tribes or (if you like) parishes scattered over the entire area but oriented toward particular rivers. Each tribe had its own territory, name and esprit de corps. There is no native name for the region as a whole. Each tribe had one or more semi-permanent settlements, usually situated midway between the numerous temporary settlements upstream near the sago grounds on one hand, and the temporary settlements near the fishing grounds downstream or on the coastline on the other. The settlements are now mainly concentrated in villages by the shore. In a number of cases more than one former parish lives in one village.

Everyday life of the Mimika consists in moving up and down between the sago grounds upstream and the fishing grounds downstream. This cycle is part of a more comprehensive cyele of elaborate rituals. There is a rieh variety of myths and versions of myths. Quite a number of myths are

STRUCTURAL HISTORY

connected with the rituals, though not necessarily on a one-to-one basis.

The interpersonal and inter-group relationships are expressed in the idiom of kinship and exchange by marriage. Not only selected bio- logical ties, but also adoption, friendship, partnership by trade, common residence or tri bal affiliation are grounds for kinship. The multiple grounds for kinship and alliance militate against a situation of clearly demarcated kin groups and units of exchange. Genealogies are shallow. Descent is matri-ambilineal (if one wishes to use this label), which denotes surface rather than deep structure. Marriage is ambi-local with an emphasis on matri-uxorilocality. A striking feature is the difference in status between kin and affines. Another salient feature is the emphasis on horizontal ties rather than on vertical relationships. Relative age is an important criterion for social differentiation and distinction.

The principle of reciprocity discussed in a separate chapter of my thesis (Pouwer, 1955: 161-211) is manifest in a rich variety of social behaviour and ideas, covering all aspects of Mimika culture. It finds expression in a considerable number of modalities of exchange. Exchange clearly functions as a total social fact (Mauss). The multiple meanings of the Mimika term for reciprocity, aopao, are a case in point. Aopao stands for counter-service, counter-gift, counter-song, counter-myth, counter-ritual, word in return, women in return for a woman given in marriage, revenge, retaliation: it is a relationship between things. Kinship can be analysed as a modality of exchange. So can marriage. Dual organisation is a third modality of exchange. It finds expression in village layouts, the spatial pattern of land tenure, the organisation of ritual and the genesis and structure of the cosmos. 6

The foreign agencies of trade, mission and government entered Mimika from the west. Indonesian traders visited Etna 8ay and West Mimika as early as 1800. There was a temporary settlement of Ceram (Eastern Indonesian) traders in Uta in 1828. Mimika, especially Mimika west of its administrative centre Kaokonao, was already exposed to foreign influences years before the Roman Catholic Mission and the Dutch Colonial Administration and Chinese traders established stations in 1926 and 1927.

Virtually all Mimika people are members of the Roman Catholic Church. Primary education is thoroughly established in all villages. Secondary education is well along. The greater part of the schools are controlled by the Roman Catholic Church.

POUWER 87

4. ANALYSIS OF THE TEXT I refer to the appendices and to the diagram. Please read the text carefully before digesting the analysis. Our,main analytical tools are:

5. The notion of sign, the lynchpin of a semiological approach. A sign is the union of d ~ignifier and a signified (de Saussure, af ter Barthes 1969: 38), arelation between the relata (Barthes 1969: 35). The signifier is the image of something or some act accessible to our senses, be it audible or visual, touchable or olfactory or a combination oç these features. The signified is the concept which the signifier stands for. The crucial importance of the notion of sign is th at it unites the external and the internal dimensions of reality and that it makes the analysis of meaning part and parcel of the analysis of system. Meaning in this framework is synonymous with signification. A few illustrations taken from the myth may demonstrate our use of 'sign': audible: sr: imuu (a combination of phonemes)
   sd: downstream, seaward, lower, south, west visual, touchable and olfactory: sr: fish (Mimika: epeka) sd: a 'bien social', the equivalent of a prese1t, a gift; not a commodity. sr: osprey sd: 'boy' an act sr: a man who limps sd: a deviant man

6. The sign as arelation between two relata within a sign in turn only exists by virtue of a relationship between signs. Here we reach the papadigm, an arrangement of signs which makes for system by way of relating sets of signs. Please note that on the paradigmatic plane there are again two relata, i.e. the components of a set and the sets as components. Example: (see diagram under A): components of a set
   sets imuu vs kapao as female vs male components ancestors vs descendants

In order for sets to constitute a system it is imperative th at there be evidence for a relationship between sets. It may be noted in passing that an individual set is frequently though not necessarily a binary one. It mayalso be triadic e.g., Holy Trinity or Lévi-Strauss' culinary triangle of raw, cooked and rotten (Lévi-Strauss 1965: 28).

3. The sets of related sets which make for system constitute the supporting structure on which thc syntagmatic chain draws as it proceeds.

STRUCTURAL HISTORY

As noted earl ier, the syntagmatic chain is a combination of signs which has space and time as its support. Syntagmatic chain relates to a paradigm as the steps of astaircase relate to its supporting structure. The staircase cannot proceed without drawing on its supporting structure. For an example consider the progression of the syntagmatic chain presented in the diagram from sequence a to d. This progression is only possible because it draws on the paradigmatic sets 1 through 4.

would like to emphasize that neither space nor time is an independent and absolute variable. Space and time are signified in a partucular society in a particular way. They are built-in features of the paradigm. That is why we said that both the paradigm as well as space and time are supporting structures without which the 'staircase' of the syntagmatic chain cannot procr.ed. This point of view implies that space and time are neither independent external variables nor merely abstract mental categories. Like all other components of the paradigm and the discourse they are signs, and as such ~ave concrete signifiers as well as abstraèt signifieds.

In this myth social space is signified by the paradigmatic set of i~~u-kapao whereas social time is signified by aopao, reciprocity.

One should be aware that aopao not only functions as a paradigmatic relation of prestation-counterprestatic'r" part-counterpart etc, but also as a syntagmatic one. What is more it even generates the chain of the syntagm. Sequences a to i in the diagram link up by means of progressing reciprocity.

By operating on the paradigmatic and the syntagmatic plane, the principle of reciprocity generates a genuine dialectical relationship between the two. One may conclude that reciprocity is the dynamic force of this myth. It propels the course of signified events, the history, the story.

The paradigmatic and syntagmatic nature of reciprocity has crucial consequences. Social time as signified by aopao is both reversible and irreversible. It is reversible in the order of the paradigm, it is irreversible in the order of the syntagm. In terms of reversible time the story has no beginning and no end, or rather beginning and end are ir'relevant. Reciprocity is the Alpha and Omega of this myth. Vet at the same time and by the same sign aopao triggers off the discourse,

One could write a fascinating ethno-history of Mimika with reciprocity as a major organizing principle. A few examples may suffice to demonstrate this claim.

In the beginning of the beginning man (wenata) and ghosts (mbi-wei) live together peacefully. They exchange women (aopao). However, a man kills his wife's ghost father, thereby commiting a major crime. This violation of aopao instigates death and war (Pouwer, 1955: 188).

4. In the myth of Mapurupiu (Wania district, East Mimika) called the Mimika Adam by my informants, the violation of the rule of reciprocity causes the death of human beings: Mapurupiu is stung to death by bees because he violates a taboo. He th en finds out that his wife remarried too quickly with his younger brother. This lack of respect for the dead has to be revenged (aopao). Mapurupiu has his wife and children killed by ghosts. The ghosts are paid for their services with secret goods (kata puPi, a term which also denotes Western commodities). Mapurupiu, the 'stinker', the dirty old man seduces women on his way upstream. Their relatives give chase. Mapurupiu removes a tree and disappears into the underworld (the Mimika equivalent for heaven) through a hole under the tree. The people find the hole but are unable to proceed to the underworld. Mapurupiu will not come back. In a moving ritual (tiPi-kata) I witnessed in the Wania district, the final part of the myth is dramatised. People try in vain to get hold of a man in a pit who impersonates Mapurupiu: communication with the culture hero who has the secret of eternal life and of bliss fail s. It is quite significant that this myth and ritual were the take- off points for a number of cargocults in the mid-fifties (Coenen 1963: 103-05). These cargocults are not an 'execution' of myth since a number of myths dealing with culture heroes who leave the Mimika area for the West state categorically that they will not come back and that their cargo must be obtained by exchange and trade.

STRUCTURAL HISTORY

Signified history has apparently overtaken myth, though the cargocults were abortive and where received with scepticism by many elderly traditional men.

5. The Kaokaoka, the superior, physically strong and shapely women from the East and the inland (kapaoJ wage war with their husbands, fathers and sons because precious food (pork, the inland equivalent of the fish of our myth of West Mimika) has been withheld from them. The women leave the Mimika area by following the foothills of the mountains to Etna Bay and embarking for the West. They take the Western commodities (kata) with them. That is why the Mimika people of today put up with their traditional goods and tools and with inferior women. The West Mimika story of the flood draws on this myth which is known throughout the Mimika area.
6. A particular community in the far east of Mimika fails to pay two limping male carvers for their services. The latter cause aflood which brings about misery and dispersal. The limping males turn into ghosts and begin to kill people. This story is the eastern version of the West Mimika story of the flood. Mimika ethno-history, triggered off by aopao or the lack of it, is also projected on the foreigners. Initially there is a relationship of aopao with the foreigners: an exchange of goods and services. However, the foreigners do not live up to the rule of reciprocity. They have the secret of cargo but do not share it with their Mimika brothers. In that respect foreigners are considered to be inferior to the Mimika people. On the other hand the foreigners are superior in terms of economie and political power. Hence the attempt of the Mimika people to come to terms with the foreigners by way of an uneasy policy of co-existence (Pouwer 1955: 250-267). It is tantalizing to compare Mimika ethno-history with Western ethno-history. In the latter, a linear notion of time signified by 'progress', an artiele of faith, functions on the paradigmatic and syntagmatic plane. The double, paradigmatic and syntagmatic nature of 'progress' in combination with the universal principle of hierarchy or supra-positioning (Pouwer in Rossi, 1974: 242) both underlies as well as triggers off Western ethno-history. The foregoing discussion of the syntagm as an analytic tool bears out the ambivalent and complementary nature of the syntagm. On one hand "the syntagm has very close similarities to speech" (Barthes 1969: 62), in that it is a j10w of contingent utterances, a text (in Boon's sense) without

POUWER 91

end. On the other hand it shows affinities with langue (system) and paradigm in that it is a non-contingent ahain. In the Mimika myth of the flood the syntagm is clearly not merely a flow of random events but rather a chain of sequences. The constituents of the chain are not linked by chance but by progressing reciprocity. Reciprocity also operates in the paradigmatic dimension. Similarly I would suggest th at the sequences of Western myth and history as signified by their participants are linked not by chance but by a notion of linear time and the universal principle of supra-positioning, as manifest in the oppositions superior-inferior, progressive-conservative, ruler-ruled (Pouwer 1974: 242). Linear time and the principle of hierarchy find joint expression in the sign of progress, an article of Western faith. The sign of 'progress' just like the Mimika aopao operates in the paradigmatic and the syntagmatic dimensions.

The ambivalent position and complementary nature of syntagm, which seems to mediate between parole (speech) on one hand and langue (system) and paradigm on the other, militates against a separation of syntagm and paradigm by placing them in separate pigeonholes or on different levels. By so doing one kills the dialectical and dynamic interplay between the two. One then runs the risks of separating system from process, thought and consci ous or un.consci ous categori sati on from action, signification from event. Ardener's use of syntagm and paradigm does just that. He distinguishes between paradigmatic social anthropology, e.g., the structuralism of Lévi-Strauss, the 'neo-anthropology' of Needham, Leach and Douglas, and syntagmatic anthropology, e.g., functionalism and neo-functionalism (transaction and network theory) (Ardener 1971a: lxxvi, lxxxvii; see also 1971b: 465-66). Obviously the paradigm of structuralism has its syntagm, and the syntagm of British functionalist anthropology has its paradigm, whether this is recognized or not. It is exactly the dialectics and the dialogue between paradigm and syntagm within the two orientations of anthropology which makes for the dynamics in anthropological theory and practice. Moreover, it is confusing to classify Leach, Needham and Douglas together with structuralism under the heading of paradigmatic anthropology. Leach for one has stated explicitly in his booklet on Lévi-Strauss, that "I am at heart, still a functionalist", and that "the gap between my general position and that of Lévi-Strauss is very wide" (Leach 1970: 9).

STRUCTURAL HISTORY

Paradigms are not merely abstract categories, and syntagms are not just actually occurring realisations of paradigmatic structures which have many random non-distinctive features, as Barley puts it following Ardener (Barley 1974: 147). The danger of a false dichoto~ of paradigm and syntagm is evident when Barley speaks of a paradigmatic dog which has a number of distinctive features and of a syntagmatic dog which has these features along with many non-distinctive ones,

e.g. it may have lost its tail in an accident (Barley 1974: 147). Syntagm as well as paradigm 'occur' in the realm of signification and articulation. A syntagm does not just happen 'on the ground'. It confronts us with a paradox, that is an apparent rather than real contradiction between its progression through social time and space on one hand and its a-chronical, a-spatial nature on the other. The paradox is in reality brought about by a dialectical interaction of syntagm and paradigm. The mechanism of this interaction is aopao in Mimika history and 'progress' in Western history. The foregoing analysis mainly draws on episode A of the myth. Episode Band C confront the reader with another paradox. Episode A accounts for the origin and dispersal of various 'marked' social groups and for some topographical and cultural differences associated with them. By extension it also explains the origin and distribution of Papuan people East and West from Mimika and of the Highland people. Now, it could equally well have accounted for the origin of the Indonesian, Chinese and European foreigners. In fact a major myth belonging to Mimika as a whole and associated with the Immakame or Kiawa rituals does just that. A monster, a huge lizard, devours unmarked people who are transformed into 'marked' people af ter the monster is cut up. This transformation includes foreigners by extension. Episode A of the local story of the flood does not. Instead episode B of the story introduces an encounter with two old women, two sisters from the east. It is this encounter which accounts in a roundabout way for the origin of the foreigners and their wealth. Why this detour? Why do not the two women from the west who caused the flood in episode A travel straightaway to the west and become the originators of the foreigners and their wealth? I have reason to believe th at episode B is of recent origin. It has probably been added to episode A in the early thirties. I know for sure that episode C is an almost on-the-spot innovation. I was unknowingly involved in it ~self in 1952 (see version 2 of the myth).

briaoZage (Lévi-Strauss 1966: 16-22). I would describe a briaoZeur as a sort of handyman who combines elements taken from different objects, systems or texts at hand. into a new object which is unlike and different from the constituent objects. In this particular case the narrators of episode A have combined components of this episode with the component 'two women from the east', taken from a myth widely known in Mimika, i.e. the myth of the Kaokaoka, the superwomen referred to earlier. To understand this briaoZage one has to be familiar with the system of cosmological classification underlying the Mimika culture as a whole. This system of classification is manifest in a rich variety of myths and rituals. It would take us too far afield to discuss the system at length. Just like the scheme of the myth of the flood it consists of related sets of complementary units mediated and activated by aopao.

The main but by no means the only components of related sets are the following:

Components of sets aopao

Please note that the nature of the components vis-A-vis each other is one of relative position and not of substance. For instance Kaware ritual relates to Immakame rituals as male relates to female. Kaware myth and ritual are concerned with male sacred and ritual objects, including the canoe. Immakame ritual and myth are concerned with female pro-creation, sexuality, the transformation of 'unmarked' people (myth) or male youngsters (ritual) into 'marked' people and marriage-able adolescents by a monster lizard (myth) literally embodied in the ceremonial house of the ritual. The monster swallows the 'unmarked' and transforms them into the 'marked'. However, men do play an important part in Immakame, while women are by no means absent in Kaware.

STRUCTURAL HISTORY

One should also bear in mind that the relationship of the components is a reciprocal and complementary one. Next to opposition there is identification. This is perfectly clear from the fact that the events of the Kaware myth associated with the west and the coast take place in the far east of the Mimika coastal area. Conversely, the Immakame transformation of 'unmarked' into 'marked' people occurs in the far west where the mountains (kapao) descend into the sea (immu). The dual classification is an ambivalent one.

There is not one myth of creation that accounts for the genesis of the Mimika people and their world. There are two myths of transformation: the Immakame and the Kaware myth, which together account for the people and their world. The relationship between the central rituals and myths of Immakame and Kaware is described by the Mimika people themselves as a relationship of aopao.

Let's return to the two women from the east. They are clearly associated with the superior Kaokaoka, as I said. The Kaokaoka were the first women and the first ladies of Mimika. The Kaokaoka myth tells us that they lived upstream (kapao) in the far east of Mimika. Their husbands (just like the descendants of the two women from the west in the story of the flood) violated the golden rule of reciprocity by keeping the superior food (in this case pork) for themselves. The superior women had to provide their husbands with food while the latter kept on feasting. The enraged superior Kaokaoka launched a war with the men (which is still enacted in the 'female' Immakame-ritual) killed many of them and travelled to the far west along the foothills. In the far west (Etna Bay) they left Mimika and travelled to the land where the sun sets (the land of the foreigners). They took with them all the Western cargo which is of their making. Af ter a period of homosexuality, their deprived husbands and sons married with inferior women wh om they discovered inland. The present-day Mimika people are the offspring of these inferior women: that is why they are less strong and tall than the white men who descended from the superior women.

The people of West Mimika in particular were well aware of the historical accident that the foreigners and their wealth happened to arrive from the far west. Vet the Kaokaoka myth has it that the Western wealth originates from the east, from the superior women who travelled from kapao to imuu. Well aware of this contradiction the

POUWER 95

inventors of episode Band C mediate the contradiction by introducin9 an encounter between the women of West Mimika who caused the flood with the women from the east. The former steal the superior car90 from the latter and then make for the land of the foreigners. There they are transformed into the ancestors of the foreigners and transmit their wealth. 50 it looks as if the foreigners and their superior cargo originate from the two women of West Mimika. But that is appearance (ipere) only. In reality (mapare) it is the two women from East Mimika who are the originators of the foreigners and their cargo. The connotations of this reversal are clear: Mimika is the centre and essence (mapare) of the world. Please note the perfect homology between West Mimika and East Mimika on one hand and the world of the foreigners and Mimika as a whole on the other.

Let me conclude the analysis of the myth of the Flood by drawing your attention to yet another contradiction which is mediated by a paradox. Episode B states th at the coastal seagoing canoe, the torepa, originates from the east: the women from the east arrive in West Mimika in a torepa. Vet the Mimika people know full well that the torepa has been introduced in Mimika from the far west. Informants in Poraoka west from Mupuruka, told me that the design of a torepa, which differs markedly from the design of a river-going canoe (ku), was revealed to a Poraoka man in a dream. There is sufficient evidence from early Western travellers to assume that the river-going canoe was initially the only type of canoe used in East and West Mimika. In 1828 a visitor of Mupuruka saw only river-going canoes (Pouwer, 1955: 23). In 1858 ku were in general use in the Etna Bay area, the far west of Mimika. However, visitors then also noticed a number of short paddles, whereas the ku is only propelled by long paddles. In 1904-1905 torepa were reported in the Etna Bay area. Since then, the torepa has replaced the ku in West Mimika up to Kakokona (central Mimika) for technological and ecological reasons.The torepa was absent in central and East Mimika in 1954. The river-going canoe is obviously superior to the torepa in the Central and East Mimika where long and of ten shallow rivers and creeks favour it.

Why th en does the myth state that the torepa comes from the east? Because the traditional river-going canoe which was apparently the only type of canoe used in West and East Mimika, has its mythical origin in the east. A particular myth which accounts for its origin, states so explicitly. Also, the ku plays a major part in the Kaware-

ritual, and the origin of the Kaware lies in the far east though, as we saw, Kaware is associated with the west.

In order to account for the innovation of the torepa in terms of the traditional belief, the narrator plays again the game of bricoZage. The torepa did originate from the east but has been stolen by the two women of the west. lts origin from the west is appearance (ipereJ only.

5. GENERAL CONCLUSIONS
   

   execution of the paradigm.

by the believers.

HISTORY

The following general conclusions may be drawn from this analysis. -- There is a dialectical relationship between the syntagmatic and the paradigmatic plane of a 'text' (in the general sense given to it by Boon). The syntagm should not be conceived as simply an

The schemata and codes of a myth accommodate and incorporate the flow of new events as signified by particular people. In terms of this process there is no change. The schemata and codes are upheld

However, there is also the other side of the coin: history, conceived as a flow of events, can by the very act of signification intrude upon a myth and can change its composition. The mechanisms of this change are the dialectical relation between syntagm and paradigm on the one hand and bricoZage on the other. As a consequence of the impact of signified events on the myth, or in a wider sense, the 'text' the composition, the structure and hence the meaning of the text may change, provided that this impact is sufficiently strong and continuous. This is the case in Mimika since it has been continuously and increasingly exposed to Western influence. The analysis shows that structural continuity and structural discontinuity, chance may go hand in hand and therefore shouZd be studied simuZtaneousZy and accounted for by one model not by two.

Continuity (constancy) on one hand and change on the other should not be separated by assigning the study of continuity and constancy embodied in a-chronic or pan-chronic structure to structural anthropologists and the study of discontinuity and change to historians and the students of social process.

In this respect I would disagree with Lévi-Strauss when he writes:

POUWER 97

"à 1 'un (1 'historien) donc le changement, a 1 'autre (1 'ethnologue) les structures" (1962: 45), though he concedes that the methods of the science of history and of anthropology are complementary.7

His reason for claiming this division of labour is not merely a matter of convenience in that the historian has access to written documents whereas the anthropologist usually has not, and is his own witness (1962: 45). A deeper more substantial reason is that, for Lévi-Strauss, processes only exist for those who experience them (Lévi-Strauss 1962: 44, 45). Historical processes are therefore particular and subjective. Consequently processes cannot be made intelligible by logical structural models which claim to be universal and objective. There are for instance no meta-processes that will subsume the irreducible experiences of an aristocrat and a sans culotte in the French Revolution of 1789 (Lévi-Strauss 1962: 45; see also Barnes 1971: 546). To Lévi-Strauss it is impossible to write one history of the French Revolution. The diverse and clashing participants of the revolution and its observers and interpreters (including the historians) are bound to relive or reconstruct the so-called historical facts in accordance with their own di fferent and probab ly contradi ctory vers i ons of these facts as 'i i gnifi ed by their myths, including the mrths of historians. These myths might be one of progress, regression, class struggle, signified forces or modes of production, objectivity, subjectivity, etc.

l would maintain, on the contrary, that it is not only possible but even imperative to reconstruct history, the flow of events as signified by the participants and the observers, by means of objective (that is logical), coherent universal models. Such models are only valid if they honour the Holy Trinity of the symbolic, paradigmatic and syntagmatic relations between or within signs. The paramount postulate is that things and events should be studied as if they were signs. The thing-analogy, a tacit postulate of so many studies of social facts and initiated by Durkheim, should be abandoned.

My model of an episode in the structural history of Mimika has attempted to do just that. lts salient feature is the particular manifestation in Mimika of the universal principle of reciprocity which operates simultaneously in the symbolic, paradigmatic and syntagmatic dimensions of signification.

lt follows that l would reject a purely or predominantly historical, processural model for the simple reason that syntagmatic and paradigmatic

HISTORY

relations are complementary and dialectical.

It also follows that I would equally reject a purely or predominantly paradigmatic-structural model. Lêvi-Strauss, though he has an open eye for the crucial importance of the study of history, tends to favour this type of model. He seems to share the view of de Saussure that "diachronie events are always accidental and particular" (de Saussure, 1959: 93) and therefore not suitable material for objective, logical and universal models. Hence his dichotomy of order of events versus order of structure, of lived-in order versus thought-of order. I would reject this dichotomy since events are structured by our very perception of them. To knowor experience unstructured events is a contradiction in terms.

According to Lévi-Strauss' Pensée Sauvage, the elementary potential for categorisation which underlies thought is such a paradigmatic-structural model. It is a model of the invariant elementary structures which underly and generate both thought and praxis (Lévi-Strauss 1966: 263-264). Let me quote the master (1966: 263):

"The characteristic feature of the savage mind li barbaric translation of pensée sauvage_l is its timelessness; its object is to grasp the world as both a synchronie and diachronie totality and the knowledge which it draws there from is like that afforded of a room by mirrors fixed on opposite walls which reflect each other (as well as objects in the intervening space) although without being strictly Qarallel. A multitude
of images is constituted ~Tforms' in the quotation_/simultaneously ....
/~lease note Lévi-Strauss transmutation of the diachronie into the synchronic.l"lt lthe savage mind7 builds mental structures which facilitate an understanding of the world in as much as they resemble it lplease note Lévi-Strauss' dialectics_l. In this sense savage thought can be defined as analogical thought."

A world built by analogy like the world of similitudes of the European Middle Ages as interpreted by Foucault (1970: Ch. 2).

The room in which the Mimika sa vage mind operates can indeed be seen as furnished with mirrors, the mirrors of aopao. of reciprocity. These mirrors of aopao establish a series of analogies which genera te order, Mauss' total social facto In terms of aopao the ghosts (mbi-wei) are to human beings (weinata) wh at the culture he roes (amoko-wei) are to ordinary man (wei), what imuu is to kapao. Kaware to Immakame, male to female, and foreigners to native inhabitants. Also, the Mimika structural history proceeds by ree i proci ty, or the lack of it.

However, in addition to this synchronie and diachronie analogy, the flux of events as signified by the Mimika people does reshape and may ultimately shatter the mirrors of aopao. The mechanism for this intervention

bricoZage. The signs are already on the wall. Mimika had its share of cargo cults in the mid-and late fifties, despite their explicit denial in the myths. The w.yths state categorically "that the culture heroes and the ancestors will not come back and that paradise is lost. There is the traditional ambivalence of appearance (ipere) and reality (mapere). There is also the emergence of a new paradigm of 'progress', Mimika style. The three social forces at work --cargo cults, ambivalence and the emergence of a new paradigm --could ultimately shatter the mirrors of aopao and hence the traditional cosmological and social order. Or they could add to the set of mirrors of aopao a set of mirrors of hierarchy, the elementary potentialof which is already manifest in the oppositions older-younger, giver-taker, ruler-ruled. This addition (or change) in relative emphasis will eventually change the total configuration of Mimika culture and society.

Structure is and becomes. Structure is a verb not a noun. It is generated by a continuous and dialectical interaction between the three components of the Trinity of Signification. Homo significans.

NOTES

1. It is at this point that I would disagree with Freud's and Jung's use of 'symbols'. Not only do they tend to neglect the immediate or wider cultural context of symbols, they also do not sufficiently realise that symbols only have meaning because they are components of systems of denotation and connotation.
2. Compare with Barthes 1969: 16 "To sum, a language is at the same time the product and the instrument of speech: their relationship is therefore a genuinely dialectical one." However, he seems to contradict himself by stating on the same page: "It is useless to wonder wh ether speech must be studied before Lwriter's emphasis_ï the language (Zangue): the opposite is impossible: one can only study speech straight away in as
   much as it refZeats (my emphasis) language .... " I would contend that, if
   the relationship between Zangue and paroZe is 'a genuinely dialectical one', one must at the same time study speech in as much as it generates the language (Zangue).

The relationship between langue and parole. paradigm and syntagm has been and still is the subject of lengthy and intensive discussions with a number of my Honours' Students. I would like to acknowledge my particular debt to Roger Chapman, Patricia Kinloch and Cathy Wylie.

3. "This procedure of finding analogies is a characteristic human method. It suggests, as we shall of ten see, new ways of looking, which actually lead us to new discoveries. The brain is continually searching for fresh information about the rhythm and regularity of what goes on around us. This is the process that I call doubting, seeking for significant new resemblances. Once they are found they provide us with our system of law, of certainty. We decide that this is what the world is 1 i ke and proceed to talk about it in those terms" (Young, 1960: 11).
4. Bronowski considers imagination as the origin of science and art. He then says: "The 1 argest hoard of images th at we create, and the most powerful method that we have to use them, is language. For human
   language is not confined to communication as that of animals is ....
   The human gift is to possess a second language in which a man converses with himself" (Bronowski, 1967: 78). Note the similarity between Bronowski and de Saussure's description of language as respectively a hoard of images and a treasure (tresor) of signs. It is also interesting to note in this connection that Lévi-Strauss has described anthropology as a dialogue with man on man.

~. For more details see the English summary of my Dutch PhD thesis (Pouwer, 1955: 271-76).

6. The reader will be aware of the fact that the analytical value of the universal principle of reciprocity for the description and interpretation of a particular culture depends on the use of models which account for particular sub-systems, such as kinship, marriage, material culture, ritual, ~th and for the relationship between these sub-systems. See Schwimmer 1974: 209-238 and Schwimmer 1973 for good examples of this method.
7. Lévi-Strauss has raised the hot issue of the relationship between anthropology and history on numerous other occasions. For a cogent and critical discussion of his views, I refer to Gaboriau, 1970, and to Barnes,
8. Lévi-Strauss has epitomized his views by quoting Marx without, however, giving the source of his quotation: "Men make their own history,

POUWER 101 but they do not know that they are making it." He comments: "the famous statement by Marx justifies first, history and, second, anthropology. At the same time, it shows that the two approaches are inseparable" (Lévi-Strauss 1968: 23). My M.A. Student, Roger Chapman, Librarian of the National Museum Wellington, was kind enough to point out to me that this quotation is incorrect and misleading. He brought to light the following one: "Men make their own history but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past" (Marx 1930, I: 225). The difference between this and Lévi-Strauss' quotation is quite significant. I leave it to the reader to consider its implications. Chapman also kindly drew my attention to a critical discussion of Lévi-Strauss' ideas of the relationship between structure and history by N. Rotenstreich (1971: 489-526).

REFERENCES

Ardener, E. 1971a "Introductory Essay" in SoaiaZ AnthropoZogy and Language, ( Association of Social Anthropologists Monographs 10), Londen: Tavistock. Ardener, E. 1971b The New Anthropology and its critics, Man 6,449-67. Barley, N.F. 1974 Structural Aspects of the Anglo-Saxon Riddle, Semiotica Vol X, 2,143-77. Barnes, J.A. 1971 Time flies like an arrow, Man Vol. 6,4, 537-53. Barthes, R. 1969 EZements of SemioZogy, London: Cape Editions. Barthes, R. 1972 The Imagination of the Sign (1962), in CriticaZ Essays, 205-11. Translated from the French by Richard Howard. Evanston: North Western University Press. Boon, J.A. 1974 From Symbolism to Structuralism: Lévi-StrQUss in a literary tradition. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Bronowski, J. 1967 The Identity of Man. Pelican A864. Coenen, Father J. 1963 Enkele Facetten Van De Geestelijke Cultuur Van De Mimi ka. Omawka (Mimika): M.s. Foucault, M. 1970 The Order of Things, New Vork: Pantheon Books.

Gaboriau, M. 1970 Structural Anthropology and History, in Lane, M. (editor) StruaturaZism. A Reader. 156-70. Leach, E. 1970 Lévi-Strauss. London: Fontana Modern Masters. Lêvi-Strauss, C. 1962 Les limites de la notion de structure en ethnologie, in Sens et usage au terme struature dans les saienoos humaines et soaiaZes. Janua Linguarum No. 16, The Hague: Mouton. Lêvi-Strauss, C. 1965 Le Triangle Culinaire, in L'Ara, Vol. 26: 21-35. Lêvi-Strauss, C. 1966 The Savage Mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lêvi-Strauss, C. 1967 The Saope of AnthropoZogy. London: Cape Editions. Lêvi-Strauss, C. 1968 Introduction: History and Anthropology, in StruaturaZ AnthropoZogy. 1-27, London: Lane. Lêvi-Strauss, C. 1973 ?rom Honey to Ashes. Introduation to a Saienae of MYthoZogy: 2, London: Cape. Marx, K. 1950 The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. in Marx and EngeZs: SeZeated Works in two VoZumes. Moscow: FLPH. Pouwel', J. 1955 Enkels Aspeaten Van De Mimika Cultuur {Nederlands ZuidbJest NieUlû GUinea}. The Hague: Staatsdrukkerij. Pouwer, J. 1974 The Structural Configurational Approach. A Methodological Outline, in: Rossi (ed) The Unaonsaious in CuZture. 238-56. Ros si, 1. ( ed ) 1974 The Unaonsaious in CUZture. The StruaturaZism of CZaude Lévi-Strauss in Perspeative. New Vork: Dutton Paperback Original. Rotenstreich, N. 1971 On Lêvi-Strauss' Concept of structure, Review of Metaphysias. (Yale), Vol. 25: 489-526. Saussure, F. de 1959 Course in generaZ Zinguistias. New Vork: Philosophical Library. Schwimmer, E. 1973 Exahange in the SoaiaZ Struature of Orokaiva (New Guinea). London: C. Hurst & Co. Schwimmer, E. 1974 Objects of Mediation: Myth and Praxis. In Rossi, (ed) The Unaonsaious in Culture. Turner, V. 1967 The Forest of Symbols. New Vork: Cornell University Press. Young, V.Z. 1960 Doubt and Certainty in Saienae. A BioZogist's Reflsations on the Brain. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

FLOOD

A Mimika Myth (West New Guinea)

I. The Tuuka (Uta) version.

Narrator: Tomani of Uta

Date: Mid-thirties

Source: Father P. Drabbe m.s.c.: published in the

original language with a literal translation in Oceania, Vol XX, No. 1,66-73,1949.

Two old women, two women from the Tuga River, two grandmothers. Some people from the Tuga lived upstream and had their houses there. The two women lived alone at the mouth of the river. Those from the hinterland came downstream to get fish. They gave the two women some musse 1 s and crabs and sai d: "Mother we have not got any fi sh." Then they went home in the inland, and there they made a gridiron to roast their fi shes. But the osprey of the two old women went 1 andward. "Mother ," he said, "I shall find fish." And he found a great many fishes, which near the houses inland were lying on the gridirons. He seized some and went seaward to the two old women and said: "Mothers, there was a big quantity of fish." Towards evening again he went ir.land, where the houses were. But a young man, one of the Tuga-people, had a wound at his leg, and could not sleep. He lay there with open eyes. And the osprey again took away some of the fish near different houses. The young man looked upwards. "The osprey appears to take away our fi sh," he sai d. He sei zed hi s spear, and when the osprey came to sit near to him he stabbed him with the spear and killed him. Early in the morning, at daybreak, he told the others. "Men of the Tuga," he said, "An osprey every time took away our fish, but to-night I have stabbed him dead with my spear." They plucked his feathers and threw them into the river, and they floated towards

JAN POUWER the sea. One of the two old women, the mother of the osprey, went in the morning to the river to scoop the bilge-water out of the canoe, and looking up she saw the feathers floating. She saw the feathers driving and gave a scream and called to the land: Older sister! "What is the matter?" this replied. The other woman cried: "Ol der sister, our son is dead; his feathers come floating hither. " Vounger sister, the other said, "it is true." "Ah, older sister," the other said again: "it is true." The older sister too came to the canoe in the river; she reflected and said: "Vounger sister, they have murdered our boy. Let us set up a weir together." Then they set a weir of wood, and on the landside the water began to surge up, on the spot where the Tuga-men 1 i ved. "How now wi th all thi s water?" they said; they hauled the canoes into the houses and loaded mats in the canoes. The men, the women and the children went on board the canoes and with the canoes they were lying high upon the water, and there they slept. But the water rose higher, till the trees were under water. They fled away landward to the mountains, and one mountain came to be under water. Again they fled landward, but the next mountain also overflowed. Still they fled landward but the highest mountains were overflowed. They fled landward and remained in the Pania district. When the water fell, however, the men drifted from the mouth of the river off to the sea. The men who lived upstream sank with the water into the Pania-district. Others found the way to the sea on the other side of the river, and they saw the shore, and they found it a good country, and they remai ned there. "Let us remai n here for good," they said. And they stayed there for good. Some of the Tuga-men drifted downstream along the Makemaw, and they we re carried out to the sea. The women and children slept. The waves of the high sea beat against the canoes. A young man said:"Men of the Tuga, why are you lying to sleep? Our country is no more," he said. "Arise!" It was the one with the sore leg. They arose, women and children. They looked around and said: "Where is the vegetation of our coast; where are our houses, where are our mountai ns? They are very far away," they said. The children and the women cried, they cried for their tree and field-fruits, and for their land. "My country, I love you, mountains, I love you, sago, I love you," they sai d. One of the men coul d not keep quiet any longer for anger; he lifted a dagger and stabbed in the canoe af ter the young man, and all the men from the Tuga stabbed af ter him and killed him. Then they lifted him up and cast him into the sea. Then the

HISTORY 105

water flowed away and carried them off to the west, a great multitude of men. Children, women and grown-up men, all were crying for their land and their tree and field-fruits. Crying, they drifted westward. They found their way in the country of Arguni, nowhere else, at Koparao, Kaapu, Sokara, Nakura, and they then settled down for good. The two old women later drifted out of the river and sailed into the Kapiraja. There they hewed a canoe. and that with a mussel-shell. Then they dragged the canoe into the water. Then they came downstream and sat down on the Japerema. There arrived also two old women from the east and sat down on the Japerema. They had a very good canoe with upstanding prows, and in their canoe there were many things, axes, chopping-knives, sago, crabs and mussels. The two Tuga-women arrived there af ter them. They lifted up their mussel shell. The women from the east, on seeing this, gave them a chopping-knife. And the two Tuga-women went landward to chop wood. While chopping wood the older sister said to the younger one: "How sharp is that chopping-knife?" Then they carried the wood towards the shore, put it down, erected a hut and covered it with mats. Then the women from the east we re telling tales, and the Tugi-women listened. Then the women from the east stopped telling (talking) and remained silent and listened. Wh en af ter that the Tuga-women were talking, the women from the east fell asleep. The two Tuga-women related in turn, but the women from the east were asleep. When they had finished talking, they called out: "Hi, you two." They tried again, but they were firmly asleep. The older sister said to the younger one: "Let us steal the canoe with the things." They did 50; they took fire in their hands and ascended the canoe, and during the night they fled away and took the canoe and the things with them. At daybreak they arrived at the Umari-river. The women from the east slept till day came up. Then they saw what had happened. The younger sister said to the older one: "Sister, where is our canoe? The two have stolen it." They followed them, and hurried on the way, but having come to the Umari, they returned. They came back here, put to the Japerema, and slept there one night. Next morning they went on eastward, and having come to the Makemaw, they took a bath in the river, but were changed into fishes, into ray-fishes. The two Tuga-women put in at the Buru-river in the west. During the night they cal led the mountain, and the mountain emerged from the ground. In the morning they went on. Then they put in at the Tarera. During the night they called the mountain, and the mountain came up out

POUWER

of the ground. They sat down till daybreak, and then continued their way. They put in at Kuyare, and in the morning they went further. They put in at Fak-Fak, and in the morning they departed. Further westward they put in at Ambon. At Ambon they loaded up again and then put in at another country perhaps Surabaya. There they loaded up again and put in further to the west, in China perhaps. Then they put in further to the west at Kokas (sio!) and in the morning they went on and put perhaps into Holland. In the morning they loaded up again, and continued-whither? In a country without name they put in, and there they are settled down for good. I have said.

11 The Wawka (Mupuruka) version.

Narrator: Akwëripia, Headman of Mupuruka (West-Mimi ka)

Date: 23rd January, 1952

Source: Jan Pouwer, unpublished fieldnotes: story told in the

vernacular and translated in Malayan.

At Kaokaremane (means: two women, the women of the story) lived an elder and a younger sister at the mouth of the Uta river. The former was cal led Mukurapa, the latter Momore-kapare. They were Wawka women, the two of them (Wawka-kapare-mane). The Wawka-wei (wei= people), Umururipi, Kana-wei, Pömökö, Timao-wei, Wakapakipa-wei (extinct with the exception of the former) lived at Maniapoka. Together they were the Uta-wei (which is still the collective name of people living at Mupuruka). The two women lived downstream by themselves. The Uta-wei lived upstream. The people (not the two sisters) went downstream and to the mouth of the river. They caught fish, collected crabs and shell-fish. They hid the fish in their canoes. On the way back upstream they cal led on their two grandmothers, the two sisters. They pretended not to have caught fish and only gave them crabs and snails. Then they left and went to their vil 1 age. J IJS t before they reached thei r sett 1 ement some of them shouted to the paople who stayed home th at they had caught fish. There was conventional ye1ling and praising (jaowëre) in the village. At dusk the fish was put on the fire and roasted. Then they went to bed. At night an osprey (pëtakö) owned by the two women downstream came along and snatched the scraps of fish left. Nobody noticed it. The bird took the scraps of fi sh to its mas ters. The bi rd f 1 ew above the vi 11 age

for ~ second time. Metipia an adult man (koäpoka) who limped, noticed that the bird dropped a fish. He shot the bird with an arrow; the osprey fell down. Metipia was a bad man. The peop~e of the village slept and they did not notice what happened. The next morning they found the dead bi rd and asked Meti pi a "Why di d you ki 11 thi s bi rd? Don I t you know that it belongs to our grandmothers, the two sisters?" They were angry with Metipia. The feathers of the bird floated downstream. Early in the morning Momore-kapare (amätoa, the younger sister) relieved herself at the riverside. She saw the feathers of her pet bird floating on the water. She told her elder sister (awpuka). "Oh, they have ki11ed our bird," exclaimed the older sister. They lifted the feathers from the water and brought the feathers home. They wept and wept and wept. Then they collected timber for a large weir, which was to block the entire river. They said to each other: "Oh, heavy rain wi11 come. The level of the water will be high." The river was blocked and the water could not escape to the sea. It ran back to the mountains. The people who lived upstream fled to the Weselmer (Wissel lakes in the Highlands). They became the first Kapaoka (Mimi ka-term meaning inland-people; it denotes tfle Highlanders of the Wissel lake district). They carried their bags over their heads (typical for Highlanders), because of the level of the water was too high. Other people fled to the beach. The weir was demolished by the water. The two women were swept to the beach like the people before them. Midway some people tied their canoes to trees. However, the canoes overturned because the river was in spate. Also, the trees tumbled down. The people had no option but to flee again. They arrived at the Makemao river mouth. There they slept on the beach. The next morning they saw the sea. Metipia was the first to see it. They were terrified and wept and wept and wept "we are in for a bad time because of the heavy swe11." They were so angry that they killed Metipia. A man collected his paddles and left for the East in his river-going canoe (ku). All who had a ku followed him. They became the people of the east (Karuutya-wei) and the Manaowei (the Asmat people east from Mimika). Those who had a sea-going canoe (törepa) left and headed for Kaimana (a district west of Mimika). Meanwhile the two sisters were staying downstream near Cape Japerama, close to Mupuruka. They left for the beach. Two other women, an elder and younger sister, two women from Omawka

POUWER

(in the far east of Mimika), the Omawka-kapere-mane came from the east. They saw the Wawka-kàpare-mane. The latter, the older and younger sister, were chopping wood with sharp shells and also used these shells for making a canoe, a river-going canoe (ku). They noticed that the two women from the east (Karuu-kawka) had machetes and (iron) axes. They noticed this because the Karuu-kawka chopped wood in the vicinity of the cape. The two Wawka-sisters then secretly agreed to rob the women from the east during the night. At night they loaded the sea-going canoe of the women from the east with the wealth, the comrnodities (kata: this term stands for secret and sacred ritual and Western goods) of the women from the east. They also stole the language (akwere) of the women from the east by taking it from their mouths while they slept. This is the present language of Mupuruka. Further they stole the Malayan language from the mouths of the sleeping sisters. By so doing other people would not be able to understand what they said (the lingua franca of the Dutch government is a secret language). They also stole the rifles and the matches. (The narrator inspects my tramping gear and then continues.) They also took away a gas lamp, a primus stove, sport-shoes and big tins for tramping. They took the canoe and all the goods and left for Kaimana (a trade centre west from Mimika). Early in the morning the two women from the east woke up. Much to their horror they found out that all their goods had been stolen. In a sad mood and weeping they returned to the east. The two Wawka women arri ved at Mapar and cri ed: "There be no sago here." In Poraoka they unloaded only a small quantity of sago. In Umari however, they shouted: "There be much sago here." They unloaded much sago there. They had brought this sago from the Wawka (they did not steal it). They unloaded much sago in Ajndua, Potoway, Opa, Sarera (Tarera), Wanete (Nanesa), Kipa, Sernata (Ternate, Indonesia). They spent the night in Tapruka. They then manufactured houses, aeroplanes, mirrors and glasses. They also manufactured writing (torati). They loaded these goods in their aeroplane and aqreed that the younger sister would go to the land of the whites whereas the elder sister was to fly to heaven (ope). And thus it happened. "50" the narrator concluded, "Whites and blacks are equal" -he said this with much emphasis and enthusiasm. A few moments later he added: "Mukurepa (the elder sister) who went to heaven is called Mary, her son is called Jesus." (Adolescent listeners assist him by calling the name Jesus; Akweripia was not quite sure.) "The younger sister Momore-kapare is cal led Wireremina (= Queen Wilhelmina: name supplied by the adolescent

listeners) she manufactured the Kompenie (Government). It did not exist yet." This story derives from the ancestors (wei-ajrögeta) from the culture he roes (amöko-wei). All other stories (= versions) given in other settlements are unworthy of belief.-

-The narrator refers here to Tomani of Uta (first version) his competitor, who has not the right to tell a story which does not belong to the Tuuka people of Uta but to the Wawka-people of Mupuruka.

111. The Wawka (Mupuruka) version.
     

     Narrator: Akwëripia (as in 11)

Date: 1952

Source: Unpublished notes of Father G. Zegwaard m.s.c

NOTE OF ZEGWAARD: Akwëripia kept on accusing Tomani of Uta, who is still alive (1952) of plagiarism and insisted on me writing down the 'true' story as he told it. I give the details of the story only in as far as they add to or differ from the Tuuka version of Tomani.

The Tuukä-käpare are not Tuukä-käpare but Wawka-käpare (also known under this name in the Eastern district of Mimika). They are not Tuukä- wei either who live upstream, but Wakipakipa-wei, Umururipi, Pomöko, Kana-wei, Timao-wei, Orawirepimera, Koarireripimara. Together they constitute the Uta-wei; they live at Maniapoka, this is the settlement erroneously referred to as Oraeja or Orajawa, which in fact is situated on the opposite side. The two women are cal led: Mukurapa (awpuka, the el der sister) and Momore-käpare (amatoa, the younger sister). The 'napere' (lame man) who kills the petako-bird, is called Metipia. He does not kill the bird with a tawaki-spear, but with an apökö-spear. Akwëripia insists on the proper term.

NOTE OF ZEGWAARD: Think of the Kawäre-ritual (associated with male and coast, Pouwer); the apokö-spear is used in Kaware to attack the coastal birds; the osprey is a coastal bird.

Then the people flee because of the flooding river, they go to a high

JAN POUWER

mountain. When the water subsides, the people come down with the water. Some of them come down north of the mountain others on the southern side (that explains the existence of the highland people). The highland people are called Jakonao. They are said to have settled at Irupa.~ Part of the people who came down with the water follow the Urumukuamoare, which connects the Motor-bivouac with the Mokea-iri. They go downstream to Pepe at the Oro river and moor their canoes there. The two women initially stay upstream. The location of the weir is still known. Close to Maniapoka there are two ironwood trees, each on either side of the river which supported the weir. -Zegwaard then gives the Mimika text and a literal translation of a type of song, i.e. makiri, which is attributed to the younger sister: May the flood, subsiding by flowing steadily to the coast, take with it leaves, sterns, branches of trees, reed and grass (to the effect that the river mouth will silt up; this will provide an excellent opportunity for spearing fish in shallow waters) -in other words may the flood turn into a real boon instead of being a disaster. (Pouwer) The two old women sleep at Jawerepere near the Kapiraja. They arrive at Japeroma the following day. The two women from the east give chase to the thieves. They reach Wakia and then return to Japeroma in a sad mood and weeping. They travel with a river-going canoe (ku) -Please note that they arrive from the east with a sea-going canoe (torepa). Pouwer -At Waepuka they turn into waomake-fish (ray-fish).

*This pre-supposed the following: The Deputy District Commissioner Cator travelled to the Wissel lakes along the Urumuka river (hinterland of Uta) in 1937. Dr Bijlmer, District Officer S. van der Goot and Father Tillemans m.s.c, discovered the lakes in 1937. Only in 1937 they were located by the flying officer of the Navy Mr Wissel on the basis of indications supplied by Father Tillemans. Cator made an aerial survey of the entrance to the lakes from the south. Af ter his first expedition over land in 1937 which failed, he arrived in 1938 at Itodah, a settlement of the Highland Djungunu people, which does no longer exist. At this stage of exploration the names Jakonao (for the Djungunu) and Irupa (Itodah) were coined and incorporated in the myth. This shows the vitality of the myth.

PARADIGMA TIC PARADIGf.IATIC SYfIT'l.','·TIC ..

------

RECIP;;OCITY- (AOI':,O) t a +. 1'. DI:;SCENDI,NTS- ~USS~LS, CRARS, SNAILS NO FISH + ~----------------- 2~ KAPAO: Upstream Landward Upper + b North CLEVER 'BOY' FlnDS OUT East c + 3'. LI~PING B"'D HALE:-

KILLS 'BOY' < - + d fLOOD, MISERY, DISPERSAL 'BOY' KJLLES KILLEO

-B~-----

• TRICKSTERS

1-AtlCESTORS + I elder +1, -you!q~er sister si:3tcr

2. INUU: Downstream Seaward Lower South ~:est
3. FEMALE +
   4.(1) ANCESTOR.5 ... I elder + I _you11eer sister I ~iE".tE-~r -TRICKEO
   e + 111,CIIETE 110 ilOPi,O + •

• f STEH TOREP~ -------------~ C:,RI.lO ANO LANGU AGE g

DN: HAV;:NO~ eN iiE,LITY ON: H'VE'S (H,WARE) CN ~/.NCE (IPERE) h Î-~ "'OMEII Dl": I.GR!'.'; OF ,'J[ili CN ~RANCE CII )"';,;L11'Y---OPERE) (W,P-',RE)

5'. aLO ',,0: .BN + FRO:4 T'lF. E:,Sr I e~der + : _y~ungerJ' sIster i s1ster €J. CARGO + (KATf) INVERSION 7'. NO CARGO ~ - (KATA)

5. 010 ';;011EN-FllOH THZ .:EST' I c~der +: _y~unger sIster I slste-r 'I
6. NO CARGO- (KAT") INVERS ION t
7. CA GO + ~ (KATA)
   lMUU TRICKSTEIlS

c

8. IGNORANT t MJMIKA +- ~lASTERS I
   ".,..----........
   HUKUR;\FA / '\I M(Jr·~ORE~-K-:\PE:RS SR: MARY SD mssICN SR: VIIREREi·iJH SD Gëi'iiËHiTi'ËNT"

8'. CLEVER \'fHITE -+ 'BOY'

DEATH: THE SOCIO-RELIGIOUS INTERPRETATION OF A COSMOLOGICAL PHENOMENON AMONG THE SUKI IN SOUTH NEW GUINEA.1

J. W. van Nieuwenhuijsen

C. H. van Nieuwenhuijsen-Riedeman
The Suki live in the southern 10w1and of Papua New Guinea, in the swampy area between the River F1y and the border with West Irian. The popu1ation of about 1000 is concentrated in five villages, the sizes of which vary from 360 to 100 peop1e. The Suki are divided into non-10ca1ised, exogamous patric1ans, which are grouped into exogamous moieties. Their main means of subsistence are agricu1ture (main1y yam culture and sago production), hunting and fishing. Nothing is produced for the market; a sma11 income is obtained by some by se11ing crocodi1e skins and by giving service to the government and the missions. The first contacts with the Austra1ian government date back to the ear1y 1920's, but pacification of the area on1y took p1ace in 1931. Ten years later a mission society sett1ed in Suki. The missionaries run a school up to Standard 11, a clinic and a store. They have a1ways been the on1y whites and a1so the on1y emp10y- ers in the Suki area.

In this essay we want to give a description of the complex of ideas that crysta11ized among the Suki around the ec1ipses of sun and moon. Whether we are concerned here with a complex of ideas unique to the southern 10w- land, is hard to say. True, we have not found any indication that it a1so occurs among other southern 10w1and peop1e, but we shou1d not conc1ude from this that they are not acquainted with it. That no mention is made of it in the 1iterature we searched seems adequate justification anyway to

I The investigation on which this essay is based took p1ace in 1963-65. It was financed by the University of Amsterdam, the Netherlands Organization for the Advancement of Pure Research (Z.W.O.) and the Netherlands Foundation for the Advancement of Tropica1 Research (WOTRO). Wh en the present tense is used in this essay, it refers to the year

1965.

DEATH 113

drawattention to it, knowing too well that there are big gaps in our knowledge and also that the reliability of our statements could be challenged. We would first like to make some marginal notes on this matter of reliability, following Peter Lawrence (1971), who said a number of things worthy of consideration about the reliability of statements about religion. First of all we want to point out that we do not know to what extent the statements of our informants are representative of the ideas of the Suki in general. Our information has come from only two informants: Kanuaba, a ritual expert of about 55 from the village of Ewe, who, though a Christian, was generally considered as one of the best authorities on traditional culture; and Nayo, our 26 year old interpreter and assistant from Gwibaku, also a Christian, who at the time was most likely the best educated (Standard VI) and most widely-travelled man in Suki. Because the subject concerned only came up in the very last stage of our investigation and we then lacked the time to verify the information received with other persons, we have confined ourselves to these two informants. We did not see the verbal statements of our informants performed in rituals either, which of course is not so remarkable in view of the rarity of the phenomenon in question. Therefore we cannot say if peopie really do what our informants said they do when an eclipse occurs. What we did was write down a number of concrete historic cases which were told by our informants. Two of them show that the actual behaviour during the eclipse may sometimes deviate from what our informants said was usual. Finally, it is self-evident that we could not establish as to how far people really believe in the ideas stated about eclipses. The information we are going to give about the events surroudjng an eclipse of the moon in the year 1960 will prove that an eclipse can indeed evoke strong emotions. With reference to Lawrence's statement (1971: 148) that "the degree to which people will go to hide their traditional beliefs from Europeans is an index to their commitment to these beliefs"-- a statement that seems debatable-- we would like to say that we had no difficulty at all in gathering information about eclipses. It may be because we then had already established a confidential relationship with our informants. But on the other hand it did not appear to be such a carefully nurtured cultural heritage as the myth of origin and the stories around the initiation ceremony. We shall try to reduce the poor reliability of our statements about myth and ritual concerning eclipses by indicating how well the information received fits in with the ideas people have of the cosmic and social structure. From the foregoing it will be evident that it would be an unjustifiable

C. H. VAN NIEUWENHUIJSEN
generalisation if as far as eclipses are concerned we should speak of 'the Suki believe this' or 'the Suki are doing that'. When we give information about the socio-religious context of the phenomenon we are on much firmer ground, and we shall then actually use the aforementioned wordings for the sake of distinction.

It is believed that eclipses are caused by souls that have thrown themselves on the sun or the moon. This point of view is expressed in the phrase gubaguba gyurumnu. Gubaguba is the term used in the villages of Ewe, Gwibaku and Iwewi for soul or 'spirit double' of a living person. 1) Gyurumnu is derived from gyurumnatu which means 'to sit or lie on somebody and shake him', sometimes 'to knock somebody down'. The Suki believe that the soul of a living pers on can leave the body without the person concerned noticing anything of it. They also believe that such a withdrawal has no ill effects on the person in question as long as the soul is only absent for a short time. If a soul is wandering about for a long time, the person to which the soul belongs will get thinner and thinner, and will eventually die if the soul persists in staying away. If a person grows thinner and thinner and feels weaker and weaker without evident morbid symptoms and without localised pains, people in Suki think first of all of the absence of his soul as the cause of his decline. It is thought that the souls of living persons, contrary to spirits of the dead, also wander about in daytime and th en can be seen and recognized. They look like emaciated people and resemble the persons to whom they belong. If su eh a soul is met th en it should be ordered to return to its owner. Usually a soul obeys such an order. But it sometimes happens, as we we re told, that a soul refuses and says that the person to whom it belongs will presently die. Sometimes people think they encounter a wandering soul without being able to see it. For example, a man who meets with bad luck again and again while hunting will ascribe it to a soul of a fellow clansman who goes with him on his trips and frightens and drives away the animals. He will be strengthened in this opinion when he notices that cockatoes fly up a long distance ahead of him. This is generally considered to be a sign that someone of the hunter's clan will soon die. It is said of the spi rits of dead people that they stay in the grave during the day and only wander about during the night. They manifest themselves in the form of a wandering fire or light, by coughing or by the sound of footsteps. It is believed that all spirits eventually go to a spirit village in the far east by a fixed, mainly underground route. This

OMENS OF DEATH 115 village was estab1ished for them by the first Suki man who died and was buried. There are no indications that spirits ever go to the sun or the moon, as sou1s sometimes do.

It is a1so said of sou1s which caused an ec1ipse that they may return to their owner's mortal body. If they do not do so, their owner wi11 positive- 1y die-- as is the case wh en sou1s do not return from their wanderings on earth. In this connection of our informant Kanuaba reminded us of the fina1 episode of the myth of origin he had to1d us two years before.

The myth of origin cu1minates in the ascent of a dug-out canoe, which a certain Semi, the central figure of the story, had made. When Semi tried to hau1 the recent1y comp1eted canoe to the water with the help of his friends Namagwari and Gwaui (the 1atterbeing transformed into a women), and a large number of deformed peop1e who had grown from coconuts, the tow lines sudden1y broke. The canoe rose and remained suspended above the group. Then Semi ordered some peop1e to go and sit in the canoe. They refuse, however, because they were afraid of the dog, Diari, which as a1ready in the canoe. Then Semi turned to Namagwari and Gwaui and asked them to get in. They did so. Then the peop1e raised the canoe with the help of forked branches to such a height that they cou1d no 10nger hear Namagwari's and Gwaui's voices. But before that, Namagwari called down: "We shall never die; you will, because you refused to get into the canoe". 2)

When we to1d Kanuba that af ter two years this episode did not immediate- 1y come back to our minds, he gave a summary as fo110ws.

When the canoe rose, Semi ca 11 ed to Namagwari and Gwaui: "I tol d the people that they should go with you, but they did not. If someone shou1d join you now or later on, send him back or cut his hair so that he wil 1 die". Namagwari and Gwaui called back: "Keep an eye on the sun and the moon. When the sun is red a qikwadaru will die, when the moon is covered a kwaindaru will die". 3) 4)

Although we have not thus far distinquished between an ec1ipse of the sun and an eclipse of the moon, it appears from Kanuaba's summary that it is essential to do so. Eclipses of the sun and the moon are thought to be caused by two different categories of sou1s: name1y, those of members of the cassowary-moiety cause an eclipse of the sun, those of pig-moiety cause an eclipse of the moon. In Suki moieties are connected with all kinds of phenomena, in which a dualistic classification principle is clearly to be recognized. Thus the cassowary-moiety is thought to be connected with water and all that 1ives in water, with rain, the wet season and the direction from which the wind blows in that season, with the direction in which the sun sets, with darkness, with dull rainy days and with the moon. The pig-moiety, on the other

C. H. VAN NIEUWENHUIJSEN
hand, has a special relation with the land and all that lives on the land, with the dry season and with the direction of the wind in the season, with daylight, with bright days, with the sun and the direction from which it rises. These associations, which are cal led nanga, were formerly expressed topographically in the boys' house and with the initiation ceremony: the boys from the cassowary-moiety always sat at the West-Northwest side, and those of the pig-moiety at the East-Southeast side. However, for about 20 years this has not been observed ó many young men are not even acquainted with it. It can be deduced from this summary of the moiety associations that souls that cause an eclipse do not go to their own moiety, but to the nanga of the other moiety. A disruption of the normal appearance of sun and moon appears to be ascribed to an intervention of the moiety opposite to the one with which the celestial body in question is customarily associated. A similar idea is included in the putative consequences of another meteorological phenomenon, namely a disturbance of the normal pattern of rainfall in the various seasons. If for some days an unusual amount of rain has fallen in the dry season, which is associated with the pig-moiety, this is considered to be an indication that a member of the cassowary-moiety will soon die. Conversely, if for some days not a drop of rain has fallen and in the wet season, with which the cassowary-moiety is specially associated, the sky is quite clear, this is considered to be an indication that the death of a member of the pig-moiety is at hand. 5) But such deviations in the patter of rainfall need not always indicate coming death ó sometimes they are ascribed to a death that has already occured in one of the non-Suki villages to the south or the southwest. There live notorious rainmakers and practitioners of 'sun magic' who, as Kanuaba said, for some dark reason increase their activities af ter somebody has died. He pointed out that medicine men (tamkidaru) in Suki have nothing to do with these weather fluctuations. We did not find out how he does consider them to be caused, if they are not ascribed to death in non-Suki villages.

To find out the identity of the person whose soul caused the eclipse, a man of the zirgu clan, which belongs to the cassowary-moiety, has to climb up a tree and ask Namagwari and Gwaui what is the meaning of all this. It has to be a zirgu man, for otherwise Namagwari and Gwaui will not listen or answer. They will only communicate with clansmen, according to Kanuaba. 6) Kanuaba could remember three eclipses, and he gave us the following information as to the events of which he himself was a witness.

DEATH 117

In about 1930 he and a great number of other people saw an almost complete eclipse of the moon in the area of the Eisago marshes. No wonder, Kanuaba said, for the moon appeared to be covered by four souls. Kanauba, who stayed in the boys' house at the time and was probably about twenty, could tell us exactly the four men to wh om· the souls belonged, who went to the tree and who climbed up the tree to ask Namagwari and Gwaui for clarif- ication. The pers ons to whom the souls belonged were all four from the pig-moiety, Kanuaba said. We have not been able to verify this, because we could not find the names of these men in our genealogies; most likely there offspring gave them different names from those they used to listen to. The men who went to the tree--five altogether -- were, save one, all members of the zirgu clan. The exception was a man who, as Kanuaba said, had a naziba (sister' son) who was a zirgu. At the time of the eclipse, the men who were to die we re each tormented by ulcers in the groin and one of them, moreover, by a big ulcer near the anus. 7) Without hesitation Kanuaba could also inform us of the places where they died and in what sequence. The second case that Kanuaba mentioned was an eclipse of the sun he saw at Pukariri. Then he was also in the boys' house, 50 it probably also happened in about 1930. The same man as before climbed the tree and was told th at the soul of the woman Tunda, a zirgu by birth and therefore belonging to the cassowary-moiety, was covering the sun and did not wish to return. Tunda's husband had recently wounded her seriously with a stick. Shortly af ter the eclipse, she died. The third case was an eclipse of the moon in which Kanuaba himself played the main role. It happened in 1942 at Igagu, where many people, who were preparing sago in the neighbourhood, spent the night. When he saw the eclipse, Kanuaba 8)went to a tree just outside the camp together with two other zirgu men. His companions stayed under the tree, while he himself climbed up the tree with a torch in his hand. From the top of the tree Kanuaba called, "Nagaia, Namagwaria, Gwauia, what is the matter?" Af ter some time of silence Kanuaba heard that dogs began to whine in heaven. He also heard that they were beaten up, af ter which it became quiet again. Then Namagwari answered,9)"The man here is Tutie, we tried to send him back, but he did not obey us. We have cut his hair 50 that he will soon die." According to Kanuaba, the two men who were waiting under the tree also understood Namagwari's answer. He thought that all people who stayed behind in the camp and watched the moon from there had also been able to hear Namagwari '5 answer, had they been very quieto Tutie belonged to the pig-moiety. He was also present in the camp. When

C. H. VAN NIEUWENHUIJSEN
the peop1e to1d him what Namagwari had just said, he began to cry. Going back to the village of Ewe his situation visib1y worsened and short1y af ter they had arrived he died. Nayo, our other informant, had observed two ec1ipses of the moon--the first one at Parasadgu in 1952 as a boy of 14. Then no one c1imbed up a tree to ask Namagwari and Gwaui which soul caused the ec1ipse. Afterwards Nayo--and most 1ikely he was not the on1y one -- came to the conc1usion that the soul of his much older ha1f-brother, Miriati must have been responsib1e for the ec1ipse, as he died soon afterwards. Like Nayo, Miriati be10nged to the zirgu clan. At that time he was one of the group that stayed at Parasadgu. We asked Nayo why his brother did not c1imb up the tree, but he was not ab1e to answer our question. We a1so asked him if his brother had been put under pressure. Nayo cou1d not remember anything of that either. Another remarkab1e thing is the fact that Miriati be10nged to the cassowary-moiety, whereas ec1ipses of the moon are be1ieved to be caused by sou1s of peop1e from the pig-moiety. When we drew his attention to this fact, Nayo's on1y reaction was, "Then it may have been another soul af ter all." The second ec1ipse of the moon Nayo saw at the mission station in Gigwa in 1960. Peop1e were about to 1eave for a hunting party during the night, but wh en they became aware of the ec1ipse they decided to stay at the mission station. According to Nayo, everyone was terrified, himse1f inc1uded. All slept in the open, close together. Nayo was the on1y zirgu- man present, and they expected him to c1imb up a tree to contact Namag- war i and Gwaui. But he refused. Wh en they tried to force him, he did not budge. "If there had been clansmen willing to accompany me, I might have done it," he said to us. No doubt Nayo's refusa1 was a1so based on the awareness that no negative supernatural sanctions can be expected from fai1ing to ca11 Namagwari and Gwaui. The on1y unp1easant resu1t he cou1d imagine his refusa1 might have was that the peop1e wou1d remain uncertain about the person who was short1y to disappear from their midst. He did not seem to worry about injuring his own persona1 prestige at that time, a1though in general he had shown himse1f to be sensitive about it. Afterwards, they seem to have conc1uded that 1ast-mentioned ec1ipse must have caused by the souls of two women from the village of Iwewi, as these women died soon afterwards. When the ec1ipse occurred, however, they were both in good hea1th. As later became apparent from data in our househo1d census, and just 1ike Miriati in the previous case, these women be10nged to the moiety to which an ec1ipse of the moon rather than an ec1ipse of the sun is ascribed: they be10nged to the bukaru clan, which is part of

DEATH 119

the cassowary-moiety. Af ter having noticed this, another statement of Nayo came to mind in which he said that souls from the pig-moiety go to the sun and souls from the cassowary-moiety to the moon--exactly the opposite of what Kanuaba would tell us later on in Nayo's·presence. Probably Nayo came to this generalisation on the basis of above-mentioned events and supposit- ions. But we should point out here that Nayo always advised us to get information from the old men if he was not sure about certain customs and ideas. This was so in this case, and on his advice we asked Kanuaba to let his light shine on the subject. However, the fact remains that Nayo, who was a zirgu man and, moreover, much interested in the traditional culture and the history of his people, at first gave another interpretation than Kanuaba.

In the beginning of this essay we pointed out that our statements are not very reliable, because we have only heard two informants about our subject and because we were not in a position to verify the information given by them with our own observations. The reliability has certainly not increased by the fact that there were differences in the experiences and interpretations of the two informants. If zirgu men, who on account of their clan membership are considered to be pre-eminent specialists on the myth of origin and the ritual derived from it, give different interpretations of an important part of the eclipse-complex, how can we expect a unity of ideas among the non-zirgu people. It might be a unity in ignorance. It should be realised that the ideas about eclipses are very seldom activated. Eclipses may not be rare phenomena in themselves, but seen from a certain area on earth they certainly are. And if in a certain place an eclipse may be expected, then it is very much a doubtful question if the circumstances will indeed allow us to make observations. Cl ouds may completely cover up sun and moon and, owing to the time of night, an eclipse of the moon may pass over an area without being noticed at all. And if an eclipse is noticed, it does not mean in the least that the appropriate pattern of behaviour will be exhibited. As we have seen, the most simple ritual can only be performed by men of the zirgu clan. But this very clan is by far the smallest of all Suki clans. The zirgu are still represented in four of the five Suki villages, it is true, but in these four villages most garden and sago swamp groups--the units into which the village communities regularly divide-- have to manage without zirgu men. But even if a zirgu man is present, it is not certain at all if he will be able and willing to answer the expectations, as became clear

J. W. EN C. H. VAN NIEUWENHUIJSEN

from Nayo's experiences. Nowadays, eclipses are announced beforehand by radio and press. Through missionaries and teachers, these announcements also reach the Suki, ·with the result that the essential element of surprise is completely lost and consequently the emotional basis of the complex of ideas strongly undermined. It seems very likely that this new development will have a profound influence on the Su ki ideas about eclipses discussed in this essay.

NOTES

1. In the villages of Duru and Isala people speak of ugugZu.
2. About the fate of Semi, Namagwari and Gwaui there is great confusion. Kanuaba said first that Semi followed the canoe and eventually became the moon. Later on he stated that Semi is the sun and Gwaui the moon. We were informed by others that Semi 's soul rose with the canoe and that his body stayed on the earth and died in the usual way afterwards. These informants could not tell us anything about the present where- abouts of Semi, Namagwari and Gwaui. Ot hers were of the opinion that it was not Semi who became divided in body and soul, but Namagwari. About one thing they agreed and that was that the ascended dug-out canoe is visible as the Milky Way.
3. No special meaning is given to a red sunset.
4. A gikwadaru is a person from the gikwa (cassoway)-moiety and a kwaindaru is a pers on from the kwainu {pig)-moiety.
5. These omens, just like eclipses, are only related to the death of adults.
6. Namagwari, Gwaui and Semi are usually considered to belong all th ree to the zirgu clan, Namagwari and/or Gwaui sometimes to the now extinct maruapi clan, which was considered to be closely related with the zirgu.
7. Most likely there is question here of venereal disease that was frequently met with in the area south of Suki, according to patrol reports in that time.
8. Kanuaba is indeed a member of the cassowary clan, even clan elder at Ewe, but he still considers himself as a zirgu man, because he spent all his youth under the care of zirgu men at Duru and, up to his marriage with a girl from the village of Ewe, was fed by them all that time.
9. According to Kanuaba, people can tell by the voice if they are dealing w1th Na.agwari or with Gwaui. Namagwari has a clear male voice and Gwaui has an indistinct female voice.
   LITERATURE

Lawrence, P. 1971 Statements about Religion: the Problem of Reliability. In L.R. Hiatt & C. Jayawardena (eds), AnthropoZogy in Oaeania: Essays Presented to Ian Hogbin. Angus and Robertson, Sydney.

approx. 280 m1les from Halls Creek

-----......

#####, '" ' \

\ \

• BedfordI
  I Downs Derby UNGGA approx. 255 from mlles ~ ___ Halls Creek

Tc Broome L U 1'T

approx •.... 1----

345 milcs
from1)J .... RU
Halls Creelt

• Ruby Pla1ne D J .\ R U

To Ba1go approx. lil A P o Ir E150 mlles from Halls creek \ South-eastern K1mberleys

LUNGGA (GIDJA) MYTHIC COROLLARY

Ronald M. Berndt

The occasion of a FestBahrift provides an opportunity to choose a topic which is, at least to same extent, relevant to the work and interests of the person being honoured. Under these circumstances, it would perhaps have been more apposite to have written about some aspects of New Guinea life. My wife and I first met Jan van Baal (and Dr. G.J. Held) during the 1949 Pacific Science Congress in New Zealand, and they followed up this acquaintance later in Sydney on their return journey. At that time we had not yet carried out research in New Guinea. Despite our interest in that field, we have been more consistently involved in Aboriginal Australia. My area of concentration relates to Aboriginal religion. And it is in the study of religion, both in general terms and in connection with the Marind-Anim, that Professor van Baal has made a significant anthropological contribution. My own offering, in the present instance, brings in two elements of universal human concern that receive special attention in Australian Aboriginal religion-- life, and death. Seen from one perspective, in material terms, they constitute two ends of a finite continuum. From another perspective, they have been transmuted for religious purposes, as part of the concept of the Dreaming (as it is of ten called in translation). The assumption there, of ten symbolically framed, is that spiritual continuity dissolves the barriers which superficially appear to set limits to human life and spiritual potentialities. That proposition, or belief, is at the basis of Aboriginal religion. The Dreaming is, or contains within it, the source of life. Out of the Dreaming comes a mythically-derived spirit, or one aspect of such a spirit, which animates a foetus prior to physical birth. At death, that spirit leaves its material vehicle to return to the Dreaming and in many cases to be, eventually, reborn (See R. Berndt 1974 : Fasc. 4, 24-5). Man, in a final sense, is thus considered to be immortal. It is, therefore, from van Baal 's recent volume (1971 : Chapter X) that

dingari mythology from the northern sector of the Western Oesert. I suggested that in this system of belief both good and bad were accepted as a natural condition of living (Berndt 1970: 235); thlt the ethical universe of Western Oesert Aborigines embraced the total environment --the social and the natural, and the supernatural; and that in order to cope with an essentially unpredictable environment, they made it ritually (or symbolically) predictable and so were confident of being able to achieve some control over it. To use van Baal 's words (ibid.: 273): ' ... ritual is an act in unison with the cos mos and the society as a whole. The two are of the same structure and it is the merit of totemism that it grants every member of a society his own specific place in the social fabric and in nature'. He was referring to the Marind-Anim but, as he pointed out, it is also relevant to Aboriginal Australia; it is the mythic beings who provide an emotional security, and who are, in fact, 'the mediators between man and universe'.

BACKGROUND:

The substance of this contribution comes from the south-eastern Kimberleys of Western Australia (see Map). It is focused on the Gidja (or Giidja) people, as they mostly call themselves, who over the years have been considerably influenced by their neighbours, the Djaru. Lungga is the Djaru name for them. Since I came to know them first from a Djaru perspective, I refer to them here as Lungga. In their dealings with non-Gidja people, as in the mixed Djaru-Gidja camp where I recorded these songs, they themselves used the name Lungga as an acceptable alternative. The anthropological literature on them is not extensive (see Craig 1968), and mostly scattered. It is also unintegrated, and no overall study is available. Dr. Kaberry spent six months in the Halls Creek area in 1935 and her volume, Aboriginal Woman (1939), is the most comprehensive published statement on them to date. When she was with them, she estimated their numbers as between 600 and SOO, which would have made them the largest 'tribe' in the Kimberleys (ibid.: x). Today that figure has been considerably reduced, and Lungga culture as a living reality has almost entirely disappeared, although some traditional material may still be

RONALD M. BERNDT

obtained. Comparative material from a nearby area (Balgo) is to be found in

R. Berndt (1970, 1972, 1973). This concerns primarily mythology and ritual, where there are indirect linkages with the Lungga and even closer ones with the Djaru. Also, my wife and I have unpublished Djaru/Njining material obtained in 1944-45 from Birrundudu (then an outstation of Gordon Downs, on the Northern Territory side). Two song cycles are presented here. One is the Lungga equivalent of the dingari or Gadjeri, which in this case is cal led dJadu. Balgo variations are discussed in Berndt (1970, 1973 and 1974). Essentially, it is a mytho-ritual complex which is secret-sacred, and is associated with a number of mythic characters. It focuses on the Old Woman or Mother (the Gadjeri), and relates to the travels of a group of mythic men. They move from one site to another, usually followed by women, and accompanied by novices. The Lungga version given here is incomplete : the Mother is not mentioned (although the nanggaru. a central feature of the dingari. is), and the sequential flow of the songs is of ten broken; also, the impact of dramatic incidents within the cycle is weakened through lack of detail. Nevertheless, it bears a close resemblance to other'dingari' traditions. The second cycle, known as a bururu. can be cal led non-secret, although structurally it does not differ markedly from parts of the dingari. Like the dJadu (or dingari), it is ngaranggani (that is, of the Dreaming), and therefore regarded in a general sense as sacred. The purpose concerns the movements of dJuari or spirit(s) of the dead : mostly one of them is mentioned, Murunggu by name. Kaberry (ibid.: et seq.) reported that these ghosts were feared by Aborigines who we re not among their own kin, although during mortuary rituals those kin were believed to be most vulnerable until the proper observances had been completed. In appearance they were said to be ugly, with red eyes and horns, but these attributes are not mentioned in this particular cycle; nor do they appear in a painting illustrated by Crawford (1968 : 93). Djuari are said to have been the special helpers of sorcerers, who were instructed by them or used them as intermediaries. They also protected their kinsfolk (traditionally, af ter the completion of the appropriate mortuary rites) and on occasion taught them, through dreams, new songs and dances (See also Capell 1939 : 385 and Warms 1957 : e.g., 744). They are sometimes associated or partially (onZy partially) identified with Djanba. or Djanba, a category of spirit beings or a specific being; but to discuss this, or even to refer to the published material on Djanba, would lead us too far away from our main theme and expand the range of this chapter. The dJadu. in spite of its fragmentation (owing to the partial col lapse

bururu, which is really concerned with the comings and goings of Murunggu between the Land of the Dead, located in the west or north-west, and country in and around the homeland of the Lungga. In the original form of the cycle, Murunggu provides a kind of shuttle-service for spirits of the newly dead. He is intent on his charges: on corpses, and on leading the spirits that formerly inhabited them to immortality and/or providing them with an intermediate stopping-off point before reincarnation (See Kaberry 1935 : 34-47; 1939 209-18, Worms 1940 : 213-82, Petri 1968 : 277-87, R. Berndt 1974 : Fasc. 2, 29-31). Some of the songs refer to areas outside of Lungga territory, and some are on alien topics. The present bururu cycle is said to have come through the Fitzroy Crossing to Mt. Amherst (as in Song 24) and on to Moola Boola and to Halls Creek. The dingari, like the dJadu, while it enshrines everyday living, also concerns death (as in the case of the Emu women : Songs 6-10). We see too the immortalization of de ad ritual leaders, through their names appearing in the songs, underlining their eternal relevance. The bururu, while it might seem to emphasize 'taking away life' (through spirits of the dead), also emphasizes the sustaining of life (through, for instance, the teaching of ritual). Both cycles have been recorded on tape, but only one of the songs has appeared on disc (in Berndt and Phillips, eds. 1973 : Vol. 11, long playing record I, Side 2, track 16): this is Song No. 13 of the bururu cycle. In format the songs are succinct, made up of several key words which are repeated several times. It is unlikely that each cycle is complete in itself, because Lungga cultural knowledge has receded considerably through alien contact and through the intrusion of Djaru (and other) traditions. Without the aid of the Lungga songleader, Djimanggi, it would have been impossible in 1962 to obtain as many bururu songs as are set out here. In 1968 I attempted to obtain more of these; but Djimanggi was ailing fast, and younger men who knew some of them, or knew the words, were unable to explain them adequately. As it is, the translations of the 1962 series are not as satisfactory as one would have wished. I had little control of Lungga as a language, although 1 already knew some Djaru. The general meaning in each case was made clear in the course of comments and discussion : the problem lay, rather, in the specific translation of each song word. And not all the song words are in Lungga or Djaru. Further, the cycle is made up of songs which do not always seem to run sequentially in terms of theme (As regards transcription : I have used a simple anglicized orthography, and the only point that needs special mention is that 'j' is equivalent to 'y').

RONAlD M. BERNDT

The two cycles were recorded at Halls Creek (Ngundjuwa) in 1962 : the dJadu on June Sth-6th and the bururu on May 30th-June 2nd. In both, the song-leader was Billy Djimanggi, a dJanama subsection lungga man. In the first cycle he was helped by Vimbulang (dJawaZji subsection) and by Georgie Birrill, Wonbangin (dJangaZa subsection). In the second, these three men were supplemented by Wuli (Willy), Tommy Milbngari, and Fred Imala of the dJuZama subsection, and Tommy Gilamboi of the dJangaZa subsection. Djimanggi and Gilamboi we re the only lungga men: the others were Djaru. Djimanggi who, as mentioned, was growing old and frail, was helped in the singing by Vimbulang.

THE DJADU SONG CVClE

1. The song mentions Djalumara, a place located on the Halls Creek side of Gogo (Margaret Downs) station, in lungga country. The man referred to was a lungga dJabida subsection man whom the song-leader, Djimanggi, cal led gaZji (sister's son) -- reciprocal ngamini (mother's brother): he was responsible for 'finding' this song. djalumara gangara baridjalbanggu country hiding
   personal name of dead man gudjimara bony (i.e., getting old, emaciated)

Hiding old Baridjalbanggu At Djalumara.

2. Variation of Song 1. The dJadu (here referred to as a ritual group of men) is moving east along the Gogo (Margaret) river, accompanied by Baridjalbanggu. gudjimaralu djalumara-maralu baridjalba-marmaralu bony (getting old) place
   personal name of dead man

3. The dJadu moves east to Biri, following the river. Djalbalga was a dJagara subsection man, now dead. waduna djalbalga jiranu walking along (river) personal name of de ad man going along birin to Biri

Song 3. As the dJadu men move along the river they tread on some dry bushes, which crackle. This is the noise referred to (djalbalga, or djilbagu), and it is also the meaning of the dead man's name. The noise rises (drifts upward) toward Biri (which means 'this way, this way', referring to 'going across'-- that is, crossing the junction of the Margaret and Mary rivers). Birin is also a Lungga word for 'sky'.

waduna djalbalgajura-jiranu birinbirei going along noise rising thi s way bi ri nbi rei this way

Sound rlslng as they crush the dry bushes, Crossing over.

5. As the dJadu men walk along the Margaret river, they disturb a flock of cockatoos (taba, or ngamari), who fly away along the gully. burudba ngal ungunja
   ngamari ngunj a deep going frighten them cockatoos

ganda wiringga flying (away) along gully

Disturbed, the cockatoos fly Along the gully.

6. The Emu are ngapanggani (Dreaming), and in this case are women. Nandjala (spotted cat), also a mythic being, climbs a boab tree (dJumulu) to pick its fruit (wanggu, which are cooked in an oven before eating). He sees the women and throws one of these among them as they sleep. Startled, they talk among themselves and plan to go off on their own. Before leaving, however, and in anger at being disturbed, they knock over the boab tree, collect all the available food, and go away. Nandjala asks himself : 'What are we to do ?' But the women have gone too far, and he remains temporarily in the branches of the collapsed tree. ganangandja wiadubara emu (awakes) leaving them
   

   Emus leaving.

RONALD M. BERNDT

7. The Emu mothers speak to their daughters, asking if their legs are strong enouqh for walking : they reply that they are. murarindj; ganda-wininju ji ranu emu girls continue (our) legs are good (going along)
   With legs untired, They continue walking.

8. Nandjala leaves his tree, follows the women, and sneaks up close to the gi rls. dji gbi -dj i gbi badba-badbana djigbi-djigbana-woluna sneaking up carefully spying

   Sneaking up, carefully.

9. Nandjala comes close to them. In anger he pulls his boomerang (gaZi, Djaru; garaberi, Lungga) from his waistband and holds it ready to throw. gundalnga ji djugba wol i nderi close holding pull it out
   Holding his boomerang, Ready to throw.

10. Nandjala kills the Emu women at Ngarindji spring, on Moola Boola station, having thrown his boomerang from the Manbaran hills close by. The Emu women 'turn into' rocks: Nandjala also 'turns into' rock within a cave at Manbaran. The Emu women were, incidentally, hit on their arms; that is why emus do not have 'proper' arms today. (I.e., this is one account of how that came about.) ngarindji manbaran spring place (high hills)

    At Ngarindji, at Manbaran.

11. However, Nandjala continues. badim djungana juljulbunga red ochre rubbing for body painting
    Preparing~red ochre, To 'paint' their bodies.

dJadu, with Nandjala, leave the Moola Boola area for Balimanda, on the 'other side' of Walu near Moola Boola, where there are rockholes. These are the nanggaru (See' R. Berndt 1970 : 235-6; the nanggaru symbolizes the Mother's or Gadjeri 's womb). The dJadu are accompanied by novices (maZuZu), who are instructed in religious matters.

gulu djadji nanggaru-nanggaru balimanda

go away qui ckly to rockholes place

Moving quickly to the rockholes,

At Bal imanda.

13. The song proclaims 'I am Malanggwuri "-- who was a dJabida subsection man.
    

    gab ad a malanggwuri gabada

(calling his name) name of dead man

Invoking Malanr:gwuri.

14. Menbela, a dead Lungga djabida subsection man, expresses sorrow for his country --through which the novices pass. He is thinking of the desert country south of Christmas Creek, from which they came. djabi da menbe 1 a nga i na malulu subsection dead man's name (sorrow) novi ces
    

    Menbela, thinking sorrowfully

Of hi s country,

As the novices travel through it.

15. The Dreaming plains Kangaroo (~aZambanj, Lungga; maZangana, Djaru) is startled by the cry of a black bird (dini, Lungga; din, Djaru) who warns him of the approach of men. Kangaroo half rises, and then stands fully upright, alert.
    

    ludbungga waldjimbi bungalanga

wake up arising a little standing up (alert)

Startled, rising and listening.

16. Kangaroo, who is a 'mate' of Nandjala, runs away, followed by the dead djabida man noted in Song 14.

RONALO M. BERNDT

mungguna njumbu-njumbu wandinja backbone hopping away shade

mungguna djalaluna leaving

Hopping away, quickly toward the shade.

17. The dJabida man tracks Kangaroo to his shade under a large desert tree where he lies resting.
    

    bindjijalajala ngi ri gi ri

bi 9 tree south-east (long way)

Within the shade ...

18. A variation of Song 17. The dJadu men frighten Kangaroo, who leaves the shade. ja1urja1ur-bindjijalaja1a1a ngi ri gi ri ja 1 uru1 resting in shade of tree south -east
    (long way)

19. The dJadu men seek honey (garei. Lungga; giranga. Djaru), cutting into a tree with their stone axes (guÜJa). bararid djinamba lagaridjunama honey hard wax splitting tree

    Sp1 itting trees for honey.

20. They cut out the hard wax to get at the honey. 1 agari djinamba warereri-djinamba cutting hard wax bees

    Obtaining honey.

21. Kangaroo decorates himse1f for ritua1; in ritua1 posturing, he shakes himself so that featherdown fal1s to the ground. djagadinmari jura gulininba1a decorating with feathers shaking south
    Decorated with featherdown, Shaking, (and turning) south.

Club' station, near Bedford Downs, Nandumiri), Kangaroo hangs from the rocks the secret-sacred darugu boards which he has been carrying. Lungga darugu were originally quite plain, and it was these which Kangaroo put at this place; in later years, with increased inter-'tribal' contact, designs of concentric circles and lines were incised on the darugu to represent topography of mythic significance. Nandumiri was also the Dreaming site of Eaglehawk (ganbida, Lungga; bila, Djaru) who, being disturbed by the darugu, left this place to go east to attend Gadjeri rituals.

gululu-bingga 1 i ndjara guladja-guladja hi gh hi 11, hang up putting there place

Hanging darugu from the rocks, At Guladja-guladja.

Leaving the shade, Kangaroo hopping away.

(The mythic adventures of Kangaroo were recorded in some detail on tape immediately af ter the singing of Song 24. However, they are not set out or discussed here, since they bring in many aspects not strictly relevant to the theme of this paper.)

COMMENTS:

The djadu is, as I have noted, a Lungga equivalent of the dingari. Enough published material is available for the northern sector of the

RONALD M. BERNDT

Western Desert to enable us to distinguish certain features which are common to any mytho-ritual cycle of this type. These are: (a) a mirroring or reflection of the kind of traditional life led in the Desert or near-Desert areas; (b) a highlighting of specific incidents within the cycle itself which indicate the inevitability of disaster and/or of 'wrong' actions; and (c) a three-fold relationship between man, his natural environment and his mythic beings. This cycle touches on each of these, but not as satisfactorily as I would wish, for reasons already noted. In regard to (a), we have the movement of dJadu men who constitute a ritual food-collecting group, accompanied by novices; some distance away from them is a complementary group of women. From time to time, they interact. Similar examples are to be seen in the dingaPi myth sections discussed by R. Berndt (~970 : 224-32): these mythic men and women travel from one place to another, collecting food as they go. The kangaroo hu nt mentioned in Songs 15-18, 21-24, superficially represents this kind of activity; so does the collecting of honey in Songs 19-20, or of boab fruit in Song 6. In regard to (b), two incidents are especially prominent: the killing of the Emu women, and the chasing of Kangaroo. But neither sequence is complete. The first (Songs 6-10) represents a type of incident found in virtually all dingaPi mythology. Women are killed because they have seen the secret-sacred darugu boards which the men carry (see Berndt ibid.: 228, Myth-Section

v. 12): or an attempt is made to kill the women because young men have sexual intercourse with them (ibid.: 230, Myth-Section VI. 6). What Song 6 does not point out explicitly is that (I) the women camped too close to the men, and (11) the tree from which Nandjala threw his boab fruit was really a repository for the darugu. It is not so much that the women were sleeping close to this tree, as that they knocked it over, and removed all the food. Nandjala remained in the broken tree because of the darugu. The second incident, involving Kangaroo (Songs 15-18, 21-24), is not an ordinary case of hunting. It really brings in two aspects : one, an initiatory sequence (similar to that oulined in R. and C. Berndt 1964/1968 206-7); the other, the darugu boards which Walambanj carries and which the dJadu men want. That point is not revealed until Song 23, which notes that Kangaroo has these boards. Further, it is not clear whether Walambanj had stolen them from the dJadu. I shall not discuss here whether the killing of the Emu women and the frustrated hunt for Walambanj are to be regarded as 'wrong' actions on the part of the dJadu or of the others : that aspect is not referred to here, although it has been explored in R. Berndt (1970).

djadu form a river --that is, they rustle dry bushes as they walk (Song 4): the Emu women are transformed into ordinary emus (implied), and/or metamorphosed as rocks, as is Nandjala himself (Song 10) -- although he continues his travels. Immediately following comes the preparation of red ochre (Song 11), with reference to the nanggaru which is one of the main ritual features of the dingari. The cycle ends with the depositing of darugu at Guladja-guladja(Song 23). The primary linkage between human and mythic beings, and one which emphasizes human affinity with the Dreaming, appears in Song 1, 2, 13 and

14. In these, personal names of dead Lungga men are sung --not as if they were dead, but as if they are spiritually 'alive', entrenched within the context of the Dreaming, and as if their 'presence' can be brought to bear on current events. Their names identify them with particular mythic actions, placing them within the realm of events outlined in this cycle. What is more, these personal names could just as well have been those of men physically living today, as they of ten are in dingal~ cycles farther south. Men have said to me, 'I am here, now; but I am also there, now, as I have always been' --that is, deathless in the sense of the Dreaming, stressing spiritual continuity in the face of physical change. This is probably the most important aspect arising from this cycle.

    THE BURURU CYCLE

15. The cycle commences in the far north-west of the Kimberleys. njumburi duguragu njumburi malgaranu country boab trees tide jaribamangga rising (toward beach)
    Country of boab trees, Tide flowing in.

16. A sorcerer (djaZa, with power derived from the djuari) causes a boat's aerial to fall.

Sy the salt water, (That) wireless boat at Kalumburu.

mainamulambalu danci ng

Coming in from the bush, Danci ng.

4. This scene takes place in the bush at the other side of 'Nibiog' station --unidentified, but probably located north-west of the Fitzroy River. Murunggu makes a damper in his camp, high among the rocks (A damper is a flat 'cake' of flour and water, cooked in hot coals or hot ashes. Traditionally the 'flour' was usually composed of ground grass seeds, etc.).
   

   jil imbiri guda-ingana galgudalangara

in the bush making damper in the rocks

In the bush, in among the rocks, Making damper.

duldul bianga buralg going away

Leaving the rocky hills, Gathering people together, Going toward the sea.

6. Frightened by Murunggu, the people mentioned in Song 3 leave Manggaia-ngalgima (near Christmas Creek, south-west of Halls Creek), for the salt-water country. manggaia-ngaialgima jaminggi daramanan place sea-way
   they go away

People who have come in from the Deser.t sit together at Djiladjingga (where Christmas Creek station is now), making secret-sacred darugu boards. They are frightened by Murunggu and go away.

djil adjingga bururumana ngamali-dudormani

place travell i ng sitting together

Rising in fear from where they were sitting, At Djiladjingga, They move away.

8. Murunggu is inside a willywilly (whirlwind) travelling across the country, coming to Mandagu, which is close to Lambu (Lamboo) station, not far south of Halls Creek.

waterhole

Willywilly following the creek, To the waterhole of Mandagula.

9. Af ter heavy rain, the frogs begin to croak at Laurun (Bulara), on the other side of Ruby Plains station, south of Halls Creek, on Sturt Creek in Djaru territory. Murunggu hears them.

Ruffled surface of the billabong, At Laurun. Frogs croaking.

10. Murunggu gets up from the rock on which he has been sitting, and as he does so it cracks. The sound frightens people living at Gudandinja (at the other side of 'Banana' Springs in the bush, in Djaru territory); they leave this place, travelling toward Kalumburu. bandalwulngu waliwali baralgbirinji cracking rock
    toward salt water getting away from galinda singing as they walk.

RONALD M. BERNDT Cracking rock! They move away, Toward the salt water, singing.

11. Murunggu is walking along, returning to the salt-water country. He comes to Gundji (Koongie Park station, just south of Halls Creek), where he sees a lamp. This is in Djaru country. It is not clear whether there are several Murunggu (dJuari) or only one, or whether he is (they are) travelling alone or with the people mentioned in Song 10. gundji umbalumbalu jami nggi manabianga place leaving returning lamp light
    Leaving the light at Gundji, Returning (to the salt water).

12. Murunggu has caught a long salt-water fish, 'Kalumburu way'. Unable to carry it, he drags it along the wet marshy ground.

    jalialu galabirindi jalialu manabiang

long fish dragging wet (shining) ground following ga 1 abi ri ndi

Long fish dragging, Along the wet ground.

13. Looking over his shoulder, Murunggu sees the marks he has made in the marshy ground. He thinks that someone could easily track him, so he shuffles his feet to and fro,'covering' them or hiding them.

salt water at its mouth (at Derby). He comes to Milalingmangga

~/est of Chri stmas Creek. The ti de comes from Wawundu, where Worora is spoken (cal led Wurara or Wirarang, referring to the language). The Worora originally oçcupied Walcott Inlet from Collier Bay to the Prince Regent River. However, many later moved to Mowanjum mission station on the fringe of Derby township. which is relatively close to the Fitzroy River.

wawundu jelanbanga milalingmangga place tide coming up (finding) country

Tide rising near Milalingmangga, From the Wurara people.

16. Murunggu sees a long-nosed crocodile floating on the tide. biriwoni-janbilimangga djilgi-lalanggara floating on the tide (from Wurara way) crocodile
    Crocodile floating, From the Wurara.

17. Murunggu hears people speaking Wurara, and 'catches' (hears, or understands) their words. midjidi djiriwongga talking (sound) 'like half singing' bindjidai-ngaljiliwongga (language) they make words (speaking)
    They speak, Talking in sing-song fashion.

18. Murunggu has been handling a corpse (wulanggu) at Kalumburu : as he does so, its skin rubs off, leaving a white appearance 'like a white man' (gadi). As he holds his spear and thrower, he notices that the palms of his hands are also white. malang gadiburwani hand 'white' man resemble (get) wiu-daladala malang
    gad i bu rwang holding spear and thrower

With whitened hands, Holding his weapons.

19. Murunggu speaks about this emblem at Kalumburu. It is a jipari (in Djaru, a wonigi; in Lunggu, a wiranggu), constructed like a long thread-cross mounted on poles or spears with several horizontal

RONALD M. BERNDT

bars. Traditionally, this mas made from kangaroo-fur 'string'. Today, European wool is used.

jirari ritual emblem bijumana-reremana for making a long one (emblem)

Heaping up fur, Ready to make a jirari.

20. Murunggu makes a jirari. It was said that he is a 'doctor' and gives it to a close relative (who lives at or ne ar Kalumburu).

it it up')

Jirari. growing taller

it.

wolai-bianga inside water

Diver, diving from a boat, Looking for shell.

22. Murunggu is now back in Lungga country, at Mount Dami (probably Mt. Amherst) station, west of Moola Moola, near Halls Creek. From the rocky hill he sees a girl sitting in the 'long shade' (that is, in the shadow cast by the setting sun) of a bloodwood tree. bandalwur ngalimbilnggana maweru girl wi thi n shade of bloodwood wandjiwa casting long shade
    Girl sitting, In the long shade of the bloodwood.

dJuari (or, this refers specifically to Murunggu who is himself a dJuari): 'We want to see her (the girl in Song 22) close-up'. He comes down from the rocks and goes along the bank of a river toward her.

juari dugodwongga ngaliliwongga dJuari along rocks we want to see her closer jelangguma dugodwongga gar-jelangguma going down along river bank

Djuari among the rocks, Coming closer to look at her.

24. Murunggu and the dJuari find a large cave in the rocky outcrop at Windjina (Winjidi), west of the Fitzroy River coming from Mt. Amherst (Windjina is probably Milliewindie, ne ar the Pittard Bluff). Here, they want to lie down and rest. There is a spring near the cave which contains frogs. Afterward they travel toward the sea. winjidi ngaiamanga-ganananggu place we want to lie down here djedawangga frogs
    At Windjina we rest, Wi th the frogs.

25. Murunggu and the dJuari leave the rocks and walk toward the west, eventually coming to a jetty (dJidi) to which a boat comes. djidigana-djidigana wananambi gana-wananambi boat coming to jetty leaving rocks (coming down toward)
    Co mi ng down, Boat coming close to the jetty.

26. Murunggu gives this song to a native doctor or sorcerer who had seen a plane landing: 'in front' refers to the place where the pilot sits. driliin-driliinbanga galguda-wolala aeroplane landing
    flying from long way nanaiga flainangga in front flying away

Pl ane 1 andi ng, Coming from a long way, Flyi ng away.

M. BERNDT
27. Murunggu also gives this song to the native doctor. It refers to a plane landing at Balgo mission station (south of Sturt Creek); nanaiga was said to be a Walmadjari word meaning,' in this case, 'bringing something in the plane'; guZumara, also a Djaru wprd, is a kind of bush eaten by camels --these bushes shake in the wind caused by the landing plane. driliin-driliinbanga gulumara-wandara coming down (landing) bushes shaking nanaiga (bringing someting)
Pl ane land i ng, Shaking the bushes, Bringing something.

28. Murunggu sees two Chinese fighting at 8roome or Derby 'liberi' is the word 'livery', referring to their becoming angry. bamburgana liberi djainanba hitting sound (in fighting) 'livery' Chinamen djaijangbanga bamburgana-bambaru Chinamen
    Sound of hitting, Angry Chi nese.

29. Murunggu recognizes a native doctor; he knows by the man's face that he is the right kind of person to whom he may give his song; nubudJuna-dambi refers to transmission of the song words and its rhythm.

    djali muluwa djal i nunbudjuna-dambi

doctor face talking to

Recognizing the right person, Communicating his song.

30. Murunggu shows the dJaZa (Song 29) a large dancing object which is 1 i ke a ;}irl1!'i (lJonigi) but i s hel d hori zonta lly wi th both hands. It resembles a large wooden dish used by female Murunggu to collect white ants (dJamundu) from which they make a kind of damper. malawandji-malamala garibanggana dancing emblem for showing malawan galundu-jurubanggana emblem like large wooden dish

fis~ as the tide recedes, they are left stranded in a deep pool.

mulgala-galala jaminggi-jurubani discoloured water swirling

Di scol oured, Swirling water.

32. Murunggu calls the men for dancing and to bring their bags of flour. They laugh at the jokes made. Everyone is happy because there is plenty of food and they want to dance. banggi janimarimari junmarida (bags) from shoulder putting them down laughing
    Bringing bags of flour, Laughing with pleasure.

33. Murunggu gives this song to a doctor. In the dance they s~:ing their empty bags attached to the ends of long sticks. rari ngga janimarimari banggi one (bag) left putting them down from shoulder dj anma redadama swinging them
    With one bag left, Swinging the empty bags.

34. This refers to the Gunian language (also cal led Konejandi by Tindale 1940: 205) spoken by people living on the Margaret River, west to the Fitzroy River. Murunggu meets these people and learns their language. nundebi ri balalingaia galindji-galai different language talking sitting round nundebi ri balalingaia galindji-galindjig
    People sitting round, Talking Gunian.

35. Gwiari refers to a river close to but west of Christmas Creek, in Djaru-Gunian territory. Murunggu leaves this country going toward Fitzroy Junction : he sees this river and crosses over.

RONALD M. BERNDT

It is said, 'We may not see him : only doctors see him.' Murunggu then goes westward to Wirindja country.

gwiari jaluwongga janamanmala.

river river sound toward Fitzroy Junction

Sound of river,

Toward the crossing.

36. Murunggu goes along the rocky hill named Galandjada, ne ar 'Nugamba' (Noonkanbah) station on the Fitzroy River. The hill is probably Mt. Anderson. From there he looks toward Guringal, near Christmas Creek, thinking that he would like to walk in that direction.
    

    buran-galala gal andj ada djinmala

going up along a high hill place looking down jaragbandanja buraburan-gala going down toward

Climbing Galandjada,

Looking toward Guringal.

37. Murunggu, however, looks down from another side of Gulandjada hill and sees men ne ar Biriba rockhole inspecting and singing over their secret-sacred darugu boards. They are frightened of him and run away. Murunggu picks up the darugu and throws them into the rockhole. gulandjinga biriba-biribanbang (from) Gulandjada Biriba rockhole gulandjinga jalngaijalnga
    

    throwing into the water

From Gulandjada he saw them.

Throwing into Biriba.

38. This rockhole (mentioned in Song 37) is a Dreaming Rain place (dJila) where rain is 'made'. The darugu were put there by Murunggu -- but the darugu are also people, 'they are bathing there'.
    

    jilaji la galalang narunggana

rockhole making rain bathi ng

They are bathing there (those darugu),

Making rain.

COMMENT:

The clue to this cycle, in terms of what Murunggu symbolizes is to be found in the focus on Kalumburu on one hand, and in his concern with rocks on the other. Both identify him as a spirit of the dead, not an ordinary one but a special kind of spirit of the ngaranggani Dreaming, in contrast to the more personal spirits of the recently dead. Both are djuari, but Murunggu parallels other mythic beings whose spirit can in part be reborn through the medium of a human mother. For instance, a man's animating spirit may be (as in the dJadu kangaroo : on death, part of that spirit returns to Kangaroo as a mythic being, but part of it, too, can remain as a djuari. The same is the case with Murunggu : he too can be an animating spirit, and on death the spirit of a person who has served as Murunggu's material vehicle returns to him or remains as a dJuari. As the Dreaming Murunggu, he conducts ghosts of the de ad to the Land of the Dead, originally located (as far as the Lungga are concerned) in the west. lts actual position is, however, not clear and by the early 1960's it was assumed to be in the vicinity of Kalumburu. The cycle cnmmences with events at Kalumburu, and returns to these in Songs 12 and 13 and in Songs 18 to 21, but switches (for instance) to the Derby area in Songs 15 to 17. Murunggu is also identified as a spirit of the dead, by his leaving the coastal areas for the Lungga-Djaru region --returning, as it were, to his own country, where he is said to live among the graves and rocky shelters and gorges. Songs 4-5, 10, 23 and 36 provide examples of this, for it is there that the Lungga used to hide the bones of their dead (see Kaberry 1939: 211); and it is there too that dJuari are sure to be found. The cycle, therefore, symbolizes the movement of Murunggu between the Land of the Dead and the land of the living. He returns only to obtain spirits of the dead, so as to guide them back into the Dreaming and confer up on them immortality. In Song 8, he appears as a willywilly (a shape which he commonly takes); in Song 10, he frightens people as he searches for the newly de ad; in Songs 22-23, he considers the potentiality of a girl as a dJuari. It is in this guise that he is feared -- not simply in terms of the newly-dead, but by the deceased's close kin who, as Kaberry (ibid.: 210) notes, are most vulnerable at such a time: 'kinship ties are so strong that the djuari may seek to take the surviving relatives with them', and the only means of protection against this are the tabus

RONALO M. BERNDT

and ritual observances surrounding mourning and final disposal of the remains of the dead person. When the mourning is over, there is a volte-faae on the part of the dJuari. The de ad person's living relatives now have little to fear from their own kin who have become dJuari : they are in a position to receive any benefits these de ad kin may care to offer (ibid.: 217). In the cycle, these have to do mainly with the teaching of ritual sequences, as in Songs 19 and 20, for example, when Murunggu shows how a wonigi emblem may be made; in Songs 29-30, when he recognizes an appropriate native doctor to whom he can reveal a dancing emblem, along with its appropriate songs; and similarly in Songs 32-33, in relation to a contact dancing sequence. In the last two songs (37 and 38), there is reference to secret-sacred darugu. This is not so easy to interpret, until we remember that darugu boards are really material representations of living and mythic personages, symbolizing in the songs both the liquidation of physical life and its re-creation in spiritual terms : and/or, in the final song, bringing life (that is rain) out of the destruction of life.

CONCLUSION:

The intent of each song cycle has already been briefly mentioned. It is not my aim here to force the matter of their significanee. In simple terms, each approaches a range of socio-cultural problems in a particular way and, while they diverge in content, each deals with the issue of death as it does of life. One point in this connection requires emphasizing. Kaberry noted (ibid.: 211) that these Aborigines did not turn their religious imagination to an undue focus on death, and because of that they did not develop 'a cult of death'. In fact, such a view would be contrary to the basic tenets of the Dreaming. The dJadu, while concerned with several issues of varying importance, also -- as mentioned --revivifies deceased ritual leaders through the medium of song. It does this by denying physical death and by capitalizing on the spiritual nature of man. In contrast, the bururu recognizes death as an essential pre-requisite for living. In doing this, it also underlines the constant fear of death which can be overcome only through death itself, which is seen as providing an entrée to immortality. In one sense, the bururu points the way through which death may be overcome : in the dJadu, death has seemingly been conquered.

dJadu, a1though it is in the bururu. In the last, the dJuari, whi1e led by Murunggu to the Land of the Dead, are**--in part--**committed to the sphere of human affairs : their ties with their material remains stored in the rocky hi11s and with their close kin are not so easi1y severed. The triumph of 1ife over death is enunciated as a basic principle in Aboriginal re1igion as it is in secu1ar belief (see R. Berndt 1974). Lomme1's (1950) 'cult of despair' and E1iade's (1973: 178) eschato10gica1 syndrome are products of the destruction of traditional Aboriginal 1ife and are possib1e on1y under such conditions. This is not a matter of comp1acency on the part of the Lungga or other Austra1ian Aborigines. Within the belief system which is the Dreaming, there is recognition that the vicissitudes of socia1 1ife may not be evaded and are in fact a natura 1 conditi on of 1 i vi ng ei ther in human or n,'n-human terms. But, in spite of this or, rather, because of that, man may and does achieve immorta1ity through symbo1ic communication with the dead as with the living.

REFERENCES

Baal, J. van 1971 SymboZs for Communiaation: an introduation to the anthropoZogiaaZ stuay of reZigion. Van Gorcum, Assen. Berndt, R.M. 1970 Traditional Mora1ity as Expressed through the medium of an Austra1ian Aboriginal Re1igion. In AustraZian AboriginaZ AnthropoZogy (R.M. Berndt, ed.). University of Western Austra1ia Press, Perth. Berndt, R.M. 1972 The Wa1madjeri and Gugadja. In Hunters and Gatherers Today (M.G. Bicchieri, ed.). Holt, Rinehart and Winston, New Vork. Berndt, R.M. 1973 Mythic Shapes of a Desert Culture. In Festsahrift zum 65. Geburtstag von HeZmut Petri (K. Tauchmann, ed.). Böh1au Verlag, Kö1n. Berndt, R.M. 1974 AustraZian AboriginaZ ReZigion. (One vol. in 4 Fascic1es) Sri 11, Lei den

RONALO M. BERNDT Berndt, R.M. and C.H. 1964/1968 The WopZd of the Fipst AustpaZians. Ure Smith, Sydney. Berndt, R.M. and E.S. Phillips, eds. 1973 The AustpaZian AboPiginaZ HePitage: an intpoduation thpough the Apts. (Two vols.) Ure Smith, Sydney. Capell, A. 1939 Mythology in Northern Kimberley, North-West Australia, Oaeania, Vo 1. I X, No. 4. Craig, B.F. (Compiled by) 1968 KimbepZey Region: an annotated bibZiogpaphy. Bibliography Series No. 3, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra. Crawford, I.M. 1968 The Apt of the Wandjina. Oxford University Press, Melbourne. Eliade, M. 1973 AustpaZian ReZigions: an intpoduation. Cornell University Press, Ithaca. Kaberry, P. M. 1935 Death and Deferred Mourning Ceremonies in the Forrest River Tribes, North-West Australia, Oaeania, Vol. VI, No. 1. Kaberry, P.M. 1939 AboPiginaZ Woman: saaped and ppofane. Routledge, London. Lommel, A. 1950 Modern Culture Influences on the Aborigines, Oceania. Vol. XXI, No. 1. Petri, H. 1968 Australische Eingeborenen-Religionen (Worms and Petri). In Die ReZigionen dep SOdsee und AustpaZiens (H. Nevermann, E.A. Worms and H. Petri). Kohlhammer Verlag, Stuttgart. Tindale, N.B. 1940 Results of the Harvard-Adelaide Universities Expedition, 1938-39: Distribution of Australian Aboriginal Tribes: A Field Survey, Tpansaations of the RoyaZ Society of South AustpaZia, Vol. 64 (1). Worms, LA. 1940 Reliqiöse Vorstellungen und Kultur einiger Nord-Westaustralischen Stämme in fünfzig Legenden AnnaZi Latepanensi, Vol IV. Worms, E.A. 1957 Australian Mythological Terms: their etymology and dispersion, Anthpopos. Vol. 52.

I. Sketch map of southern New Guinea.

: ,I,,,, :, I,,,,,,,, I ·~I I IC ':> :a. 'C la.,

I,,, I, ARAFUAA SEA, '> KAN U M ..:0'a: '" i~ ' .. ANIMp-KU"KAI'U. ANIM !, SKETCH ... MAP OFI i MA'UND .. ANIM "~==~~==~"==~"==~ .. ~~IOOkm TERRITORV ~ new guinee

J. Y/lN .... "L. DIMA., ....

0 f southeastern Arnhem land.

..... ff;) ~

.......... ····· ... tl

BICKERTON ". ISl.

GOLF VAN CARPENTARIA

COMPARISONS BETWEEN SOUTHEASTERN ARNHEM lAND AND SOUTHERN NEW GUINEA.

A. C. van der leeden
"The Cult of the Bull-Roarer in Australia and Southern New Guinea" (Van Baal 1963) is not the only, but certainly a spectacular, illustration of Van Baal 's profound knowledge of and comparative approach to southern New Guinea and Australian Aboriginal cultures -- a comparative approach, nourished by his conviction that "significant similarities" between these sultures exist, which make such a comparison both worthwhile and necessary. Van Baal concludes his article by emphasizing that these similarities are not limlted to the important and spectacular role of the bull-roarer in New Guinea and Aboriginal Australia. Rather, they are of a general nature and concern "the totemism of the Marind-anim and the Orokolo on the one hand and that of the Australian tri bes on the other, as well as the functional similarities between the Australian system of sections and totem-relationships and the organization of over-all clans in southern New Guinea". He adds cautiously: "In the absence of a detailed investigation of the mass of relevant data any discussion of these similarities is a hazardous undertaking. The similarities demonstrable are counterbalanced by significant differences and without a preceding analysis of the cultures involved any discussion of the relations between Australian and Papuan cultures is decidedly premature" (p. 213). Keeping this advice in mind, but on the other hand following my own interest in comparative structural research in Melanesia and Australia (1966), 1 can think of no better way of honouring Jan van Baal on this accasion than by accepting the challenge implied in his words and commenting on another phenomenon of apparent comparative significance. In this essay I intend to deal with differences and similarities between the ritual organizations, and between the local

A. C. VAN DER LEEDEN
and descent implications of patrilineal kinship organization, among the Marind-anim in southern New Guinea and the Nunggubuyu Aboriginals in southeastern Arnhem Land. I will approach this subject mainly from the viewpoint of Nunggubuyu ritual and local organization for two reasons. First, I have carried out anthropological research among the Nunggubuyu, in 1964-65, and am in the process of publishing my field material. This makes me confident that I can meet Van Baal 's condition of a "preceding analysis of the cultures involved". It goes without saying that, for a comparison with the Marind-anim, reliance on Van Baal 's Dema (1966), a very detailed analysis of Marind culture, amply fulfills the same condition. As my second consideration, Nunggubuyu society is particularly suited to comparison with New Guinea and Melanesian societies, for it has no "sections" or "subsections" which systematize the affinal relations in so many other parts of Aboriginal Australia, including the rest of Arnhem Land. As in many New Guinea and Melanesian societies. the social structure is realized mainly through interpersonal genealogical relationships1). Conversely, the quotation from Van Baal 's study of the bull-roarer complex makes it clear why Marind culture forms such a good comparative counterpart in New Guinea. Without denying their fundamental Melanesian origin, the southern New Guinea cultures do show a striking degree of cultural cohesion and an emphasis on collective categories, which set them off quite markedly from other Melanesian cultures, and which might even suggest a historical connection with Aboriginal Australia2). I hasten to add that I am fully aware of the recent professional interest in the ecological implications of comparative research. Among Australianists, this interest appears in discussions between Hiatt (1962, 1966), Stanner, (1965), Birdsell (1970) and others. It is Birdsell's contention, for example, that "Ecological regularities may of ten provide a firmer basis for judgments about social organization than do some of the more abstracted dimensions attributed to societies" (p. 131). In order to explain my own position, may I point out that, first, there can be no misunderstanding about the role of ecological and demographic factors in distinguishing between the situation in Arnhem Land and that in southern New Guinea; second, that these factors will in fact turn up in mY discussion of the territorial determinants of local organization; but, third, that I do not consider their differentiating roles as prohibitive of comparative research into other structural factors which loom large in the basic orientation of each

AND MAR!ND-ANIM: 151

culture. Comparative research implies the existence of differences and similarities. In this paper, and as a matter of personal choice, I will not emphasize differences but similarities. The ecological and demographic differences will not be neglected, but these will be approached as providing (a large) part (but not the whole) of the basis for the contrast, between both regions, in the realization of basically identical structural processes of ritual and kinship organization. However this may be, there appears to be abundant evidence of the actual existence of structural similarities of the kind suggested above. In particular, I should like to point to the accurrence, on both sides of the Arafura Sea, of a totemic and four-fold division of the society into moieties, sub-moieties (called phratries by Van Baa1 3)), composed of patrilineal clans, sub-clans and lineages (Van Baal 1966: 38-9; Van der Leeden, 1975). In both societies, this four-fold division is ideological rather than formal. That is to say, the social categories just mentioned (moieties, sub-moieties or phratries, clans and sub-clans) are not strictly differentiated and functionally independent corporate groups. On the contrary, sub-clans are hardly distinguishable from the clans, and may on occasion represent typical sub-moiety and moiety views. On many pages of Dema, Van Baal conveniently refers to the Marind moieties by the sub-moiety names. Similarly, Nunggubuyu myths, particularly those concerning the moiety system, only become intelligible if one takes the sub-moiety and clan affiliation of the spokesmen into consideration. All categories form a closely integrated whole, and represent defferent views of a basic set of central ideas underlying the soceity as a whole. I shall return to this point presently. In the mean time, may I also point out that, in spite of their obvious morphological differences, both Marind and Nunggubuyu totems are divided into primary and secundary ones. A further similarity concerns the great, and in each area mythologically interrelated, initiation cults. As a difference, the Marind-anim also have an important head-hunting ritual. If we keep to the initiation cults, and consider the Marind cults first, these appear to have astrong territorial basis. They mark off sub-tri bal territorial divisions or blocks of the Marind tribe. Thus, using Figure 1 as our map of reference, and following Van Baal 's information (1966: 11-2), we may trace the Mayo-cult as dominating the coast from Muli Passage, in the west, to Tomerau past the Maro River in the east. The region of the Mayo-anim is interrupted at Alaku, Alatap and Sangasé by that of the Imo adepts. The Mayo-anim, to whom

VAN DER LEEDEN

belong also adepts of the Sosom-cult (p. 471) recognize a ritual cycle of four years (p. 12). The first year's Mayo initiation rites are (or were) celebrated between Muli Passage and the Buraka River; those of the second year between the Buraka and Bian Rivers; the festivities of the third year take place between the Bian and the the Maro: and during the fourth year the scene is moved to the area east of the Maro Ri ver. The other coastal initiation cult (p. 12), Rapa, has the most eastern Marind village of Kondo as its centre. The fourth Marind initiation cult, Ezam-Uzum, occurs in the interior along the upper-Bian River. Particular attention should be paid to the fact (p. 12) that every Marind initiation cult, although performed within its own teritorial boundaries, requires the participation and collaboration of all Marind phratries. Furthermore, associations between Marind initiation cults and submoieties do exist (cf. pp. 461-7), but these are not clear. Typically a prqper Marind moiety myths emphasize the directions which were followed by the ~thical hieroes during their primordial journeys. Moreover, one moiety opposes the other in that its dëma, or totem-ancestor(s), "belongs to the coast", whereas the déma of the other moiety moves "into or through the interior", even tough "The coast-interior antithesis is not an absolute contrast either ___ Ol (P. 432). It also seems to be clear that "every moiety (and, in fact, every phratry) has two aspects, a dominant one and a dialectic one, the latter reflecting characteristics of the opposite moiety" (p. 462). Yet, an element of ritual specialization, or perhaps better, a difference in philosophical outlook on human existence, creates an asymmetrical relationship between the Marind moieti e~, "for one moiety appeared to be associ ated wi th the secret cul t, the other with headhunting and public celebration" (p. 938). This is not to suggest the existence of inequal relations between people from different clans and moieties. In fact, Van Baal takes great pains to explain that the Mari nd cl ass ifi catory sys tem is based on "the fundamentalequa 1 ity of all men". The fact remains, however, that "lt is the leadership which devolves on the Geb-zé moiety in the secret cult, on the Sami-rek in head-hunting and feasting, while in each case the members of the other moiety participate as followers and co-operate by fulfilling the functions allotted to them" (p. 938). Turning now to the Australian scene, we may notice the Nunggubuyu cult and moiety system to bear out quite a few interesting structural

ABORIGINALS AND MARIND-AN IM 153

similarities. Thus, ritual organization in southeastern Arnhem Land,

as that in other parts of Australia, shows a very similar picture of closely interrelated cults and rites. As the Marind mythical heroes, so the Nunggubuyu ancestors were always mo~ing about. Very strikingly, too, the Mandayung and Mandaridja moiety ancestors followed similar directions. Figure 2 illustrates that the mythological carrier of the Mandaridja Ru: 1 cult started from Amagulu at Groote Eylandt, and passed the proper Nunggubuyu area around Blue Mud and Bennet Bay on his way into the interior as far as Rarawa in Ridarngu tri bal territory. He continued his journey by returning along the same route to Groote Eylandt. In contrast, the Murungun ancestors of one of the Mandayung sub-moieties departed from Lulmara, a northern Blue Mud Bay territory, and travelled southwards through the coastal Nunggubuyu territories, and through those of their southern neighbours, the Warndarang. 4) As in the Marind instanee, the opposition between coast and interior does not indicate an absolute contrast. All Nunggubuyu clans, and ipso facto all (sub)-moieties, possess coastal as well as interior territories. Also, their myths (particularly the proper clan myths) trace connections between coastal and interior territories. This situation, as I will explain below, has much structural significanee. Nevertheless, and also as in the Marind case, the opposition does provide a structural basis for Nunggubuyu ideology. In southeastern Arnhem Land, it can thus be shown (Van der Leeden, 1975) to be a basic territorial implication of the proper moiety mythology. A few words to add about corresponding features of moiety dialectics and moiety asymmetry in southeastern Arnhem Land. The Nunggubuyu share a special interest in these essentially universal implications of moiety organization with the Marind-anim, but they have developed these in somewhat different ways. With regard to moiety dialectics, they did not choose, as the Marind-anim did, for a differentiation between "dominant" and "dialectic" moiety totems, the latter being selected from the dominant totems of the opposite moiety. In a typically Australian, more specifically Arnhem Land, fashion (Maddock 1972: 35), the Nunggubuyu distinguish between "owners" and "managers" of clan and moiety cults. The managers always belong to (a clan of ) the other moiety. They give permission for the performance of the rites. It is for them to decide when, where and how these have to take place, and what designs to select for the body decoration of the performers. It is interesting to compare this also with Van Baal 's conclusion, quoted above, that moiety asymmetry in Marind culture does not imply

VAN DER LEEDEN inequality between men from the different clans in each moiety. This asymmetry was shown to concern the leadership of secret cults, and of headhunting and public celebrations, and to "devolve" on each moiety respectively. It appeared to have an ideological basis. This collates with my own conclusions (1975) about the ideological background of the difference in ritual orientation between the Nunggubuyu moieties Mandayung and Mandaridja. To judge from the moiety mythology, the former seems to emphasize the need for constancy, stability and settling of disputes, and the latter for experimentation and change. As in the Marind instance, this distinction does not indicate an absolute contrast, nor does it discriminate between "everyday persona activities, attitudes and opinions of Dua versus Yiridja people" (1975: final page). It concerns an abstraction on a mytho-ritual level, which explains among other things why only Mandaridja people, to the exclusion of the Mandayung moiety people, accept phenomena of foreign origin (such as ships, aeroplanes and tractors) as totemic symbols. Nevertheless, it would be an interesting subject of future comparative research to study possible structural connections between, on the one hand, the Mandayung (or Dua) concept of esoterie stability in Arnhem Land and the Geb-zé leadership of the secret cults in New Guinea, and on the other hand, the Mandaridja "profane" emphas i son experi ment and change and the Sami -rek leadership in headhunting and feasting. This is not to forget the occurrence of some concomitant general mYtho-ritual differences of a very systematic kind, which seem to be partly due to different roles of the kinship organization, and partly to obvious ecological differences between both areas. To start with, the connection between initiation cults and moieties is much closer than in southern New Guinea, the Nunggubuyu cult of Gunabibi being considered as properly Mandayung, and the other great cult, Ru: 1, as Mandaridja. Here again, the connection should not be taken to be absolute. I have already mentioned the basis of reciprocity of the relations between ritual "owners" and "managers". As a further consideration, one of the Mandayung clans, of the interior territory of Arnbali, participates in Ru: 1 ceremonies as the owner of an important part of it. However, this does not alter the primary identification of the Gunabibi cult, as such, with the Mandayung moiety, and of the Ru: 1 cult, as such, with Mandaridja. To be more specific. Gunabibi and Ru: 1 cons is t each of two mytho-ri tua 1 comp 1 exes, whi ch are co'ns i de red as the ritual property of each of the Mandayung sub-moieties and each of the Mandaridja sub-moieties respectively. To put it differently, and more

AND MARIND-ANIM: 155 strongly, the identity of the Nunggubuyu sub-moieties depends mainly on the ritual distinction between the two Gunabibi and two Ru: 1 complexes. In my opinion, this rather strict cohesion between moieties and cults -- compared with the looser connection between the Marind moieties and cults --is indicative of the more dominant role of kinship and descent in Nunggubuyu society and culture. I need not elaborate this point here, for it concerns a well-established and typically Australian phenomenon. To quote Fortes (1969: 102): "We can take it as established that the ideology of kinship pervades, regulates and orders every domain of Australian Aboriginal life. Even the partly esoterie domain of totemic belief, cult, and mythology is tied to the framework of kinship". On the same grounds, the dominanee of kinship and descent in Nunggubuyu culture also seems partly responsible for the different local implications of the Nunggubuyu cult ceremonies. We have seen that the Marind cults and feast cycles mark off regional and sub-tri bal areas. In contrast, the Nunggubuyu do not divide their land into properly sub-tribal regions (there being only clan territories), and their ceremonial performances of Gunabibi and Ru: 1 are not tied to a single territory for each cult. They follow certain local rules, to bp. sure, but these concern the use of traditional sites in various mythologically relevant a~ territories. Again, these sites are no sub-tribal territorial centres. As a pan-Australian phenomenon, the Nunggubuyu conception of local organization starts from a descent viewpoint. Territorial names refer primarily to particular sites, which are considered as the creations of mythical ancestors of clans, sub-moieties and moieties associated with these sites (and territories). Without minimizing the purely territoria1 5) implications of these places --i.e., their significanee as the economie and residential basis for the local units --it is no exaggeration to say that this ideological conception dominates the view of the Nunggubuyu regarding their land. The territories of all Nunggubuyu clans (respectively, sub-moieties) are spread over the whole tri bal area. As a consequence, the same cult ceremonies can be (and are being) held at traditional Gunabibi and Ru: sites, scattered throughout the country as signposts, more or less, along the great routes that were followed by the ancestors during the eternal dream-time. Two more notes to concluse this discussion of the local distribution of Nunggubuyu ceremonial sites. First, besides demonstrating the dominanee of the descent organization, this distributional patterns

"poor" and "of little importance". It is particularly with regard to the territorial basis of the ritual organization, however, that the influence of the principal ecological and demographic contrast makes itself felt between southern New Guinea, a relatively thickly populated area with a sago economy and strong sedentary features on the one hand, and southeastern Arnhem Land, a sparsely populated region where every domain of Aboriginal culture breathes the penetrating and indelible effect of material dependency on hunting, gathering and moving on the other hand. Second, territorial rights (on a totemic basis) of Nunggubuyu clans are not purely intra-tribal affairs, but extend to other tri bal areas in eastern, southern and central Arnhem Land. This is due to the truely intertribal distances which the ancestors covered during their eternal dream-time journeys. As a result, all Nunggubuyu clans recognize and maintain traditional relations with people of different tri bal origin, who of ten speak different languages. As a ritual implication, and in contrast with the initiation cults of the Marind-anim, the same ritual ceremonies can, and of ten do, take place in different tribal areas (such as the Koolatong area north of the Walker River, Bickerton Island, Groote Eylandt, and the Roper River), where they are performed and attended, mostly, by a mixed group of people with defferent tribal, but identical clans affiliations. The regulative influence of intra-tribal descent relations concerning the distribution of cults and ceremonies also facilitates the introduction of particular ceremonies in tribal areas where they had not been performed before. As a rather recent example, I would mention the introduction of the Murungun tradition of Gunabibi (which is the ritual specialty of one of the Mandajung sub-moieties) about twelve years ago at Groote Eylandt by Nunggubuyu ritual leaders. This is of course no exception in Aboriginal Australia, where ritual complexes are known to spread rapidly over wide areas, in the present as well as in the past. To return to the intra-tri bal dimension of Nunggubuyu ritual performancen: due to the ever-changing local scene and the prevailing nomadic conditions, identical ritual performances were and are of course never attended by the same persons. The significance of these large gatherings for the consolidation and intensification of the identity of

ABORIGINALS AND MARIND-ANIM: 157

of Nunggubuyu society as such should nevertheless not be underestimated. This appears particularly fr om the ideal, which mostly conforms with actual practice, that the great moiety rituals should be performed by representatives of clans of at least all four sub-moieties. The local implication of this situation is clear: during the great ceremonies, the tribe presents itself, albeit in a symbolical fashion, as alocal and territorial unit. This also explains why these principally tribal gatherings convey astrong legislative notion with regard to ritual and other affairs which are considered as vital to human life in this part of Arnhem Land. These conclusions lead back to our comparisons with the Marind-anim in southern New Guinea. Important ceremonial gatherings in the land of the Nunggubuyu, in so far as they imply concentrations of people which are larger than usual and of longer duration6), may be suggested to fulfil territorial and local needs comparable to those which under quite different ecological circumstances facilitate the development of territorial units and permanent villages of the Marind type. I make this struatural equation on the basis of Van Baal 's analysis of Marind territorial and local organization, especially his conclusion (1966: 65) about the occurrence of "terri tori al groups", whi ch everywhere in Mari nd land are "composed of local clan-segments which, in each territorial group, reflect the composition of the tribe as a whole, each phratry bei ng represented among the 1 oca 1 clans". And further, af ter a di scuss i on of the significance of the phratry system for the division of land: "These phratries are the same everywhere and the tri bal pattern is th us reflected in each territorial group" (p. 65). These conclusions, self-evident though they may seem, in fact concern a fundamental characteristic of much comparative significance, and be ar on the existing discussions among both Melanesianists and Australianists on the connection between local and des cent organization in Melanesia (in particular New Guinea) and Aboriginal Australia. With regard to New Guinea, I recall the discussions about the influence of such local factors as residence choice on kinship (or descent) grouping (or filiation) between Pouwer and me (Pouwer, 1960, 1961; van der Leeden 1960) and further discussions by Barnes (1962, 1967), Paula Brown (1962), Meggitt (1965) and Pouwer (1966). The earlier discussions between Pouwer and myself are relevant in so far as Pouwer stressed the ambilocal structure of the corporate descent groups in many parts on New Guinea. In contrast, I have seen, and still see, these "ambilineal" implications as resu1ting from

C. VAN DER LEEDEN
the lack of corporativeness, and the emphasis on interpersonal relations for the realization of the social structure in these regions. The Marind-anim, with their well-developed segmentary system of agnatic descent, are an obvious exception; but the quintessence of the discussion also turns up in Van Baal's analysis of the village structure (1966: 39-68), especially that of the clusters of men's houses which constitute the hamlets. As a hypothesis, which was actually confirmed by Van Baal 's adviser and collaborator. Father J. Verschueren (1958), Wirz (1922-1925: 162, as cited by Van Baal) had suggested that the hamlet originally was "a clan-segment with one men's house, a simple pattern which was upset by popul ati on increase" (Van Baal 1966: 50). Van Baal doubts this on the basis of other data from Verschueren.

"They prove that a hamlet, whatever its ori gin -and what do we know of origins? -is not necessarily a clan-settlement, and that the hamlet cannot possibly be identified with the men's house because the average number of men's houses in a hamlet is higher than just one or two" (p. 52).

However, in spite of his indication that "it is the concrete data, not the !leneralizations, which are instructive" (p. 52), Van Baal does recognize that patri- or virilocality among the Marind-anim does suggest the localization of patrilineal groups of some kind or ~nother. He concludes

that the "small s i ze of the men' s house communi ty, combi ned wi th the rule of patrilocal marriage and the tendency of men's house communities to associate with people of the same phratry, gives evidence that this smallest social unit was, in fact, alineage" (p. 53).

Turning now to Australia, we need only substitute "local horde" for "men's house" to be reminded of a somewhat similar discussion about the connection between Australian "hordes" and "clans", which was elicited by Radcliffe-Brown's definition of the "horde", or patrilocal group of male and unmarried female members of this group by birth, and the wives of the male members, as the important landowning and landholding group in Aboriginal Australia (1930: 35). "The territory of the tribe is the total of the territories of its component hordes" (p. 36). Without entering into details, I recall that the question of the local horde has stirred the emotions of Australian anthropologists ever since Radcliffe-Brown's days, and that it has actually divided them into two camps. one of these has Hiatt (1962, 1966) as its principal spokesman. He doubts whether local groups of the type defined by Radcliffe-Brown have ever existed. In the other camp, Birdsell (1970)

ABORIGINALS AND MARIND-ANIM: 159

and Stanner (1965) defend Radcliffe-Brown's position and claim that Hiatt misinterprets the latter's definition and neglects ecological and demographic aspects of Australian Aboriginal territoriality. More than Birdsell, Stanner insists that a series of misunderstandings blurs the fact that Radcliffe-Brown's and Hiatt's respective positions need not necessarily be opposed to each other. "We are being too sociological and insufficiantly ecological for the matters at issue. I believe that what we have to do is to start all over again with ..• the intrinsic connection between a descent group and its territory as estate and range. If this is done the areas of differences between the conflicting views can, I believe, be reduced" (1965: 19). On the basis of my personal field experiences in southeastern Arnhem Land?), I should like to add that it seems bothdifficult and unnecessary to choose between these different views, for both seem equally applicable. On the one hand, and on the analogy of Hiatt's arguments, it could certainly be maintained that Radcliffe-Brown's "horde", in the strict sense of his definition, did not exist among the Nunggubuyu. It would indeed have been more realistic to consider changeability and diversity, and the existence of localized personal (not descent) groups, 50metimes even of cognatic kindred, as a principal structural characteristic of Nunggubuyu local organization. I also agree with Hiatt that no well-defined economic or other boundaries existed between the different Nunggubuyu territorial ranges (to use Stanner's expression). The Nunggubuyu clans were and are the actual landholding units, but their members of ten lived scattered, so it appears, over local units at territories of various clans, of both moieties. The situation may have changed now that all Nunggubuyu live in large and modern communities of an altogether new and different type, but it should be emphasized that the clans (that is, the proper descent groups) continue to dominate the territorial views of all present-day Nunggubuyu Aboriginals. On the other hand, much could also be said for Stanner's contention that Radcliffe-Brown spoke "hordish", so to say, while thinking "clannish". Hiatt denies this, but, even if he is right, the question really seems irrelevant, for "a marked tendencey towards, though no iron rule requiring, patrilocality and virilocality" (Stanner 1965: 16) nevertheless existed and thus implied a structural bond between the Nunggubuyu local units, as perhaps everywhere in Australia, and agnatic descent groups. Since, as another of Stanner's inferences, "Some sort of exogamous patri lineal descent-group was ubiquitous" (p. 16), it-!;eems imperative also to accept

A. C. VAN DER LEEDEN
two more inferences on which he bases his propositions for further research (p. 19), viz., that "this descent-group had (an) intrinsic connection, not mere association, with a territory, and concerning the i nfl uence of pat ri lvi ril oca 1 ity; "The group thus formed was bas icto both territorial and social organization, however concealed by other structural groups ... or by dynamic emphases" (p. 16) -- a plea, in other words, for the structural identity of "horde" and "clan", or local and descent organization, as the two aspects of patrilineal kinship organization in Aboriginal Australia. I consider this viewpoint as applicable to the situation in southeastern Arnhem Land in particular. In principle, this applies also to the following quotation by Stanner from Radcliffe-Brown's 1930 essay, which explains that Radcliffe-Brown was quite aware of this general implication himself: "This distinction between the horde and the associated local clan is, I think, a very important one to make and keep in mind. A horde changes its composition by the passing of women out of it and into it by marriage. At any given moment it consists of a body of people living together in a group of families. The clan has all its male members in one horde but all its older female members are in other hordes. It changes its composition only by the birth and death of its members" (Stanner 1965: p. 9). These words of Radcliffe-Brown really touch the heart of the problem, but they need some amplification, at least, but not only from the standpoint of Nunggubuyu social structure. In particular, I would like to emphasize that Nunggubuyu clans (sub-moieties and moieties), from a cognitive standpoint, do not only count living members, but unite the quick and the dead, and by extension also, and primarily, the totemic ancestors. This predetermines the "emic" quality of the clans as the symbols of tradition and constancy, which the Nunggubuyu consider as vested in the capacities of the ancestors for creating the world, "making the countries", regulating the relations between clans and between the moieties, and for establishing and anchoring the cults and ritual essential to human life. Recent developments in Arnhem Land, in particilar the current land claims of Nunggubuyu and other Arnhem Land Aboriginals, prove the persistent nature of these functions of the clan system under the stress of radical social and cultural change. Meanwhile, the Nunggubuyu do recognize other statusses besides th at of being members of particular clans or belonging to one or the other moisty. Membership of local communities as such looms large in practically all domains of life, and certainly not only in the economic

Only these differ principally from ancestral creativity, which requires the submission of people as descendants of these ancestors through the clans and moieties (Munn 1970). In contrast, the domestic atmosphere of the local group is the typical atmosphere of human creativity. This is the creativity of the individual artist, e.g. the singer of clan songs, wh om one admires when he succeeds in inventing and popularizing new songs and new musical styles (Nijmegen Project Group on Australia 1975: 158-9). Actually, modern Aboriginal life in southeastern Arnhem Land shows a steady interest in this and in other aspects of domestic life, even though settlement in large communities af ter the example of the Europeans did result in total disruption of the traditional economy. However, in most other respects modern community life was never completely alienated from the atmosphere of traditional local grouping. 8) It did imply the extension of intertribal relations, but this did not happen at the expense of the intratribal aspect, nor of the dialectical connection between local organization and descent organization. I hope that these notes sufficiently clarify my view of the current discussions concerning the horde and the clan in Australia. These concepts structurally denote the practical (or domestic) and the ideological transformations, respectively, of the patrilineal princeple in Nunggubuyu society. This conclusion probably is valid for Australia in general, so it might do the trick of, or at least contribute to,

VAN DER LEEDEN

uniting the different viewpoints. Here, however, my exposé primarily serves a comparative purpose. To Melanesianists, in particular, the Nunggubuyu example may indicate that a very strict patrilineal system does not necessarily imply a strictly patrilocal or virilocal residence pattern. Conversely, "openess" of the territorial and local system need not necessarily load to a cognatic descent system. Moreover, we have seen that a structurally significant dialectical relation may exist between the practical (local) and ideological (descent) aspects of the kinship system, which does make it necessary to weigh these aspects in the balance and evaluate their respective functions. In many parts of New Guinea, it is true, neither territorial units nor des cent groups are strictly patrilocal or patrilineal, respectively. However, the Marind-anim are there to prove that at least some New Guinea societies did make a choice similar to that of the Nunggubuyu and most of their fellow Aboriginal Australians, namely, that of combining a not so strict (sometimes quite open) residential pattern with a very strict patrilineal descent ideology. Strictly speaking, Van Baal's analysis does not suggest the Marind contrast to exhibit the same properly dialectical structure as the territorial and descent implications of Nunggubuyu patrilineal organization. The assumption nevertheless seems relevant for the situation among the Marind-anim, if only because ecological and demographic conditions in southern New Guinea would also have been favourable, at any rate much more so than those prevailing in Australia, for a stricter adherence to patrilocality. Meanwhile, the fact remains that both societies own quite radical patrilineal ideologies. The question we posed at the beginning may be asked again: Does this fact disclose a historical connection between southern New Guinea and Australia, or is it a matter of sheer coincidence? Even if these questions are answerable, the present essay did not endeavour to supply these answers. This much is certain, however: the general cultural consistency, as ultimately symbolized by this phenomenon, makes it worthwhile to continue our comparative research into its structural and other implications in these areas.

AND MARIND-ANIM: 163 NOTES

1) This is not to say that Nunggubuyu culture shows features which are atypical of an Australian Aboriginal culture. In all respects. Nunqqubuvu culture is typically Australian. All scientific models which have become so characteristic of Australian Aboriginal anthropology are applicable to it. The same may be said of cultures from southern New Guinea in relation to other Melanesian cultures.
2) Adversaries of the historical approach would have to remember Vansina's warning (1961: 91-2) that denying historical value to traditions would be "throwi ng out the baby with the bathwater". Thi s al so app 1 i es to cultures in general. The similarities between southern New Guinea and Australian cultures are so striking. and our knowledge of these areas so sufficient, that the time seems to be ripe for a combined and meaningful effort by historians and anthropologists to analye their historical implications. In a personal communication. Jeremy Beckett, who carried out anthropological research at the Torres Strait Islands, recently confirmed the significance of Cape Vork for the tracing of possible historical ties between New guinea and Australia.
3) I use the term "sub-moieties" instead of "phratries", for it conforms to its use, and that of the concept of "semi-moieties", in Australian Aboriginal anthropology. Compare van der Leeden (1975).
4) "Mandayung" and "Mandaridja" are synonyms of, respectively, "Dua and Yiridja", the names of these moieties elsewhere in Arnhem Land.
5) As I will presently explain, this description refers to both territorial (e.g., ecological) and local (i .e., social-structural) implications. See particularly Stanner (1965: 1).
6) "Larger than usual, and of longer duration" in comparison with the usually, though not necessarily, smaller and mobile hunting anj gathering units.
7) 1 am well aware of the hypothetical nature of my information concerning territorial and local situations which no longer existed when I visited the Nunggubuyu in 1964. However, I base this information on the local units from the past which were still very well remembered.
8) A tendency towards patrilocal arrangement of houses in the new village is noticeable though not imperative.
REFERENCES

Baa 1, J. van 1963 The Cult of the Bull-Roarer in Australia and Southern New Guinea. In: Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde, 119: 201-14. 1966 Dema. DescPiption and Analysis of MaPind-Anim Culture (South New Guinea). Translation Series 9, Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, landen Volkenkunde. The Hague: Nijhoff. Barnes, J.A. 1962 African Models in the New Highlands. In: Man, 62: 5-9. 1967 Agnation among the Enga: A Review Article. In: Oceania, 38: 33-43. Birdsell, J.B. 1970 Local Group Composition among the Australian Aborigines: A Critique of the Evidence from Fieldwork Conducted since 1930. In: Current Anthropology, 11: 115-42. Brown, Paul a 1962 Non-Agnates among the Patrilineal Chimbu. In: Journalof the Polynesian Society, 71: 57-69.

C. VAN DER LEEDEN
Fortes, M. 1969 Kinship and the Social Order. The Legacy of Lewis Henry Morgan. Chica90: Aldine. Fox, Robin 1967 Kinship and Marriage. An Anthropological Perspective. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Hiatt, L.R. 1962 Local Organization among the Australian Aborigines. In: Oceania, 32: 267-86. 1966 The Lost Horde. In: Oaeania, 37: 81-92. Leeden, A.C. van der 1960 Social Structure in New Guinea. In: Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde, 116: 119-49. 1966 Australia and New Guinea. Propositions regarding Comparative Research. In: Anniversary Contributions to Anthropology. Twelve Essays, Published on the Occasion of the 40th Anniversary of the Leiden Ethnological Society W.D.O. Pp. 77-91. Leiden: Brill. 1975 Thundering Gecko and Emu: Mythological Structuring of Nunggubuyu Patrimoieties. In: L.R. Hiatt (ed.), Australian Aboriginal MYthology. Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra. Maddock, K. 1972 The Australian Aborigines. A Portrait of their Society. London: Allen Lane The Penguin Press. Meggitt, M.J. 1965 The Lineage System of the Mae-Enga of New Guinea. Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd. Munn, N.O. 1970 The Transformation of Subjects into Objects in Walbiri and Pitjantjatjara Myth. In R.M. Berndt (ed.), Australian Aboriginal Anthropology. Pp. 141: 63. Published for the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Nedlands: The University of Western Australia Press. Nijmegen Project Group on Australia 1975 Current Trends in Australian Aboriginal Anthropology. (A Review Article). In: Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde, 131-69. Pouwer, J. 1960 "Loosely" Structured Societies in Netherlands New Guinea. In: Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde, 116: 109-18. 1961 New Guinea as a Field for Ethnological Study. In:Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde, 117: 1+24. 1966 Toward a Configurational Approach to Society and Culture in New Guinea. In: The Journa of the Polynesian Society, 75: 267-86. Radcliffe-Brown, A.R. 1930 The Social Organization of Australian Tribes. Oceania Monographs I, Sydney. Stanner, W.E.H. 1965 Aboriginal Territorial Organization: Estate, Range, Oomain and Regime. In: Oceania, 36: 1-26. Vansina, J. 1961 De funktie der overlevering in de maatschappij. In: Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde, 117: 80-92.

ABORIGINALS AND MARIND-ANIM: 165

Verschueren. J. m.s.c. 1958 Rechten op grond bij de Marind-anim (Zuid Nieuw-Guinea). In: Nieuw Guinea StudiUn, 2. Wirz. P. 1922-1925 Die Marind-anim van HoZZändisah-Sud-Neu-Guinea, 2 vols. Abhandlungen aus dem Gebiet der Auslandskunde. Hamburgische Universität. Hamburg.

,------.-"-" A -.-.. ik,.,;!"-~Se ...

I :S .. b.";,tri,,t
m .... y ....

.. r t>'.l'"l

AMONG THE MUYU-PAPUAS OF WEST-IRIAN 1)

J. W. Schoorl

1. INTRODUCTION In my study of the Muyu-Papuas I have deliberately used the term salvation-movement for the movements to be found within this population group. It was not quite possible to call these movements typical religious movements or to identify them with terms which designate sub-types, such as messianistic or prophetic movements. In our analytic outlines, we call the purposes aimed at secular rather than religious. Naturally, it should be expected in this kind of society -- with the still strong interweaving of the separate institutional aspects --that the means chosen for this are usually cal led religious by us. But many so-called religious movements are in my opinion comparable to the so-called social movements in more differentiated societies. As a general term, socio-cultural movement may be used. From that point of view, it would also be sensible and desirable to integrate the theories which have of ten been developed independently of each other. 2) The intention of this contribution is to give an example of a theoretical approach to socio-cultural movements, joining in this both the anthropological and sociological literature. Then a summary is given of the movements existing among the Muyu-Papuas in the period of 1950-
2. 3) Af ter that some conclusions are drawn.
3. THEORETICAL APPROACH For the observations about socio-cultural movements it will be advisable in my opinion to investigate if a theoretical approach will be possible within which socio-cultural changes can have their place. As a starting point for this approach I use Nadel's analytic frame (1957, 75-1BB) with regard to persons, groups and institutions. There it

SCHOORL

is stated th at persons and groups create institutions -- patterns of behaviour --if situations are recognized which match the institutions. This means that situations are judged and the recognized situations ("if-situations") create activities of persons and groups. This starting point can be worked out to a more structural- functionalistic approach, whereby special note is taken of the connection and the mutual influence of the institutions --the patterns of behaviour. This approach is also accentuated by Nadel, and it is in the tradition within which Durkheim takes an important place. It is the approach which is cal led kata-scopic by Zijderveld (1973, 188). Starting from the institutional structures and first within this structural frame, as if "looking down" (kata-scopic), the interacting persons are given a place. With this view, changes can only be introduced as immanent factors (such as evolution) or outward factors. Given a specific change, the consequences can be determined to a certain degree within the given connection among the institutions. Goodenough's analytic equipment with regard to the forms of possible connections between activities (in the sense of patterns of behaviour) (1963, 322-349) is helpful in this respect. Vet this approach can only indicate a certain aspect with regard to socio-cultural changes in general and to socio-cultural movements in particular. Through such an analysis it can be shown that changes have to take place at certain points in the entire system. But it does not show in what way the changes will be effected. In this connection, it is necessary to applya complementary approach, namely one in which the accent is more on the actors. It is the kind of approach indicated in actiontheory (Cohen, 1968, 69-95). In Zijderveld's terms, it is the anascopic approach, in which we start from "sensibly acting pers ons and from there, as if 'looking upward' (anascopic) are speaking of institutional structures (1973, 188). This is the scientific tradition of which Weber was an important promoter. In connection with my starting point it can be said that situations are not always recognizable or always known. Then they are not "if"- situations which create a more or less institutionalized conduct. It is also possible that the situations have changed and the institutionalized conduct is no longer adequate. Finally, a change can occur in the thinking about the situations, in the perception of the situations. All this means th at with regard to many situations the pros and cons are being weighed, both with regard to the situations and with regard to the conduct fitting in with that situation. In this connection, MacIver (1964, 269-363) spoke of a "dynamic assessment" of situations, a more

MOVEMENTS AMONG THE MUYU 169 or less conscious process of evaluating and deciding, which is the basis of the acting of persons and groups. And this dynamic assessment is also the beginning of socio-cultural changes. Before expanding on this I would like to mention the well-known Thomas thesjs: if people define situations ~s real, they are real in their consequences, an argument worked out by Merton (1961, 421) in his chapter on the "self-fulfilling prophecy". This means that the given definition of the situation, the interpreted reality, need not agree with the "real" reality. In this connection Goodenough speaks of the "phenomenal world" of a society and the "real world" of the anthropologist studying society and its culture. Although the term real world is not a very good one, yet it can be said that the definition of the situation need not agree with reality. Through his research the anthropologist or sociologist can have a better view of real ity. It can now be said that in situations in which there is a bigger discrepancy between the institutional patterns of conduct and the (changed) thinking about them, there will be astrong impetus to change. In this situation it is very likely that various "prophets" will come to the fore, people who will give a new definition with new solutions -- patterns of conduct will have a new "message". It depends on various factJrs which prophet will get most support, such as for instance on the circumstances the charismatic qualities of the prophet or the experience with certain suggested solutions, and so on. The suggested solutions may perhaps be divided into types. It is remarkable that sociologists and anthropologists, who most likely work independently of each other, come to corresponding types of reaction to frustrating situations. In this connection I would like to summarize the typologies of Berry (1951, 403-445) and Leighton (1964, 252-287), of Balandier (1952) and Merton (1961, 131-161). Leighton studied the types of reaction of Japanese Americans who were deported from the West Coast and placed in internment camps during World War II. He distinguished three types of reaction: cooperation, agression and withdrawal. Berry added another type --assimilation --following his study of the reaction types of the Black population in North America attempting to integrate into white society. In the Japanese Americans case this type was not possible. Balandier saw four types of reaction to the colonial situation: (1) active cooperation, (2) passive cooperation, (3) passive resistance, and (4) active resistance. It is quite evident that these types strongly resemble those of Berry and Leighton. Finally, Merton's typology is more extensive. His theory centers around reactions to the

J. W. SCHOORL

discrepancy between dominant goals existing in the culture (success in North America) and the institutionalized means of achieving them. This can lead to: (1) conformity; (2) innovation; (3) ritual behaviour;

(4) retreatism and (5) rebel1ion. 4) The typologies mentioned have on1y been rough1y indicated here. Moreover, various theories need more thinking and integration. The advantage of such typologies is that in estab1ished situations of strong frustrations in a society, they draw the attention to various kinds of reactions. It is most likely· that various types usua11y exist simultaneously, but -- as already mentioned previous1y --it depends on various factors which type is dominant at a given moment.
3. DESCRIPTION OF SOME SALVATION MOVEMENTS AMONG THE MUYU-PAPUAS
3.1 THE MOVEMENTS IN THE MUYU AREA IN 1950 AND 1952 In the years 1950 and 1952, two sa1vation movements took place in the Muyu area. These movements show such character and purpose that in mY opinion they can be considered as movements which have come into existence outside the influence of western culture. In the progress of these movements, this influence is indeed noticeab1e and, when the first movement occurred, the government even interfered. Certain elements in these movements were of foreign origin; they p1ayed a minor part, however. The major character was native. The progress of the first movement has partly been described in the sentence of the judge at Tanah Merah. A former policeman at Jibi, who had been the commander of the police force that had acted against the leaders of this movement, could give me further information on it. The movement originated with a certain Terenem, who 1ived in the village of Benkapa (a 1itt1e North of Woropko). One day he was digging turnips in his garden. Whi1e digging he sudden1y noticed that he had three instead of two hands. He did not believe it and went to dig near another bush. But the same phenomenon accurred there. Coming home he to1d of his experience, saying that it might anticipate another manifestation. Af ter going to sleep, he dreamt he saw his younger brother, who had died quite a long time ago. He put an ot (shel1 money)* in his right hand. His younger brother said to him that he shou1d put this ot with his other ots. Af ter that he should look for a snake (nimbin) and boi1 it. The bag in which the ot was kept shou1d be rubbed with the fat thus obtained. Then he should wait one month, and then open the bag. The ot wou1d then have increased to five. Af ter two months there wou1d be 10 ots, etc.,
* In 1953 the value of one ot was about equal to f 3 to 5.

THE MUYU 171

"so that you won't have any difficulty in looking for ots". Terenem did as he was told, and the result was just what his younger brother had predicted. At first he only informed his elder brother, Indep, about it. Af ter he had success, he made it widely· known. At a pig festival at Woropko he climbed on the roof of one of the buildings (the normal platform) and told how he had obtained so many ots: "Not by theft, not by murdering for a reward, not by having pig festivals, but by ... ". Those who wanted to obtain ots in this way could be taught by him. At the pig festival the first lessons were given. The lessons consisted (among other things) of dancing the ámágap dance --moving and trembling the body, even dropping down**--**because people were possessed by the spirits of dead people and made whistling sounds, the language of the spirits. These lessons had to be repeated several times. The pupils would th en also be visited by spirits and be able to change pebbles into ots. Each pupil had to give one ot to his teacher for the lesson. In this way Terenem managed to receive a considerable number of ots. Teaching did not stop with Terenem. People who had already had some lessons set up for teacher in their turn, even if they had not had any results. The movement extended to six villages in the northern Muyu area. But it was stopped by the government, which arrested the leaders. The second movement came into existence in 1951 and 1952 and passed away without government interference. This movement began with two people, Jeknon and Kawon, from settlements on former Australian territory adjoining the northeastern part of the Muyu area. They and their followers also know how to produce ots. Fruit called mangkáp jap or the bark of the káwát tree had to be gathered in sago bags in the woods. In the woods a bivouac had to be built and all the fruit put in it. By supernatural power this fruit would change into ots. People who engaged in producing ots were subject to amop (taboo) rul es. Thus they were not allowed to eat shrimp, a certain kind of kouskous, and the sago from the sagopalm. Near the village of Jeknon a session was held by Jeknon himself in which he was to change the fruits into ots. The people who had handed in their fruit stayed outside the bivouac, which was completely locked up. However, payment had to be made beforehand. Jeknon and his assistants first asked 12 ots, 6 knives, 6 axes and a pig (6 ots). Dwing to the interference of the former policeman at Jibi the people got their goods back. Under his direction and threat of force, these goods were reclaimed when the fruit did not change into ots. Before that, many people from Jibi had given goods to make these sessions possible. People from Djemtan and Koeroengk'm had come to fetch

SCHOORL

the goods; later on they would come and bring the many ots sprung from the fruit. In total, 6 pigs had been given with them. In 1954 this movement had completely stopped. Most likely it could not interest the Muyus for more than one or two years and failed for lack of results. In the meantime it had penetrated into the Muyu area as far as the southwestern part. (In the villages of Jibi and Kawangtet I made an extensive investigation.) In Kawangtet there were several people who had been taught this art. In this connection the names of twelve men were mentioned. The pupils each gathered some fruits and put them in bags. These were taken to a bivouac th at had been built in the woods. For the teachers, two pigs were killed to the amount of 7 and 10 ots. Before being taught, the people also paid a total of 12 ots. Then they we re taught in the bivouac. Other people were not allowed to be present. The lessons were not successful and the teachers departed without refunding the fee. In Kawangtet people did not exactly know the origin of this movement. People supposed that the initiators could contact spi rits and receive ots from them. They were thought to be angganemkukmen, people who can see the spi rits of dead people.

3.2 THE SALVATION MOVE MENT AMONG THE MUYU POPULATION OF MERAUKE In 1953 in Klapalima near Merauke, a salvation movement began among the Muyu population. At the end of September, about 20 Muyus presented themselves at the resident of Merauke, with whom they wanted to have a talk. They were prominent Muyus, including the chairman of the Merauke division of the political party of Papuas and the village chief of the Muyu settlement. They gave the resident a document of thirteen typed pages with an explanation, which was confusing to this functionary. The writing consisted of a number of letters directed to the resident of Merauke as well as a number of statements and announcements, all dated between 6 and 27 September 1953. It soon appeared to the resident th at a salvation movement was involved. The main person was a certain Koeram, who did not say much. According to the resident he did make an exalted impression. The purpose of the visit was to fully inform the government about all that they had kept secret for some months. The nature and development of the movement were such that the government at Merauke thought it wise to interfere. The leader, Koeram, was captured and sentenced to nine months imprisonment. It appears fr~ the register sentence (Nr. 115/Cr/1953 of 26 October 1953) that the

MOVEMENTS AMONG THE MUYU 173

thoughts, statements and messages in the writings offered to the resident, were a certain adaptation of Koeram's thoughts. Part was written down in a separate notebook, which had been found during the investigation by the police and added to the register sentence. ·As the writings had been typed and the chairman of the political Papua association had been present at the presentation, it may be taken that this pers on and his associates had an important part in the compilation. They had a typewriter at their disposal and knew how to use it. In the description of the movement the differences will become apparent. A third source of information about this movement are some Muyus who had experienced this movement at close quarters. Among them were a teacher and a carpenter who, as pupils of the mission schools in Merauke, experienced this movement in 1953 and supplied me with further information about it during mY stay in August 1954, when they had just arrived from Merauke af ter having finished their education. I was supplied with further information by a Muyu clerk of the civil service who had lived in Merauke in 1954. According to the writings presented to the resident, the movement started with Koeram's experience. In April 1953 he was visited by a spirit, called Nelih, who was to show him the way of progress, knowledge and wealth for the population of South New Guinea. God almighty Himself was to bring the new arrangement required. The Muyus, who participated in this new movement, were to learn in what way they could also come into contact with the spi rits of dead people, especially the spirits of dead Americans. According to the informants Koeram was having a walk in Merauke one night. At midnight he passed the European cemetry. There he found a small purse with New Guinean money. He took the purse to his home in Klapalima. When he arrived, the purse became bigger and bigger until it was about the size of a sack of rice. This was the prelude to further happenings. When Koeram went to sleep, a spirit of a dead person appeared and entered his body. He felt him creeping up from his feet. Koeram felt the urge to vomit. He opened his mouth and then the spirit started to speak, informing him of the welfare to come --a material welfare for the Muyus equal to that of the Europeans. The most important thought expressed in this movement concerned a coming welfare in which all Muyus would share. The idea of this coming material welfare recurs àgain and again in various forms. The letter of 6 September mentioned that all nations would have to collect money and send it to Merauke. If possible, each nation

SCHOORL

would have to send one barrel of money. Also, in a second letter of the same date, which dealt mainly with the other population groups at Merauke, the resident was asked to inform the other nations to appear at Merauke and collect all cash of all kinds, af ter which God the Father, the Almighty, would distribute everything. The Dutch government was also asked, if possible, to inform the other nations that they should send money factories. Then God would settle everything and all arrangements of life, including the possession of riches, would be changed according to a new design. The letter of 14 September again explained the origine of the movement. It said that the spirit received by Koeram would show the way of progress, knowledge and wealth for the population of South New Guinea. It also said th at they are but a stupid people who had not received "the knowledge about wealth, etc." The whites would have to care for their fellow men, to quide them and set the example, especially concerning science. They should not keep it to "s~lallow" and enjoy only for themselves. All should cooperate and share the riches. In the letter of 19 September, the problem of the poverty was tackled from another angle. In fact it announceed an arrangement for fixing the price of all shop goods. The maximum price for any item could be only f 5; then follows a list of goods whose price was fixed at less than f 5. It concerned foodstuffs and commodities such as rice f 0.40 a kg, sugar f 0.15 a kg, kerosine f 0.19 a bottle, washing bowls f 1.13 each, cigarettes f 0.13 a packet, a pair of scissors to cut hair f 0.25, etc. -- 37 articles in total. The prices of all other articles not mentioned should also be reduced. The letter of 20 September rnentioned a new revelation of God whereby the incorne tax would be done away with; nor could the collection of money for charitable purposes take place. In the letter of 23 September to the resident, the first thing mentioned on the list of what the new order will bring was a factory and storage place for money. Then followed a list of factories and machines to be obtained: a factory for sun and moon; a factory and a store for weapons; factory and storage for hardware; the same for textiles; machines for shelling and a storage place for rice; a bulldozer and, finally, an aeroplane with hangar. On 26 September came another list of what had to come, to be sent by the Netherlands and other nations: 1000 weapons, a ship, an aeroplane, cars and again cash and all other goods. ~loreover the Dutch government

THE MUYU 175

had to give food, and each month there wou1d be a distribution of money at the offi ce. A1so, in the story to1d by the informants about the origin of the movement --Koeram finding the purse of money --the interest in money, material wea1th, is expressed. According to them, the leaders assumed that Koeram a1ready had 10 mi11ion gui1ders. One mi11ion of it he had taken to the office of the he ad of the 10ca1 government in Merauke, and 9 mi11ion was to be taken to the town office of the 10ca1 government. This information was confirmed to some extent by the message of 20 June appearing in Koeram's papers addressed to the queen of New Guinea, UZar Radja (Indonesian: 1itera11y Snake Queen), requesting that the keeper of Koeram's money be given f 9 mi11ion to be handed over to two of Koeram's associates. The resident was informed of this in a letter of the same date, which mentioned th at all this is connected with the 1ack of food, drink and c10thing. In Koeram's notebook severa1 statements appear concerning wages. On 1 June it was decided that wages wou1d amount to f 5 a day thenceforth. On 6 June it was asked that po1icemen's wages be raised to f 12 a day. It was a1so stated that they had been with the po1ice for a long time since the opening of the Muyu area (1937) --and near1y worked themse1ves to death, but still had low wages which did not buy enough to eat and drink. On the same date and for the same reason it was decided that the soldiers wou1d a1so earn f 12 a day. The statements and requests bring us to the supposition that welfare wou1d be great1y enhanced in a tota11y new society. In the letters it was not expressed comp1ete1y c1ear1y, but now and again it was hinted at. The goods to be sent were for the new kompenie (the term kompenie, from Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie, was still used as a synonym for the Dutch government) at K1apa1ima. This new kompenie a1so had new soldiers and new po1icemen, who wou1d carry the weapons to be sent (letter 26 September). It is a1so c1ear that the factories and machines 1isted in the letter of 23 September were to be used for this new society. The message Koeram received from God the A1mighty on 22 September said that the Dutch government wou1d look af ter food, drinks and c10thing for the new kompenie, viz. the inhabitants of K1apa1ima at Merauke and the peop1e of South New Guinea. The government wou1d a1so look af ter the building of a school and church (letters of 22 and 23 September). Koeram himse1f wou1d see to the provision of teachers (22 September). The teachers wou1d come from America and the chi1dren be speaking American

SCHOORL

within three months (23 September). In these letters the spirits are actually indicated as teachers. I was told by my informants th at the spirit visiting Koeram had promised that presently there would be a big town in Klapalima with everything "complete": a factory for money, subdistrict-office, a ship, many shops and a car for each. In this new town there would be their own governor, doctors, resident, head of local government, bishop, pilots, navy, teachers and baba (Chinese shopkeepers); everything would be there. Koeram was to sit·on a high gold chair and look down on his subjects. Each Muyu would then also be tuan (gentleman). They need no longer work themselves "almost to death". Food there would be plenty. They would not die any longer. They would die for half an hour it is true, but thei r own doctors would gi ve the command "ri se" and the dead person would live again and be cured. All bachelors in Klapalima had already made an agreement among themselves that they would no longer bother the "nona" (Indonesian girls) and would not marry Muyu girls, for th en the spirits would go. Presently, wh en the new condition had been effected, they would get beautiful women with beautiful big bodies, namely American and Australian women. They had to wait for them; if they did not keep to these rules of abstinence, they would presently experience disadvantage. In -this welfare state there would not be any difference in treatment among various groups in the population. This idea was also worked out in the desire that groups thought to be bothering them must disappear. In the letter of 6 September we already hear of these things. The Dutch government was asked to arrange the clearing of "dirt" of various kinds, which is the reason that many natives cannot live. They also asked that the Indonesians go back to their own country. The Indo-Europeans especially, have to go and to look for a place of their own. Intermarriage with other groups would be abolished. Only the Dutch government, the totok (full-blood) Dutch, would be maintained. They desired complete unity with them. These strong statements were mitigated later on by provisions that Indonesians and Chinese who wanted to stay could do so, but they would no longer be free to act at their own discretion. All the same, they kept urging that these people depart, so that the Dutch government could promote them. This was repeated in an announcement of 16 September, which gave an enumeration of the various national characters of Indonesians: Javanese, Keiese, Timorese, Boetonnese, people of Binonggo, Tarimbarese, Ambonnese, natives of Macassar, Menadonese and also Chinese.

AMONG THE MUYU 177 Under no condition, however, were the Indo-Europeans alluwed to stay (20 September 1953). According to the informants the adherents of the movement had already made a list of Chinese shopkeepers; wh en tbe time of welfare had come, these Chinese could go back to their country. The Muyus would then take control of the shops for themselves. The letters of 14 and 23 September expressed the desire for complete equality and equal treatment. In this new time tuan{s} and njonja{s} (ladies) would also have to see to their fellow men. Together they should enjoy food and drinks. They should respect each other (14 September). The purpose is to live together in New Guinea, without the one crushing the other and deceiving his neighbour as to the proceeds he has earned with his sweat. These statements were laced with questions asking if the reader did not think this arrangement right and righteous. But the coming welfare was not to be limited to Muyu society at Klapalima or the natives of New Guinea. The letter of 23 September stated that this welfare was to be for all people of the world. Not only the natives of New Guinea were to benefit from this progress, but all people of New Guinea, the foreigners too, would have their share. The supposition as expressed in the letter to the resident does not agree with that of Koeram himself. The idea of cooperation with the Dutch government is not mentioned in Koeram's diary. On 7 and 9 June there were messages that New Guinea belongs to the New Guineans themselves, and that it would get its own government because the people had already received "knowledge". New Guinea and America would become one and have their own governments. "Formerly it was di fferent from now". The other nations were to be allowed to cooperate in this new order. On 10 September, the authority over New Guinea was to be handed down to Mariana. At the police investigation, Koeram explained that Queen Juliana would hand down her authority to Mariana, a spirit of a dead pers on sent from America. A message of 19 August gave a similar indication. It said that Klapalima had been bequeathed to the leaders of the movement by God Almighty, because they already had the knowledge and know-how. At the police investigation, Koeram stated that what was meant was that Klapalima would be governed by Koeram in the name of the spi rits and that the Dutch government would then be powerless in that village.

SCHOORL

In the writings presented to the resident, influences of the compilers we re clearly noticeable. This also appears from the following. In the letters of 14 and 23 September, it was also said that there was not yet proof. No article could be produced as evidence. The only proof was the voices of the spirits which manifested themselves in the adherents of the movement (14 September). The spirits also ordered that the government be informed as soon as possible and not to wait too long. Only because of this did the adherents dare to present this information to the government. They were not playing with the government, but seriously seeking evidence that agreed with what had been prophesied (23 September). In the writings of 24 September this is again expressed. There was not yet tangible proof, only signs of the coming welfare. They also stated that on account of the statements received they would continue working as usual; they would pers evere and exercise patience under all difficulties (23 September). Besides the manifestations of the spirits, there were also other signs that foretold the coming welfare. It was said that dead people had already been resurrected by their own Muyu doctors. The informants mentioned a boy from Kanggim who had died. The three doctors had come and, af ter all spectators had been removed, they had commanded him to rise. Then the dead boy came to life again. The resident of Merauke also mentioned rumours about it in a letter. According to the informants, the leaders were also said to have the power to make coconut trees walk on commando Non-initiates were not allowed to see it, however. The informants also said that the pupils of the mission institutes had asked if they might receive something of the money to buy clothes. This would be evidence of the truth of the movement for the pupils. It was not possible, for it was said that soldiers still guarded the money that Koeram had found. What they could do was write letters to the spi rits in order to ask them for all kinds of goods. Those in contact with the spirits were to pass these letters on. This was confirmed by another informant, who had also tried it. Doubting the truth of the movement was not tolerated. All Muyus had to participate. Their names were all noted on a list. Those who did not believe got a red cross af ter their names. Presently, when the big town had become reality, they would be killed. Their spirits, too, would be subjected to this fate. The boys of the institute we re held to have said that they best be killëd. At first, the village chief of Klapalima thought it was only deception. However, he was compelled to participate.

MOVEMENTS AMONG THE MUYU 179

When he was later visited by a spirit, he believed in it. Visiting the resident on 28 September 1953, he gave a demonstration of such a manifestation of the spirit. But th ere were also Muyus in Klapalima who did not believe in the movement and did not participate. The schoolboys we re advised to learn, so that presently they could be of help in the welfare state. According to the informants, the idea was current that the welfare state could only be effected when the Muyus had learned enough. They even mentioned a period of five years. The money Koeram had received was put away for that time. It was also said that there was already a big town in the cemetery, which they could not yet see. Everyone had to be taught by the leader, Koeram. Teaching went on each night in the homes. They sat together, leaning back with the eyes shut. Then the spirit came creeping into the body, and they started speaking the language of the spirits; a sound coming fr om the throat of the possessed person was uttered by the spirit. The languages the spirits used were English and Dutch. They were not dead Muyus, but primarily spirits of dead Americans, who came from America to Klapalima to instruct as guru (teacher). According to my informant there we re about 200 Muyus who received a spirit. It was further said that there were two kinds of spirits, -- spirits of people who had died contented, but also spirits of people who had died suddenly by arrow or club. If people received the latter kind of spirit, they went mad. This happened to two persons mentioned by the informant. These two people had gone mad in that period and most likely in connection with this salvation movement. The idea of an invisible town is also expressed in Koeram's writing, together with information about soldiers and policemen who had arrived and left. For example, 15 July 1953: 50 million Australian soldiers had arrived on wednesday afternoon at six o'clock. On 15 other dates, information is given about coming and going of troops. When asked at the police investigation where these soldiers and policemen had gone, Koeram answered that they stayed in a town under the ground. It appears from the letters to the resident that the Muyus did not quite know what benefit this movement would bring nor, especially, what the attitude of the government would be toward it.

The letter of 23 September opens by stating that the inhabitants of Klapalima want to present this important secret to the government with a sincere heart, a calm and quiet feeling and without hesitation or fear. Later on, the letter states that some of them are afraid

J. W. SCHOORL

that the government wi11 make an investigation into this apocrypha1 event. Many others are of the opinion that this is a secret to be kept and a prophecy to be fu11fi11ed. But on1y the government knows what it is, and knows about ways to educate peop1e how to make all kinds of goods, which can hard1y be produced with ordinary human know1edge and ski11. For the inhabitants of K1apa1ima, it is a miracu10us event. They themse1ves do not know the way. The remarkab1e thing is that they can see spirits which have been dead for a long time and that they receive all kinds of directions concerning the progress of the natives. Vet they are of the opinion that this event is a good one, for it brings a tota1 change. They are not superstitious practices performed in the dark. It is not something that has been accepted by a set of stupid, credu10us peop1e either. In such a case they wou1d hide it fr om the government. But, they say, this is 1ike a secret know1edge, which the government shou1d first know of and then a110w to be continued. Then it wi11 not be considered as a mere invention, but something done on the orders of the spi rits. They are not p1aying with the government or telling them nonsense, but sincere1y seeking evidence to confirm their experiences in this event. They think that the same progress and pub1ic hea1th is concerned as meant in Artic1e 73 of the United Nations Charter.

A1so, in the letter of 14 September, they asked the secu1ar and ecc1esiastica1 arM to consièer these events ~urther. A1though they submitted their experiences to the government's judgement (and the mission), it did not mean that if the government did not believe these experiences, they wou1d stop these practices. They wou1d continue unti1 they either gained advantage or disadvantage (letter 23 September). The answer from the village chief of K1apa1ima to the bishop at Merauke, who had proposed to ce1ebrate a mass at K1apa1ima, expressed the same tendency. The proposa1 was accepted on the condition that, if no resu1ts eventuated, they wou1d continue trying themse1ves. Thus the bishop's proposa1 was taken in a different way than had been intended, name1y, the expu1sion of the spi rits. Informing the government of these experiences provoked resistance from some adherents because they considered it a secret. They had indeed been ab1e to keep the movement a secret from April to September. The informants said that non-initiates were not allowed to walk near the houses where the seances were enacted. The spi rits wou1d shoot them. Guards had a1so been set up to warn in case of po1ice patrols. From Koeram's notebook it a1so appears that his messages caused a certain unrest and fear among the people. On 18 June, the leaders of the Papua political party are told to write a letter and send it to the government at Merauke: the resident, the head of 10cal government, the head of police, the head of the army, the doctor, the he ad of the mission

MOVEMENTS AMONG THE MUYU 181

and also to the authorities in Hollandia and the head of the Papua political party at Hollandia.

"For we are seeing that you have fear and we therefore request that you write this letter so that you and your people will be peaceful and satisfied. Presently we "and you will be satisfied; we will see to that. White and black people will be happy and cooperate." And, on 14 July, this followed: "We shall live together and have a good life. We are doing nothing wrong. We are making you happy; have no fear. We are signing below, we dead men or spirits."

This movement was not aimed against the Roman Catholic faith. In the document presented to the resident, it was said again and again that these are arrangements of God, the Father, the Almighty. Putting things in this way also served as a kind of justification for those arrangements th at were less pleasant for certain groups of the population. The letter of 6 September began telling the resident that the inhabitants of Klapalima, the Muyus, had been generously bestowed by God. And they seriously assured him that this had not come from themselves but from God. When directing requests to other nations to send money or to expel certain population groups from New Guinea or to lower the prices, it was assured again and again that these were God's orders. My informants also told me that, according to the leaders of this movement, there was no opposition to the christian religion. The boys of the Roman Catholic institute had asked about it. The reply was that the christian religion was good and true. They went to church as usual. It was God indeed who was behind this movement and made all kinds of promises. The leaders also taught the christian religion. They said that God made the earth the first day and on the second day He made the trees and all goods. Then God wonde red who had to look af ter these goods and then He made the people. There was also an enemy. the big snake. It was the head of the evil spirits (see above). The informants remarked that although Koeram was not a Christian, he taught like a priest. Of the 203 adherents of this movement, the names of whom were given on a list attached to one of the letters, 152 people were members of the Roman Catholic church. Vet this representation of things is not quite right. According to Koeram's own, there was aconnection between the event in prehistorie times, as expressed in the myth of the sacred pig Kamberap, and this movement. At first it did not speak of God the Almighty, but of Father Ajuk Ari, Tuhan AZZah (3 June); and, as he also reported to

SCHOORL

the poli ce, God had Himself at first cal led ULar Radja (see below). Later on he was no longer allowed to use this name and had to use "Father, the Almighty" or "Lord Ali". The last word may be the same as Ari, from the name Ajuk Ari. In the following pages concerning the origin of the movement, shall try to identify the connection with the myth mentioned and the use of these names. We can assume that the influence of the Christian Muyus, who did not want a "conflict in faitlt, effected this change. The information given by the informants also throws some light on the background of this movement. The Muyus could not understand where all the goods came from that were unleaded at Merauke every six weeks by the K.P.M. ship (liner of the KoninkLijke Pakketvaart Maatschappij). Each time large quantities were unloaded. The nature of the goods also provoked various questions. They thought this could not be just the work of people. The Dutch must get the help of God and the spirits. How could such ships otherwise come into existence, and how was it possible for a plane to fly in the sky? Where did the doctor, the resident and the other tuan get their knowledge? All these goods must come from a place where the spirits live and the knowledge must come from contact with the spirits. These thoughts also led to another idea. The goods the Europeans now get from Europe in fact originated from the Muyu, namely from the ketpon (sacred place where primeval events occurred), Motkom near Woropko. These goods were carried to Europe via underground roads. There they were altered to a certain extent; they were made visible and, once the mark MotkomVWoropko had been changed into another mark, then sent to Merauke. My third informant told me that the adherents of the movement thought that it was in agreement with the christian faith, as everything came from God. The priests did not tell everything; they knew secret ways of getting knowledge and money from the spirits. In Koeram's notebook the entire movement was connected with the event in the primeval age, as mentioned in the myth of Kamberap. The myth used by him deviates in some details from the versions described by me (Schoorl 1957: 96-102). Most likely this is aversion that exists in the southern part of the Muyu area. Koeram himself came from a village in this southern part. The myth as told by Koeram is as follows:

"The origin of the world and the people. The first people were Ajukari and Bon. Their son was Woé and his wife Wukop. Their

THE MUYU 183

chi1dren were: Kadjuk, Diwinap and Kamberap. Kadjuk married Diwinap. Kamberap treated Kadjuk wrong1y and he f1ed. When he returned he on1y ate unwashed sagomarrow ... "

Then fo110ws the story of how Kamberap was captured as a pig and was eaten at a pig festival. There was no water at this festival. A we11 was found which, when used, continued to flow so that the Kao river and all other rivers and seas came into existence. Koeram's story goes on:

"The strong current threw all peop1e on the land here and there and from this many peop1e came into existence. One person on1y, named Kadim, f1ew to America. Then Kadjuk fo110wed him to America and he became clever (Indonesian: pandai). His father, Woé, then made the sun and it became light everywhere. Then he 100ked for his son unti1 he found him in Americai he made use of him and became clever. So (?) there's the moon in the evening. Sunset means that he puts it out. Wh en the moon sets, he a1so puts it out. The end. Now he asks his peop1e to return. On 30 May 1953 he asks them to return. The end."

Then follows a paragraph in which it is said that contact has a1ready been made with America. It is said they have a1ready found the tree of know1edge (Indonesian: pohon ILmu). New Guinea and America wi11 become one, cooperate, and have know1edge together. This is repeated in another paragraph, making the remark that ti11 now they had on1y had the outer ends of the tree of know1edge. In connection with the request for higher wages and better positions for the po1icemen, it is said that Kamberap a1so ran away because of i11 treatment and followed the pigs, af ter which he ate of the marrow of the sago each night. The consequence of this was that he was trapped by his brother-in-1aw and, owing to Kadjuk's action, the know1edge was taken away. In Koeram's notebook there is a1so the paragraph in which all kinds of factories are mentioned. It is said to have been Bapa Ajuk Ari Tuhan AZU7h (Ind.: Father Ajuk Ari the Lord) who signed the statement concerned. Subsequent statements and messages were signed with Bapamu UUzr Radja (Ind.: Your Father Sanke king). It has a1ready been mentioned in another connection that Koeram stated at the po1ice investigation that God made Himse1f known at first as UZar Radja. Later on, he was not allowed to use this name any 10nger and had to ca11 Him Bapa Mahakuasa (Ind. Father A1~ighty) or Tuan AZi (Ind. Lord A1i). Most 1ike1y this AZi is the same as Ari from the name Ajuk Ari. During the hearing with the police, Koeram made the remark that when "God" made Himself known as UU7r Radja, this was done in his own 1anguage, name1y the Anoari dialect. Thus read the documents bearing on the case. The Muyus have no names for dia1ects. 8ut anuari is the name for a very big snake existing in the southern part

SCHOORL of the Muyu area. (This snake can eat pigs and small children.) Although no conclusions can be made from the foregoing, it is not impossible, I think, that the Muyu name for U~ Radja is Anuari and that, in view of the similar use of U~ar Radja and Bapa Ajuk Ari. the names Anuari and Ajuk Ari also express the same mythical figure.

3.3 NOTES ON THE SALVATION MOVEMENTS Among the Muyus the idea ·is widespread that when the Kao River came into existence, the ancestors of all non-Muyus were carried from the Muyu area by the water. However, they took everything with them that the Muyus lack and foreigners possess. This idea was again expressed in what Koeram had written down. One of the most important ideas of this movement was that the enormous riches and knowledge of the whites can be obtained through contact with the spirits. Through this movement, the Muyus would also obtain this knowledge and these riches. The idea about the connection between having knowledge and contact with the spirits was clearly expressed in a document that the village chief of Klapalima presented to me in March 1954. In it he explained the difference between bobtek and ajek. Through contact with the spirits, the school of the bobtek knowledge and know-how would be obtained that are usually hidden from people. When learning this, dead body liquid had to be drunk, whereby knowledge of all things in the ground, in the water, in the air would be obtained. "money" (ot) was especially mentioned with it. There was also the idea of the Muyus that foreigners have at their disposal an unlimited quantity of goods and money. The catechist of the village, Toemoetoe, told me that until just recently he had always thought that money could easily be obtained in the "money factory". He had heard from the priest that it was not so easy and knew now "that the government fixes a certain amount each year." Previously he also thought that there were unlimited quantities of goods in the Netherlands, and he had wondered why the Dutch did not give more goods to the Muyus. The idea that western money is manufactured in a factory and can therefore be obtained in great quantity was widespread among the Muyus.

THE MUYU 185

4. THEORETICAL CONSIDERATIONS AND CONCLUSIONS
   4.1. Although the salvation movements among the Muyu population show clear and remarkable religious aspects, we, must ascertain that the movements were not aimed at a religious goal. The purpose of the movements was to a great extent the gaining of material welfare. The first movement (see 3.1) concerned mainly traditional goods, whereas the next movement (3.2) concerned mainly western money and goods. If we start from the Muyus' range of ideas -- also in the period of many contacts with the world outside the Muyu area --it can be explained why these movements have such a pronounced religious aspect: in the traditional culture material welfare was connected with "supernatural" influences. An important part of religious practice was also aimed at obtaining wealth in the form of shell ~ney, among others (Schoorl 1957: 128). Although because of the remarkable religious aspects, we could think of salvation movements in the sense of being aimed at a religious goal, we should see these movements, I think, as being aimed at a secular welfare, toward which the religious practices should only be considered as a means. The choice of means fitted entirely into the traditional Muyu range of ideas. This range of ideas was indeed subject to change owing to the contact situation and, especially, to education, but the traditional ideas were still strongly at work. New ideas were added to the old ones, but they did not (yet) replace them.
   4.2. The first two movements (3.1) should, I think, be attributed to the great discrepancy between the strong stress in the Muyu culture on acquiring of wealth (shell money) and the limited possibilities to realize this ideal. The articles the Muyu consider valuable, especially the lOotslO (shell money), are scarce (Schoorl 1957: ch. 11). The number of persons who have acquired wealth is relatively small. Most likely we can find a situation similar to what Merton discovered in connection with North American society, namely a great discrepancy between the cultural goals (success) and the means approved by society to attain it. In a certain society, a frustration felt by many can lead to various types of reaction. In view of the nature of the movements, we could see them as innovative behaviour. The cultural purposes are (still) appreciated positively, but new ways are sought to realize them. I wish to add to this that, although these movements occurred in a period when the Muyu area had been under (colonial) administration for 15 years, the nature

SCHOORL and the aim of the movement do not make us suppose that contact with western culture was an essential condition for this movement to come into existence. In other words, no arguments can be put forward that these movements could not have come into existence in the pre-contact period. (See also Kamma 1972: 278-282).

4.3. The movement among the Muyus at Merauke must also be attributed to astrong discrepancy between the highly valued goals and the available approved means to attain thèm. Shifts have indeed occurred with regard to traditional goals, but the new purposes greatly resemble the old ones. The new goals are western wealth and knowledge. Knowledge is also seen to be the cause of wealth, though the idea of knowledge has a different meaning than in western cultures. From the description of the ~vement and the background mentioned by the informants it appears that there is astrong desire for western wealth in Merauke. At the same time, the available possibilities to actually share in this wealth are clearly limited for the Muyu at this time. This wealth is not considered as something that has been built up for many years and for which one has been worked hard. Wealth is explained from the Muyus' range of thoughts, which it is believed that wealth originates from the Muyu area and, strictly speaking, belongs to the Muyus. Furthermore, this wealth exists in unlimited quantities. It is only the foreigners' unwillingness that prevents the Muyu from sharing it. This agrees with more general observations of so-called cargo cults in New Guinea and Melanesia (Van Baal 1967: 69-80). Here, too, the frustration experienced by many Muyus leads to seeking new ways. There is a prophet with a definition of the situation fitting strongly into a traditional range of thoughts and with a solution for the problems defined. The course of the movement fits the well known picture of similar movements (see, among others, Goodenough 1963: 293-301). 5) It could be said th at these movements are aimed at the (cultural) purposes of society, both Muyu and "western" society, as represented in Merauke. In Merton's terms we could speak here too of the reaction-type of innovative behaviour. At the same time it should be remarked that -- to speak in Balandier's terms, for example --in the movement at Merauke there are elements of active oPPosition against the existing polity. The ideas about their own soldiers, own authorities, about the expulsion of certain population groups indicate this. In the messages the necessary caution

THE MUYU 187

is exercised, but in the coming time of welfare it wi11 be the Muyus who ho1d the positions of authority. It is not so much that they seek another culture and structure -- at least as it is understood by them -- but another own overall position. It can still be seen as a form of the innovative reaction-type, but this reaction is a1so close to the type of rebe11ion in which a new order and a new "myth" are created.

4.4. Not on1y one reaction-type existed in the societies invo1ved. Nor did the "prophets" concerned have success with all members of society with their "message". As with all movements, besides the prophet's discip1es and the fo110wers there were a1so the sceptics, the opponents and the supporters of other definitions of the situation with other solutions. In the movement at Merauke, the efforts of the leader of the political party were c1ear1y aimed at cooperation with the government. He stimu1ated consultation with the government about this "new way". (He was therefore much offended by the search of his home by the police.) Information from the former pupi1s of the training colleges suggest that many of these young peop1e were very sceptica1 concerning this movement. Far from all Muyus in Merauke were invo1ved in it. At that time, no investigation was made into the extent of the movement with reJard to both the number of adherents and the intensity of participation. Know1edge about leaders with other definitions of the situation and other solutions or messages is a1so missing. It may be assumed that opinion leaders with various visions existed among the non-adherents. From the viewpoint of p1ace and function of socio-cu1tura1 movements in a certain society, it is desirab1e that in all cases more attention be paid to the alternatives which may not be dominant at that time but may p1ay an important ro1e. That such movements had a chance to gain many adherents among the Muyu popu1ation is c10se1y connected with the fact that the traditional wor1d-view still p1ayed an important if not dominant ro1e within this popu1ation group at that time. From this range of thoughts, the existence of this movement cou1d 10gica11y be exp1ained. From the know1edge of the observer/anthropo10gist, they cou1d be described in advance as fai1ing to attain their purposes. Van Baa1's (1960: 108-121) term "erring acculturation" cou1d be app1ied to the movement in Merauke. In situations in which large parts of the popu1ation receive (western) education for a long time, other types of socio-cu1tura1 movements wi11 occur, such as nationa1 movements aimed at obtaining independence or political movements aimed at the change (or maintenance) of the government.

SCHOORL

Both in purpose and means, this kind of movement is clearly secular. In fact, however, differences with salvation movements are less than a superficial comparison would first suggest. The difference is primarily a function of changed world-views. The definitions of the situation and the "messagesOl connected with them are formulated from that range of ideas. Also, in the more "developed" world, erring movements can be indicated and expected. In that world, too, corresponding types of movements can be distinguished.

NOTES

1. The investigation among the Muyu Papuas was made in various periods in 1953, 1954 and 1955, owing to the opportunities Dr. Van Baal offered me in this respect. The results of the investigation can be found in Schoorl, 1957.
2. Defining social phenomena has always been a difficult and trying affair, which corresponds to the nature of those phenomena. The definition given here is not intended to be an exact description or limitation, but more an indication of the phenomenon. The following definition of socio-cultural movement has been taken from the Dictionary, 1964: "The term social movement denotes a concerted and continued effort by a social group aimed at reaching a goal (or goals) common to its members. More specifically, the effort is directed at modifying, maintaining, replacing or destroying an existing social institution. The term is also used to denote the group so engaged. This general formulation leaves open the question, e.g. of degrees of organization and continuity or of clarity of purpose -- all of which may vary from one social movement to another or within any social movement in the course of its history".
3. The descriptive part has been taken from Schoorl, 1957: 122-124 and 249-263. The description of the salvation movement in the Muyu area itself in the period 1953-1955 has been left out to shorten this contribution. This movement had been inspired by the movement at Merauke.
4. Merton gives the following outline: A TYPOLOGY OF MODES OF INDIVIDUAL ADAPTATIONS Modes of Adaptation Culture Goals Institutionalized Means I Conformity + + Ir Innovation + 111 Ritualism + IV Retreatism V Rebellion :t :t
   (+) signifies "acceptance", (-) signifies "rejection", and (:t) signifies "rejection of prevailing values and substitution of new values" (1961: 140).
5. Following Wallace, Goodenough mentions six major phases c:" steps which mark the course of a succesful revitalization movement, namely:
   1) Inspiration, 2) Communication, 3) Organization of Converts,
   4) Adaptation to Resistance, 5) Enacting a Program, and 6) Routinization.

SALVATION MOVEMENTS AMONG THE MUYU 189

CONSULTED LITERATURE

1960 "Erring Acculturation", in Ameriaan AnthropoZogist Vo1. 62, Nr 1. Baal, J. van 1967** Mensen in verandering--**Ontstaan en groei van een nieuwe auZtuur in ontwikkeZingsZanden, De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam. Balandier, G. 1952 "Contribution à une Sociologie de la Dépendance", in Cahiers Internationaux de SoaioZogie, Vol. XII, 47-68. Berry, B. *1951 Raae ReZations***--**The Interaation of Ethnia and RaaiaZ Groups, The Riverside Press Cambridge. Cohen, P.S. *1968 Mbdern SoaiaZ Theory,* Heinemann, London. Dictionary, *1964 A diationary of the SoaiaZ Saienaes,* ed. by J. Gould and W.L. Kolb, The Fr~e Pre:ss of Glencoe. Goodenough, W.H. *1963 Cooperation in Change,* Russell Sage Foundation, New Vork. Kamma, F .C. *1972 Koreri*-Messiania Movements in the Biak-Numfor Culture Area, Nijhoff, Den Haag. Killian, L.M. 1964 "Soci a 1 Movements ", in Fari s, R. E. L., ed.: Handbook of Modern Soaiology, Rand McNally, Chicago Leighton, A.H. *1964 The Governing of Men,* Octagon Books, New Vork. Maclver, R.M. *1964 SoaiaZ Causation,* Harper Torchbooks, New Vork Merton, R.K. *1961 SoaiaZ Theories and Soaial Struature,* The Free Press, Glencoe. Nadel, S.F. *1958 The Foundation of SoaiaZ AnthropoZogy* (1951), Cohen & West, London. Ni cholas, R. W. 1973 "Social and Political Movements", in Annual Review of AnthropoZogy, Vol. 2, 1973. Schoorl, J.W. *1957 KuZtuur en kuZtuurveranderingen in het Mbejoe-gebied,* Voorhoeve, Den Haag. Smelser, N.J. 1968 Essays in SoaioZogiaaZ Explanation, Prentice-Hall, Englewood Cliffs. Toch, H. *1965 The Soaial PsyahoZogy of Soaial Movements,* Bobbs-Merrill, Indianapolis. Zijderveld, A.C. *1973 De theorie van het symboZisah interaationisme,* Boom, Meppel.

AND WOK BISNIS

A. Ploeg
This paper deals with efforts undertaken by Papua New Guineans l) during the last decades to improve their welfare either by means of 'cargo cu1ts' or other movements which at least seem to be more effective, such as individua1 or group cash eropping interprises, transport businesses and so on. It attempts to de1ineate the simi1arities and differences between these types of movements and to re1ate them to deve10pments within the co10nia1 situation in Papua New Guinea (the eastern half of the iS1and), unti1 recent1y under Austra1ian administration. The paper is based in part on my reading of the relevant 1iterature and in part on field work carried out during the period 1968 to 1973 in various parts of Papua New Guinea and, to a1esser extent, on my 1960-62 research among the Bokondini Dani in the West Irian Highlands, an area having close cu1tura1 affinities with the Papua New Guinea High1ands. 2)

1. Wor1d War 11 became a watershed in the history of Papua New Guinea Before the war, the country consisted of two separate territories, both administered by Australia. The two administrative networks remained thin1y spread and did not cover large parts of the country. Austra1ian interests in the area were primari1y strategie, such that Mazrui (1970: 56) cou1d describe its co10nia1ism as one of indifference. Both Papua and New Guinea had basica11y to make do with their own means. Given the 1ack of means in Papua, the administration there received a sma11 grant, which during the last years before the war was fixed at fA 42,500 (Mair 1970:
   33). In the territory of New Guinea, the 1aissez-faire character of the administration was much more pronounced than in Papua where, under the long ru1e of Sir Hubert Murray, re1ative1y more attention was given to the welfare and deve10pment of the indigenous popu1ation itse1f. In both

PLOEG 191

territories, however, the amount of social and economie development was minimal and what development there was mainly benefitted the smal 1 European communities. Papua New Guineans participated marginally in the cash economy, primarily through unskilled work on European held plantations ~nd in administration offices. There were, especially in Papua, efforts to develop cash eropping by the local population, but they were largely unsuccessful. For a start, the people were forced to plant cash crops; furthermore, the prices they received for their produce were of ten very low; and, finally, the economie depression in the 19305 contributed to this lack of success. The European business community was strongly opposed to promoting Papua New Guinean commercial interests and, in New Guinea, managed to press through the enactment of several regulations ensuring an 'economie stranglehold' (Salisbury 1970: 40-41) over the rest of the population. McCarthy relates (1964: 79ff) how he was quickly transferred and demoted, af ter New Ireland planters had protested against the fact that he had assured New Guineans that it was not against the law for them to dry their own copra and had succesfully encouraged them to do so. Various observers have referred to the colonial society in Par,ua New Guinea as a caste system and race relations as nonexistent. These are overstatements, but opportunities for Europeans to learn about Papua New Guinean cultures and for Papua New Guineans to learn about European culture were very few. While it is doubtful th at many Europeans would have availed themselves of the opportunity, it is much more likely that Papua New Guineans would have been eager to learn. What they were able to observe, from a large social distance, was a particularly restricted range of European personnel and activities. Colonial Papua New Guinea before 1942 was an outpost of European society chiefly concerned with pacification, the maintenance of law and order, planting and trading, and mission work. In many areas, contacts with the outside world were intermittent and consisted of the callof a cargo vessel eagerly awaited and excitedly welcomed for its fresh supplies, mail and new possibilities for human contact (cf. Lawrence 1966: 249). Restricted as their observations had to be, Papua New Guineans were deeply impressed by European culture. To understand why, we should first consider the nature of pre-contact Papua New Guinean societies. Many authors have attempted such characterisations and of those on whom I have drawn I mention only Lawrence (1966: 1974), Sahlins (1963), Stanner (1953) and Schwartz (1968).

WOK KAKO AND WOK BISNIS

2. Pre-contact Pap ua New Guinea was marked by cultural and social fragmentation. However, Papua New Guinea cultures, though displaying a wide variability, very of ten have a set of elements in common. Van Baal, referring both to West Irian and Papua New Guinea cultures, writes (1954:
   439) about the spectacular differences in social structure and religion: How impassive and dull is the ceremonialof the Waropen Papuans /-with this term van Baal refers to all the inhabitants of the island New Guinea_7 compared with the ritual pageant of the inhabitants of the Papuan Gulf. What a commercial spirit moves the Highlands Papuan Cespecially those of the Wissel lakes area) and what little interest the Marind show in this regard. What a difference between the endogamy of the Gab-Gab Papuans and the r1imi ka and the ardor of a Nimboran family to establish marriage relations with as many clans as possible; between the preferential marriage rules among the Banaro, the Kiwai and the Sentani Papuans. 3) Moreover, the people were consciously 'multi-ethnic', by which Schwartz (1968: 87) means a situation in which cultural traits were used as emblems of identity, while the use of an emblem by a group might impede its use by others. At the same time, traits such as dan ces and certain types of rituals might be seen as transfarable; and, in general, people are open to, and eager for, importation of traits. Of the more common elements 1 would like to mention the simple and straight-forward technologies and the narrow range of material artifacts. Amassing and redistribution of wealth, whether of organic or non-organic nature, and whether obtained through trade or local production, formed a dominant interest. Social relationships tended to be established and maintained through a flow of material and immaterial prestations. Papua New Guinea societies were predominantly classless with personal status based on achievement rather than ascription. Achievement was measured in a man's proficiency in becoming a nodal point in the turnover of wealth. Such persons were commonly cal led Big-Men, and Papua New Guinea polities were dominated by their activities. About Papua New Guineans 'it can be argued sensibly that it is precisely this, the manipulative, bargaining, transactional approach to life, which is the system of their life' (Stanner 1958: 216).4) Those who failed in this approach were of low status and were of ten referred to as 'rubbish men' "The status of Big-Men was liable to fluctuate, and their sons or sister's sons, depending on the mode of reckoning descent, ~rofited but little from their father's, or mother's brother's, ascendancy. Sahlins' 1963 account focuses on the economie aspect of Big-Man status.

erê in which suspicions and delusions may well have increased due to, first, the imposition of the Pax Australiana and a concomitant increase in sorcery and, second, the overwhelming fact of European presence. Polities were generally very small. Wedgwood and Hogbin's (1953: 242) estimate of an effective size from 70 up to 350 was made untenable by ethnographic research in the highlands, but even there polities rarely exceeded the 3,000 mark (Brown 1971: 22-3). Here and there 'systems of areal integration' (Schwartz 1963) such as the KuZa trade and the moka exchange cycle, provided avenues for relationships between groups and their members. In ecology New Guinea societies differed widely. The ubiquitous Melanesian contrast between coastal and bush peoples was enlarged upon by the existence of mountain groups. Overall the country was very sparsely populated, but there were wide differences in local population densities. To a certain extent these differences corresponded with differences in intensity of cultivation methods and dependence on hunting and collecting rather than agriculture. In most places, however, people derived their staple foods from agriculture and pig breeding and, on the coast, fishing. Their diet of ten lacked in protein, but was otherwise sufficient. Indeed many groups lived in what Fisk has termed (1970: 2) subsistence affluence

WOK KAKO AND WOK BISNIS

namely that the Papua New Guinean 'producing from his own resources the goods and services needed for his family, is still able to produce as much as he can consume, of the main items he knows how to produce, with the use of only a part of the land and labour resources available to him'. The arrival of Europeans in Papua New Guinea, about one century ago, was followed by a great many movements which have been variously named cargo cults, millenarian movements, 'salvation' movements and so on. In this paper I use the tenncargo cult, the name by which the phenomenon has become known to many Papua New Guineans themselves. In the following section I will set out the basic characteristics of these cults.

3. The first cargo cult which became known was the Vailala Madness, on account of its description by Williams. Many cults predate it, however. Their systematic study has come only af ter the World War 11, and attempts at explanation have become the subject of a lively debate. Van Baal (1967: 69ff) contributes to the debate by setting out three main characteristics. First, the cultists expect the imminent and radical improvement in their material welfare. Second, their expectations include the transformation of the existing social and cultural arrangements. Third, the movements are reactions on encountering 'unheard of wealth and unimaginable scope to fulfill one's life through wealth' (1967: 76). This last characteristic does not preclude, however, that they are likely transformations of movements which occurred already before contacts with Europeans had come about. In fact, Valentine (1963: 42) and Waiko (1973:
   420) argue that cults are traditional Melanesian responses to crisis situations. To this analysis, other authors add several components. Stanner (1958) stresses the what he calls 'subinstitutional' aspect of the cults. By this he means that cultists 'express a one-sided evaluation of things which are in the keeping and within the gift of the spirits'. But 'their affair with the spi rits remains one-sided: there is no transaction. The valuation is not joint, it never becomes instituted'. According to Stanner a central problem in the analysis of cults is why such an inordinate value, and precisely what value, is put on what is referred to as 'cargo'. Lawrence, in an impressive analysis (1966), links cargo cults occurring in the Madang area to the prevalent indigenous epistomology and changes in the colonial situation as perceived by the people themselves. Although his discussion refers only to the Madang area, it is of much wider application. The analysis turns on three problems: first, why was

PLOEG 195 European wealth held to be so important; secondly, why did people try to obtain it via ritual activity; and, thirdly, what are the effects of cargo cults? In Lawrence's view, Papua New Guineans in the Madang area were so pre-occupied with acquiring European wealth because its possession would have enabled them to enter into social relationships with them on equal terms. The people believed ancestral spirits and deities had created and made available the goods they had known and used before contact. The world as perceived by the Madang people, Lawrence argues, is basically static; whatever the vicissitudes of individuals and social groups, and whatever the diffusion of techniques, rituals, ballets and so on, the structure of human relations, the store of human knowledge and the range of human material possessions are created and set once and for all by the spirits and deities. Hence they turned to the spirits and deities, hoping they were also the source of the cargo, the as sets the Europeans displayed. Simultaneously, however, recourse to ritual, 'approaching the new world with means and tactics borrowed from the old' (van Baal 1960:

109), seems to have been the only way open for Papua New Guineans to obtain cargo, since they could not make it, nor could they acquire it through transactions. Lawrence makes clear the intellectual effort the people put into their cults. Given the fragmentary presence of European culture and the strong emotions aroused by the fragments they did observe, their efforts to explain their observations were almost bound to lead to erroneous results. During the period the Madang people were in contact with Europeans, they several times changed their strategies for obtaining cargo; and Lawrence relates this to changes in European attitudes as perceived by the people and their digestion of especially missionary teachings. Consequently, it is possible to regard the convers i on to Christianity also as a transaction, with the acquisition of cargo as the ultimate goal. Finally, Schwartz adds to this that taking part in a cult produces a metastable state in the participants, a term used in physics, indicating 'a state in which a substance enters given special conditions of hightened levels of excitation' (1968: 66ff). Taking part of a cult is in itself rewarding; it produces a 'high' state which, when the cult fails, 'swings into a 'low' state', into a state of depression. Schwartz states he observed this state during research in the Admiralty Islands and in New Hannover. I myself encountered it both in West Irian and in Papua New Guinea and experienced it as a pervasive and contagious atmosphere of frustration and hopelessness. Schwartz also draws attention (1968: 76)

WOK KAKO AND WOK BISNIS

to the 'eager credulity' th at selectively seeks out events that are used
to shore up paranoid explanatory systems .... Cognitive rejection is
conjoined with cognitive receptivity, but with reveresed probability thresholds.

4. World War 11 made Papua New Guinea the scene of military operations for several years. It had a shattering effect. Firstly, the colonial masters were quickly defeated by the Japanese invaders. Secondly, during the ensuing counter-campaigns the European presence multiplied dramatically. At the beginning of the war there had been about 6,000 Europeans in Papua New Guinea; during the following years tens of thousands of military personnel with unimagined quantities and types of equipment confronted Papua New Guineans. Thirdly, the presence of blacks in the American army, seemingly on equal footing with the whites, revealed to the people an alternative to the race relations they had been subjected to and which. they had resented. Fourthly, Papua New Guineans helped the European and American military, and they came to realise that in jungle fighting they were a good deal better than their white counterparts. Rates of pay, and race relations in general, were far more favourable than before the war. Fifthly, and most importantly, the war finally made Papua New Guinea and its inhabitants better known among Australians and Papua New Guinean help in the war effort was widely appreciated. Af ter 1945 the Australian Labour government embarked upon an idealistic policy of general social reconstruction (Clark 1963: 230ff), and in this context it announced a 'new deal' for Papua New Guineans af ter the pre-war neglect. In the course of the years this policy committed Australia to a considera~le, and perhaps unanticipated, effort in terms of personnel and finance. Annual Australian expenditure in Papua New Guinea gradually rose to over fA 100,000,000, most of which was given as a non-recoverable grant. Concomitantly, the size of the colonial administration grew rapidly. In 1953 it numbered 1,174 officers, as against 6,473 in 1964 (Parker 1966: 196). The increase was especially marked in the welfare services. Stanner (1953: chapters 7 to 10) discusses the post-war Australian policies with regard to Papua New Guinea and shows the concern for development by the local population. He quotes (1953: 100) official sources as saying: Non-native expansion must, however, be governed by the well-being of the indigenous inhabitants of the Territory as a whole, and, as in the past, be native and European working side by side but

PLOEG 197

with the limit of non-native expansion determined by the welfare of the natives generally.

Another statement quoted by Stanner (1953: 101) reads 'the Government is determined to give the native an opportunity to advance in his own right and not merely to be an instrument for employment by non-native agriculturalists or industrialists'. Among the people themselves the former servicemen were most exposed to promises of imminent improvements in their welfare. Lawrence devotes much attention to such promises in the career of Vali, an ex-serviceman, who became the central figure in the post-war movements in the Madang area. In a foreword to Lawrence's book, McCarthy, then director of District Administration, comments (1964: VIII) 'that the promises L-about improvements in welfare_ï were impossibly lavish, incautious and made without official approval made no difference to the men's belief that they would be kept'. With considerable delays the Administration did take several measures to improve the life situation of ex-servicemen both European and indigenous, but the facilities provided to the Europeans were much better than those to the Papua New Guineans. Indigenous ex-servicemen in Situm and Gobari, two resettIement areas near Lae, appeared to resent bitterly both the delays and the differences in treatment (Ploeg 1971 a: 14-6). Administration policies for social and economie development were only partly successful and anyway benefitted more the expatriate community than the Papua New Guineans. The latter's share in commercial farming increased gradually. In some favoured areas, such as the Gazelle PeninsuIa and the highland valleys near Goroka, the increase was quite considerable. Their participation in the expanding secondary and tertiary sectors remained basically low-level. In the late 1960s, a five year development plan was drawn up which put this situation into sharp focus, without, however, attempting to reverse it. The plan drew a lively debate, in which Crocombe (1969 a; 1969 b), especially, damned the Administration for what he called 'tokenims' with regard to Papua New Guinean development. In his own words (1969 a: 57):

At the end of the five-year plan, 52% of all commercial agriculture will be in expatriate hands5) ... No proportionate details are given for commerce and industry, yet it seems that by the 1980s, if the plan is followed, at least 90% of all business and industry, and probably over 95% of all business profits, will be in the hands of foreigners.

Promoting entrepreneurial activities among Papua New Guineans has subsequently become a matter of increasing concern to the Administration.

BISNIS An administrative department was created to deal with the matter and the newly established Papua New Guinea Development Bank started a 'Projects Department' to get indigenous enterprises off the ground. The policy did score some successes, although communication with indigenous entrepreneurs turned out more difficult than imagined and although it remains highly doubtful of the growth of Papua New Guinean commercial activity matched that of expatriate business in the country.

5. Papua New Guinean responses to the altered conditions became more varied. Cargo cults continued to flourish and 'cargoism' the philosophy underlying these cults was accepted by many people not ostensibly engaged in cult activities. At the same time, a range of other development activities reflected indigenous interest in more efficacious attempts at economic betterment. These included group enterprises, cash cropping and other small scale commercial activities. The first such movements which became well known were the ones led by Paliau and by Tommy Kabu, on Manus and in the Gulf District respectively. Paliau's movement aimed at general improvement in welfare, but especially Tommy Kabu's, who lived in the area where the Vailala 'madness' once flour"lshed, was concerned with economic development and started a commercial enterprise engaging in agriculture and trading, to supply the growing Port Moresby market (Maher 1961). The movement failed, primarily through a lack of expertise in technical and organisational matters. Of other attempts I single out the Erap mechanical farming project because it has been well documented (Crocombe 1963, 1971; Hannett 1969). Erap is located in the foothills north of the Markham valley, now with relatively easy access to the coastal port of Lae, but during the first years af ter the war still at two days' walking distance from this town. The project started with selling produce in Lae and was reorganised by Numbuk Kapok, an ex-serviceman who had recently returned to his home area. With their savings the people were able to buy two tractors with which they cooperatively worked a sweet potato farm. Numbuk gained an Administration contract to supply institutional centres in Lae. The project broke down af ter several years operation. Here also there were technical and organisational problems: maintenance of the tractors appeared to be very costly and the people started wondering what share of the revenues Numbuk kept for himself. The project was revived and again reorganised by two younger relatives of Numbuk. It then became a cooperative for the marketing of coffee and other cash crops and running a retail store. In this form it functioned several years, but I am

Ine spread of innovation was facilitated by communication between ex-servicemen themselves. For instance Numbuk had learnt about starting a commercial farming project from another ex-servicemen who was the driving force behind a similar project in the Wewak area. Another type rural development took place in the central highland near Goroka. There a group of 'big bisnis men' emerged, well described by Finney (1969, 1973). These men tend to manage a set of enterprises centered on coffee growing, processing and trading, and 'branching out' into retail trading, transport, running of restaurants and so on. The number of these men is small and Finney pays much less attention to the much more numerous small-scale cash croppers. In the neighbouring Chimbu District the drive towards development took yet another form. There big bisnis men are almost entirely absent, perhaps due to the less favourable man-land ratio compared with the Goroka area, which may prevent prospective big bisnis men from securing claims to the amount of land required. However, the Administration found a staunch and capable supporter in Kondom Agaundo, a young man when administrative control was gradually extended in the area, who, if the establishment of the Pax Australians had not intervened, would very likely have become a formidable traditional style Big-Man. Instead he became a formidable 'mediator' (Brown 1974) of social change who, through frequent and extensive patrolling in the area, a strong personality and oratorical skill, exhorted thousands of Chimbu to take up commercial activities, primarily through coffee cultivation .. Brookfield described (1966: 56) the heyday of this development as follows:

At the beginning there was great enthusiasm. Impossible hopes were entertained as a result of the introduction of coffee. There we re other big projects, including the reclamation of a large area of waste land for the growing of other cash crops, fruit and tobacco; a dairy herd was proposed, specifically to supply milk for children, and men talked in expansive terms of turning all sorts of resources into money. Ideas arose spontaneously, and men and women undertook unaccustomed and large scale tasks with enthusiasm. There can have been few periods in the history of any part of New Guinea when there was greater popular fervour for economic progress.

AND WOK BISNIS A crucial phenomenon discerned by many Papua New Guineans in the changing postwar colonial society was what they referred to as bisnis. This is a Pidgin English term, clearly derived from the English 'business', but not identical in meaning. It was first discussed by Sankoff in the course of a survey made in several parts of the Morobe District. The broad meaning of the concept she defined (1969: 72) as 'involvement in the cash economy in virtually any capacity other than that of wage earner'. Later reports are by Finney about the Goroka area, Salisbury (1970) and Epstein (1968) about the Gazelle Peninsula, Strathern (1972) about the Hagen area and Ploeg (1971 b, 1972) about settlement schemes near Lae and in West New Britain. A notable reference is by Haberland (1964: 43) who encountered the conception among an isolated group living in the upper Karawari area, in the outskirts of the central highlands south of the Sepik, an area where minimal, if any, development had taken place. Bisnis. as a Papua New Guinean conception, results from sharp observation and intense attempts at explanation of the working of European society, at it was revealed to the people in the course of the years. Sankoff quite strikingly illustrates this explanatory effort by quoting from a speech made by a migrant Morobe man when formally starting a small transport enterprise in Port Moresby:

Before the Europeans came, we New Guineans were poor people. We lived the same way our ancestors had; we were just ignorant good- for-nothing bush people. Then the Europeans came, and they brought with them all kinds of goods, the like of which we had never seen before, and they brought money, too. We wondered where these things came from, and we finally discovered that they came from a kind of work called business. Although we did not really understand what business meant, we decided to try it. At first, we tried selling sweet potatoes or yams to each other, as we thought that might be business; we also tried growing coffee to sell. Then a few of us set up little trade stores, and bought rice, kerosene, tinned fish and other things to sell, thinking that might be business. Af ter that, some people bought trucks for carrying passengers, believing that this was business. Now af ter all this time I must confess that I still do not know what business is all about -nevertheless I have bought this truck and I am going to give it a try. These twelve men you see before you have contributed money towards the purchase of the truck, and I have brought them to this party tonight so that you, my relatives and friends, will recognise the men who will take me to court when the business fails.

Besides indicating the European derivation of bisnis and the continuing attempts at understanding its nature, the quotation also shows that bisnis is seen as an avenue to wealth, rescuing Papua New Guineans from the state of poverty they considered they had lived in sofar. In addition, bisnis ventures, just as in the case of cargo cults, may function as expressive substitutes (Schwartz 1968: b 67) for the actual fulfilment of their ends.

PLOEG 201

Implicit in the statement is the idea that a bisnis man is an independent operator, not subordinated to an employer who can direct him and, if he so desires, can terminate his employment. By contrast a bisnis man can arrange his time as it suits him; his bisnis ·is his own; it cannot be taken from him by somebody else. As such it is an important means by which he can provide for his heirs, and a bisnis man tends to pride himself on his care and industry in this regard. Bisnis, finally, is a prestigious undertaking. It shows industry, and the very effort to take part in and benefit from the complex of commercial activities created by the Europeans is admired. Even more prestige accrues to a successful bisnis man for he shows he can use this complex of activities to his own advantage.

B.R. Finney convincingly points to parallels between the roles of
the pre-contact Big-Men and the present day big bisnis man, thus arguing that the social organisation in the Goroka area made for favourable reception and rapid diffusion of European commercial activities.

T.S. Epstein (1968: 26ff) applies a similar argument to Tolai society. However, the resemblance is also an inherent weakness of the enterprises built up since the leader may lose his following, or another leader may try to overtake him. In other words, the fluidity of power relations characteristic of pre-contact Melanesian society may persist into the colonial and even post-colonial era to hamper the continuing functioning of organisations in which power relations are less flexibly structured. Furthermore, the ascendancy of traditional Big-Men hinged on the establishment and maintenance of a personal network of social relations which collapsed on his death or his incapacity to maintain it Similar developments may occur in the case of big bisnis men. For example, in building up their enterprises Gorokan big bisnis men receive considerable support from kinsmen, though Finney does not relate what counter-prestations they espect. He makes much (1969: 30-3; 1973: 82) of the collective pride the supporters experience with regard to the Big-Man's enterprise, but it would seem likely that more material considerations are at play. Finney's own report (1973: 102) of the death of one big bisnis man and the ensuing claims on his estate, based on material support given him during his lifetime, is quite in line with this view. The estate was divided, and the constituant enterprises crumbled. The big bisnis man phenomenon is still recent, however, and this is one of the two recorded instances of what happened to a big bis nis af ter the death of its founder.
T.S. Epstein argues (1972 a: 149) that among the Tolai similar collapses are likely occur. In her view, the Big-Man syndrome, while initially

AND WOK BISNIS

promoting economic development, also sets a ceiling to it, given the small size of the following he can build up and the followers' claims on the Big-Man's possessions. Read has reported (1959) that traditional Big-Men in the Goroka area had an ambiguous status. On the one hand they were admired, but on the other their superior status went against the egalitarian notions of the people and was accordingly resented. I am not sure to what extent this argument applies to other areas in Papua New Guinea, but the position of many present-day bisnis men is similarly ambiguous, maybe the more poignantly so since successful bisnis activities bring material as well as immaterial gain and the resulting wealth, or supposed wealth, of a bisnis men tends to set him apart. Hence it is a continuing concern of these bisnis men not to show off wealth and to avoid as much as possible the envy and spite of their followers, not to mention demands for material support. Level of understanding European ways of making money varied considerably. On the one hand there were those, like the upper Karawari people, who identified bisnis with the construction of road access to their area; on the other there were people who, like the man quoted by Sankoff who, profitably and on their own initiative, managed to take part in European-type ventures. As will be shown below, however, this does not imply that their understanding of European business coincided with that of the average European businessman operating in Papua New Guinea. Many bis nis men keenly felt their knowledge about bisnis ways was insufficient and hoped for improvement. Many of the tiny trading stores dotting the countryside were generally not very profitable and may have remained in operation because the owners hoped they might somehow acquire the necessary knowledge to turn their venture into a profitable one. Concomitantly, when European companies, both in Australia and in Pap ua New Guinea, made shares available for purchase by Papua New Guineans, the people showed considerable interest. They thought the managers of such companies had the essential knowledge to make their enterprises flourish and were eager to cash in on the resulting flow of profits. In their efforts to understand what bisnis is all about, at least some Papua New Guineans turned, to supernatural support. The reorganisation of the Erap mechanical farming project, referred to above, was sparked off by divine inspiration, marked by lightning and thunder. Ogan relates (1972:

162) how among the Nasioi in central Bougainville in the 1960s 'bisnis' and 'kago' (i.e., material and spiritual riches obtained by supernatural means) were never distinguished (1972: 165) and that the emphasis on supernatural means only increased as the business-like aspects of the

PLOEG 203

various operations failed. Conversely, as he reports on a particular bisnis man in the area, 'however successful Sebastian's 'bisnis' efforts might have been, he himself believed they would be infinitely more successful if he could obtain the necessary supernatural knowledge'. Other Papua New Guineans seem to take a wholly secular attitude towards bisnis. This does not necessarily mean, however, that they think cargo cults are ineffective for acquiring wealth, nor does it preclude feelings that particular cults are hoaxes and their leaders or prophets impostors. Consequently it is incorrect to see wok kako and wok bisnis as two separate type of responses, the one ritual and ineffective and the other secular and potentially effective: particular cults or movements may include both elements. Given pre-war European attitudes towards indigenous participation in the cash econo~, it is not surprising that many Papua New Guineans appear to think that at that time they were forbidden to start commercial .:nterprises. Their :::,,·tL iji'.tion was a novelty in the postwar years made possible by changes in Administration attitudes. Hence bisnis activities can be regarded as a response to Administration ouvertures and, as such, they are transactions, much as cargo cults are in Stanner's analysis. In the case of bisnis, also, transactions are subinstitutional in th at they are responses to ouvertures as perceived by Papua New Guineans. The transactional element in bisnis activities is also hinted at in the many reports about Papua New Guineans regarding Europeans to be in their countries to help them, rather for their own benefit. The settlers in Situm and Gobari felt that the Administration had undertaken to look af ter them and to provide them with a good opportunity to start bisnis. They considered they had done their part in responding to the opportunity, but they were dissatisfied by what had been provided. Urban bisnis men in Port Moresby considered (Andrews 1974) they were entitled to Administration contracts and general support. B.R. Finney reports (1970) that in the early 1950s, the early years of European settlement in the Goroka valley, the people saw themselves as the partners of the European planters whom they were keen to help on the understanding that the latter would act as brokers in the transmission of European commercial techniques. A paper by McSwain (1971) suggests a similar situation may have occurred at Karkar island, off the Madang coast. Finally R.S. Finney, who did a survey of attitudes towards Europeans among indigenous high school students, comments (1971: 105-6):

KAKO AND WOK BISNIS

few L-Europeans_i, even in the Administration, would see themselves as being in New Guinea solely for altruistic reasons, and surely businessrnen could be surprised to discover that they are expected to run businesses for the benefit of New Guineans rather than for personal profit.

The students, however,

tended to divide Europeans into 'good' and 'bad' groups. The 'good' Europeans were those who came to help, while the 'bad' were those who came for personal profit. Generally 'good' Europeans included Administration personel and missionaries, while the 'bad' comprised plantation owners and businessmen.

Many Papua New Guineans, moreover, appeared to expect help which would make them as affluent as Europeans. Europeans resident in Papua New Guinea are generally well off, with high wages and low taxes and other fringe benefits, which allow them a standard of living appreciably higher than the (quite affluent) Australian one. The commercial activities Papua New Guineans engaged in (principally cash cropping, trading, passenger and cargo transport), of ten on a minute scale, offered only an equally minute minority a dim possibility of attaining a similar level of incorne. Moreover, in their case they would have to contend with the demands made upon them by kin and other relations. Finally, also in this late colonial era, Papua New Guineans, especially the large majority who lived in rural areas, could observe only a restricted range of European economic activities. Given the leisurely pace of life in these areas, and the fact that Europeans there generally work in a managerial or supervisory capacity, their 'seemingly unearned affluence' (Reay 1969: 65) must have puzzled the people. In this context Moulik (1973: 163) refers to 'the distorted effect of European contact' which entails th at Papua New Guineans think Europeans invariably rely on hired labour to do their manual work. He mentions the case of a young man from the Milne Bay District who was surprised to find out during a visit to New Zealand that European farmers there did manual work, but he did not relate these observations to his fellow villagers, since. he told Moulik, such an unlikely story might impair his credibility. Ogan (1972: 71), using a quote from Glazer and Moynihan, states that for Nasioi, in Central Bougainville, it is 'easier for them to observe L-Europeans_7processes of consumption than those of production and marketing', with such results as a 'common Nasioi belief that drinking alcoholic beverages is as essential to the status and material well-being enjoyed by Europeans as any specialised managerial skill '.

Given the high expectations about its profitability, bisnis had to disappoint the people. In two favoured areas referred to above, the Goroka area and the Gazelle Peninsula, annual ,per capita income was estimated at $A 25 (Finney 1973: 68; the figure refers to 1967-68) and more than $A 50, respectively (Epstein 1968: 51; the figure mentioned is $A 50 and it refers to income from agricultural produce in 1959). At the time, incomes were on the increase, but currently substantial increases seem unlikely, since the Administration is at a loss which new economic activities could be introduced to be taken up on a large scale. But with higher levels of income, people's aspirations are not necessarily satisfied. In the oil palm resettlement scheme in West New Britain, for instance, settlers received up to $A 150 per month during the first months of harvesting, partly due to a currently favourable price and partly to an abundant harvest. This income did not satisfy settlers. Some even maintained it was similar to the one they had received in their home areas. As far as absolute amounts were concerned, these assertions were most unlikely to be true and, in my view, people were only able to make them because in neither case they were able to attain a standard of living equal to that of Europeans. People's impatience with the slow rate of progress made them eager to attempt every avenue to wealth which appeared to them as opening up in the slowly unfolding European world:

With each new scheme or project (co-operative society, savings and loans society, local government council, even the establishment of savings accounts and distribution of bankbooks), people's hopes are raised, only to be dashed again when they realise that there has been no significant increase or appreciable change in their standard of living, nor in their income, in fa ct no real progress, for them at all (Sankoff 1969: 78).

The same tendency underlay the interest in the oil palm settlement. Oil palm was a new crop for Papua New Guinea, and many people were immediately interested in finding out how much money its cultivation would yield. Trying out new openings and the ensuing dissatisfaction and frustration with the monetary rewards can well be described as the 'high' and the 'low' states of bisnis activities, thus using the terms Schwartz employed to describe the excitement during cargo cult activities and the disillusionment when they failed. Referring to the same phenomena, Brookfield wrote (1966: 56) about the 'cycle of hope and frustration' as it occurred in the Chimbu District. In a paper published in 1968,

AND WOK BISNIS he was still optimistic that the introduction of coffee in the District would lead to structural change opening the way for further commercial and other innovative ventures. In a more recent paper (1973 a), he restates his argument in a more pessimistic way. His own summary is as follows (1973 b: 18):

The best opportunity to effect real transformation in Chimbu has been squandered in the 1960s; ... the attempt to graft coffee cultivation on to a subsistence base has succeeded in a material sense only, but ..• it has offered no satisfaction and has led to the loss of many of the most innovative from the area. A large total investment has been wasted.

He does not however, analyse, how a real transformation could have been effected. About the situation in the early 1970s, he comments (1973u : 157-8):

any new surge of innovation must include measures to economize use of land if it is to have much chance of success. This would call for new forms of investment, an area in which experience to date is discouraging in the extreme ... Structural changes, including land reform ... will be required.

Otherwise, Brookfield fears, Chimbu will become a 'characteristic, dependent rural slum' (1973 b: 158). Howlett (1973), in a paper in the same volume, is even more pessimistic. In her view development policies, in this area also, have unduly concentrated on coffee production. This has reached the limits of its potential and hence further development is halted unless economie policy is radically altered. Present policy, she argues, leads to terminal development, with the present lull in development foreshadowing an 'infinite pause', making for the remodelling of Gorokan society into a peasant society, fatalistic, suspicious and generally showing characteristics standing in the way of further development. Development policy in other rural areas in Papua New Guinea has been (and largely still is) similar, and Howlett's argument applies there with equal or even more force.

6. Prewar indigenous responses and the postwar ones discussed sofar appear to show many similarities (cf Brown 1966: 155, 163). Both are attempts at understanding the enormous difference perceived between the life situations of colonial Europeans and of Papua New Guineans. They are 'theories of underdevelopment,6) and attempt to effect development. They hope for radical and swift improvements, if not a total transformation of the existing social and cultural arrangements. They

use means inadequate to this goal, so both lead to disillusionment and frustration. Both are, in Stanner's phrase, sub-institutional in that they try to effect a deal which remains one~sided. The important difference lies in the partners with wh om people try to deal. Before the war, Papua New Guineans tried to deal with the spirits and deities, either traditional or European and, also af ter the war, many continued to do so. In response to the altered colonial situation, however, may others turned to bisnis and th us attempted a deal with the colonial masters. This deal was one-sided in so far as the offer held out was interpreted as far more liberal and forthcoming than it was or, given the colonial situation, ever could beo Recently response movements have occurred which reject the colonial master rather than try to deal with him. The first of these movements was the Mataungun association among the Tolai in the Gazelle Peninsula, which became prominent in 1969. It was fitting that it took place among the Tolai, who have been in contact with Europeans longer than most other indigenous peoples, and also more intensively, because of the establishment of a large administrative centre and a plantation industry in the Gazelle. In the course of the years, the Tolai vigorously used the widening opportunities to take part in the cash economy and hence they were also among the first to experience the restrietions of such opportunities. The Mataungun association was followed by movements in the Trobriand Islands and in the Highlands. I will concludethis paper with a short description of the Mataungun movement. Mataungun is a Tolai word apparently meaning 'being alert', 'being watchful' (Gunther 1970: 29). The watchfulness primarily concerned the major role of expatriates in the Papua New Guinea economy, especially in the Gazelle Peninsula economy, and, correspondingly, the minor role of the Tolai themselves. People had several specific reasons to be alert. First, in some parts of the Gazelle they had virtually exhausted the potential for economie enterprise. Elderly men dominated in commercial ventures, so younger men became afraid they might miss out. Second, in the course of the colonial era, a large portion of the land in the Gazelle Peninsula had fallen into European hands, of ten under dubious circumstances. With Europeans reaping more and more benefits from their use of the land over the years, Tolai resentment grew. Finally, while the Tolai had vigorously extended their cash erop holdings, the secondary and tertiary sectors had remained firmly in expatriate hands.

WOK KAKO AND WOK BISNIS The issue over which the Mataungun association became active was the establishment of a multi-racial local government council for the Peninsula in 1969. The association opposed this since it feared the European members, although few in number, would dominate the council. It organised a boycot of the council elections**--**about 20% of those eligible did actually vote (Gunther 1970: 29). Not all Tolai, however, opposed the multi-racial council, and late in 1969 Mataungun supporters assaulted several prominent Tolai who supported the council. The violence sharply reinforeed the unfavourable image of the association in the eyes of many expatriates. In other activities, the association showed its concern over expatriate domination in general, turning away from the institutions created by or with the help of the colonial administration. It urged people not to pay council tax and instead started collecting and holding funds until the local government council would again be all-Papua New Guinean. It boycotted the Rabaul market, to some ex tent operated by the council, and started its own instead. It urged people to boycot the fermentaries of the Tolai cocoa project which, although owned by the Tolai, was now run by the council (Epstein 1972 b: 58). Most importantly, however, it founded a development corporation designed to strengthen the Talai stake in the economy, in defiance of the Australian development policies, since, in the words of Kaputin, one of the leading spokesmen of the association, 'colonial institutions and their offspring have no appreciation of the difficulties of economie development' (Kaputin 1970). It is true that not all Tolai -it is not clear just how many-supported the association; it is also true that the development corporation has not achieved much actual development during the first years of its existence. The point I would like to make, however, is that late in the colonial era, Papua New Guineans began to attempt improving their economie conditions, not by relying on an outside agency, but rat her on their own force.

NOTES

1. By this term I refer to the indigenous population of Papua New Guinea. Following local practise I refer to the white population of that country as 'Europeans', whether or not they are of European descent. By 'expatriates' I refer to both Europeans and Chinese.
2. Many thanks are due to C. Lesley Andrews for comments on the draft of this paper.

PLOEG 209

3. Originally written in Dutch. The translation is my responsibility.
4. Stanner used this phrase to characterise the Ndembu in northern Zambia which seems to me an application of 'Melanesian models in the African Highlands'.
5. Expatriates, both Europeans and Chinese, from about 1~% of the population of Papua New Guinea.
6. This is a quotation, but I do not remember from which source.
   Andrews, C.L. 1974 Personal communication. Baal, J. van 1954 'Volken', in Nieuw Guinea. deel 11, Klein, W.C. editor, 's-Gravenhage, Staatsdrukkerij en uitgeversbedrijf, pp. 438-470. 1960 'Erring acculturation', AmeP7:can Anthropologist. vol. 62, pp. 108-21. 1967 Mensen in Verandering. Amsterdam, de Arbeiderspers. Brookfield, H.C. 1966 'But where do we go from here?', in 'An integrated approach to nutrition and society', New Guinea Research Bulletin. no. 9, pp. 49-66. Canberra. 1968 'The money that grows on trees: the consequences of an innovation within a man-made environment', Australian Geographical Studies. vol. 6, pp. 97-119. 1973a 'Full circle in Chimbu: a study of trends and cycles', in The Pacific in Transition. Brookfield, H.C., editor, pp. 127-60. London, Edward Arnold. 1973b 'Introduction: explaining or understanding? The study of adaptation and change', in The Pacific in Transition. Brookfield, H.C., editor, pp. 3-22. London, Edward Arnold. Brown, P. 1966 'Social change and social movements', in New Guinea on the Treshold. Fisk, E.K., editor, pp. 149-165. Canberra, Australian National University Press. 1971 'The Chimbu political system', in Politics in New Guinea. Berndt,

R.M. and P. Lawrence, editors, pp. 207-23, Nedlands, University of Western Australia Press.
1972 The Chimbu: A stuay of Change in the New Guinea Highlands. Cambridge (Mass), Schenkman Publishing Company. 1974 'Mediators in social change: new roles for big-men', Mankind. vol. 9, pp. 224-230. Clark, M. 1963 A Short History of Australia. New Vork and Toronto, the New American Library.

AND WOK BISNIS

Crocoroe, R.G. 1963 'The Erap mechanical farming project', New Guinea Research Bulletin, no. I, Canberra. 1969 a 'That five year plan; for New Guineans-token development', New Guinea, vol. 3, no. 4, pp. 57-70. 1969b 'Crocoroe to his cri tics; the debate goes on New Guinea, vol. 4, no. 3, pp. 49-58. 1971 'Social aspects of cooperative and other corporate landholding in the Pacific islands', in Two Blades of Grass, Worsley, P.J., editor, pp. 159-98. Manchester, Manchester University Press. Epstein, l.S. 1968 Capitalism, Primitive and Modern. Some Aspects of Tolai Economic Growth. Canberra, Australian National University Press. 1972 a 'Economic development and social change in South India', in Opportunity and Response. Case Studies in Economic Development, Epstein, T.S. and Penny, D.H., editors, pp. 131-55. London, Hurst. 1972 b 'The Tolai "Big Man". Wanted -a social revolution', New Guinea, vol. 7, no. I, pp 40-60. Finney, B.R. 1969 New Guinean entrepreneurs. New Guinea Research Bulletin, no. 27. Canberra. 1970 "'Partnership" in developing the New Guinea Highlands " 1948-1968', The Joumal of Pacific History, vol. 5, pp. 117-34. 1973 Big-Men and Business. Entrepreneurship and Economic Growth in the New Guinea Highlands. Honolulu, The University Press of Hawaii. Finney, R.S. 1971 'Would-be entrepreneurs', A study of motivation in New Guinea. New Guinea Research Bulletin, no. 41. Canberra. Fisk, E.K. 1970 The Political Economy of Independent Fiji. Canberra, Australian National University Press. Gunter, J. l. 1970 'Trouble in Tolailand', New Guinea, vol. 5, no. 3, pp. 25-37. Haberland, E. 1964 'Kulturverfall und Heilserwartung am oberen Korowori', SocioZogus, vol. 14, no. I, pp. 30-45. Hannett, L. 1969 'A successful small business born from thunderclap', Unpublished seminar paper read during the third Waigani seminar, Port Moresby. Hogbin, H.I. and Wedgwood, C.H. 1953 'Local grouping in Melanesia', Oceania, vol. 23, 241-276 and vo 1. 24, 58-76. Howlett, D. 1973 'Terminal development: from tribalism to peasantry', in The Pacific in Transition, Brookfield, H.C., editor, pp. 249-73. London, Edward Arnold. Kaputin, J. 1970 'Mataungun business corporation has achieved many of its aims' Papua-New Guinea Post-Courier, 29 December.

PLOEG 211

Lawrence, P.

1966 of the

University Press.

Maher, R.F.

1961 of of Madison, The University of Wisconsin Press. Mair, L. *1970 Australia in New Guinea.* 2nd Edition, Melbourne, Melbourne University Press. Mazrui, A.A. 1970 An African's New Guinea. The worst colonialism-indifference', New Guinea, vol. 5, no. 3, pp. 45-56. McCarthy, J. K. *1964 Patrol into Yesterday.* London, Angus and Robertson. 1~66 'Foreword' to Road Bilong Cargo, Lawrence, P. 2nd edition, Parkville, Melbourne University Press. McSwain, R. 1971 'Spontaneous economie enterprise on Karkar Island'. Unpublished seminar paper read at New Guinea Research Unit, Port Moresby.

Mead, M.

1967 'Introduction', in New Guinea people in Business and industry',

New Guinea Researah Bulletin, no. 20, pp. 3-9. Canberra. Moulik, T.K. 'Money, motivation and cash eropping' , New Guinea Researah Bulletin, no. 53, Canberra. Ogan, E. 1972 'Business and cargo: socio-economie change among the Nasioi of Bougainville, New Guinea Researah Bulletin, no. 44, Canberra. Parker, R.S. 1966 'The growth of Territory Administration', in New Guinea on the ThreshoZd, Fisk, E.K., editor, pp. 243-69. Canberra, Australian National University. Ploeg, A. 1971 a 'The Situm and Gobari ex-servicemen's settlements', New Guinea Researah Bulletin, no. 39, Canberra. 1971 b 'Some indigenous views on the social and economie development of Papua New Guinea', Journal of the Papua New Guinea Soaiety, vol. 5, pp. 47-62. 1972 'Sociological aspects of Kapore settlement', in 'Hoskins development: the role of oil palm and timber', New Guinea Researah Bulletin no. 49, pp. 21-118. Canberra. Read, K. E. 1959 'Leadership and Consensus in a New Guinea Society', Ameriaan Anthropologist, vol. 61, pp. 425-436. Reay, M. 1969 'But whose estates? The Wahgi smallholders', New Guinea, vol. 4,

and Polynesia', Comparative Studies in Soaiety and History,

WOK KAKO AND WOK BISNIS

vol. 5, pp. 285-303. Salisbury, R.F. 1970 'Vunamami. Eaonomia Tl'ansfomation in a Tl'aditionaZ Society. Carlton, Melbourne University Press. Sankoff, G. 1969 'Wok bisnis' and Namasu: a perspective from the village', in Fairbairn, I.J., 'Namusu: New Guinea's largest indigenous-owned company', New Guinea Reseal'ah BuZletin. no. 28, Canberra. Schwartz, Th. 1963 'Systems of areal integration: some considerations based on the Admiralty islands of Northern Melanesia', Anthl'opoZogiaaZ Fo1'Um. vol. I, pp. 56-97. 1968 'Cargo cult: a Melanesian type response to culture contact', unpublished paper written for DeVos conference on psychological adjustment and adaptation to culture change. Strathern, A.M. 1972 'Absentee businessmen: the reaction at home to Hageners migrating to Port Moresby, Oaeania. vol. 45, pp. 19-39. Stanner, W.E.H. 1953 The Sou th Seas in Tl'ansition. Sydney, Australasian Publishing Company. 1958 'On the interpretation of cargo cults', Oaeania. vol. 29, pp. 1-25. Valentine, C.A. 1963 'Social status, political power, and native responses to European invluence in Oceania', Anth1'opoZogiaaZ Fo1'Um. vol. I, pp. 3-55. Waiko, J.D. 1973 'European-Melanesian contact in Melanesian tradition and literature', in P1'io1'ities in MeZanesian DeveZopment. May, R.J. editor, pp. 417-28, Port Moresby, the University of Papua and New Guinea.

II I

RELIGION IN CHANGE

,., .. z

• z •

..........::.Riv.,.
... N.,roa~50,.."' .....
.... ,.f.I" •• pu • LL]Dj" ••t~p.,..m •••
Á•aua" N.,ro 11111.,.Ba eO"1~1M.,,, ... ,,. ",,"r' ... ' tow ..

THE POLITICAL IMPACT OF A PROPHETIC MOVEMENT IN SURINAM

H.U.E. Thoden van Vel zen
W. van Weteri ng
In 'Erring Acculturation' (1960) Van Baal made a plea that we not shut our eyes to some puzzling and less creditable aspects of religious movements. Van Baal (Ibid. ,p.10B) noted, for example, that certain cargo cults in Melanesia contributed little if anything to modernization. The Papuans supporting such movements did not behave with the rationality so characteristic of their behaviour under normal circumstances. The author then continued to distinguish between 'normal ' and 'abnormal '. In 'normal situations' people do not go against the dictates of experience and common sense, but try to enhance the chances of success by religious means, as no human undertaking is believed to succeed without supernatural assistance. But in the 'abnormal situation', the cargo cult, "people suddenly decide to stake everything" (Ibid. ,p.lIO). The theme is taken up again in "The Political Impact of Prophetic Movements" (1969). Here, Van Baal clearly speaks out in favour of keeping the distinction between religious and political movements intact. He argues that little is gained by characterizing prophetic movements as 'political ' or 'proto-political '. In Van Baal 's view, this would make us lose sight of the emotional and irrationalist aspects of such movements. In our opinion the points Van Baal stressed have not been adequately responded to in the literature on prophetic movements. The irrational dimension of such movements has been systematically ignored or given cursory treatment. Anthropologists such as Burridge, who emphasized the emotional background of a cargo cult, were taken to task for dealing seriously with such intangibles 1). In particular, Burridge's suggestion in Mcoribu (1960 : XVIII) that the followers of cargo cults "behave in accordance with the dictates of their emotion rather than their intellects" struck at anthropological self-esteem. Accepting such views must for many have smacked of surrender to the notion of a supposed 'primitive mentality'. The mainstream of anthropological thinking on these phenomena is aptly

"an incredible mélange of magie and superstition, of ethical faith and re 1 i gi on, and of ego-ori ented rati ona 1 i sm and sci ence" and "a vas t grab bag of solutions 'solutions' each of which mav match SOMe eoistenologic oedipal disposition". During our field work among the Djuka Maroons or Bush Negroes of Surinam (South America), we became convineed that the emotional needs and demands of participants in prophetic movements of ten thwart attempts to orientate political life in a more realistic way. This paper will discuss the reason why this is so. It will also outline a few other factors contributing to the political impotence of such movements.

1. THE DJUKA AS A PERIPHERAL SOCIETY The Djuka 2) are descendants of slaves brought to Surinam from West Africa. The ancestors of the Bush Negroes escaped from the plantations, fought a successful guerilla was against the Dutch colonial reaiMe and managed to establish semi-independent tri bes in the interior. Numerically, the Djuka are the strongest of the five Bush Negro tribes 3). Their villages are situated along several of Suriname'srivers : Tapanahoni, Cottica, Marowijne or Maroni, and the Commewijne (see map A). This paper deals exclusively with the Djuka of the Tapanahoni river, a tributary of the Maroni in Eastern Surinam. Some 6000 Djuka live in 30 villages located on islands in the river or along its banks. The two main cultural groups of Surinam, the East Indians and Creoles, live mainly in the capital, Paramaribo, and in a narrow strip along the Atlantic. Djuka society has a separate cultural identity because some of its core institutions are different from those of the coastal society. The Bush Negro way of life carries little prestige in the èyes of Paramaribo's political elite. For many of them the Bush Negro is a second-class citizen who ought to be grateful that his pagan superstitions are no longer prosecuted. Bush Negro societies are economically dependent on the dominant coastal society. Forexample. about two-thirds of the male population of the Tapanahoni area has migrated to Paramaribo in search of work. In many respects, the Djuka enjoy de facto political autonomy. They can also bring out their votes in the national elections. but there has been little proof

THODEN VAN VELZEN AND W. VAN WETERING 217

thus far of any substantial influence on decision making in Parimaribo. In brief, the Djuka form a peripheral society different from but dependent on the coastal society. The social distance between this periphery and the dominant society is great and gives the political life of the Djuka a parochial atmosphere. The social struggle, the aggregate pattern of numerous conflicts between individuals or between groups, has taken a remarkable shape in this society. First and foremost, it is not a struggle for control of the means of production. With two-thirds of the male population living in or around Paramaribo, there is no pressure on land. The women and the few men remaining in the tri bal area can easily find the huge stretches of bush required for shifting cultivation. Of the 400 odd conflicts on which we have notes, only one could be called a land dispute. There are hardly any opportunities for gainful employment in the Tapanahoni area. The Djuka of that region grow no cash crops, there are no factories. The Tapanahoni is too far from the coast and too inconveniently located above the many rapids to allow for lumbering on a profitable basis. The few jobs available there have been created through political patronage. The struggle for a living is now taking place outside the tri bal area. It is in the coastal region that nundreds of Djuka are employed in the lowest ranks of government services, or by the bauxite and lumber companies. A few others are small-time entrepreneurs owning taxis and buses or shops. But the great majority have swollen the ranks of the unemployed proletariat of Paramaribo. Within the Tapanahoni area we are dealing almost exclusively with the struggle for emotional control. Conflicts in this sphere do not arise out of economic competition. The raw stuff of this form of politics is anxiety, viz., the fear of sickness and death, of witchcraft and the unknown. The competition is not for material goods, but over definitions of the situation: to gain acceptance for one's view of danger and diagnosis of how things have gone wrong. In brief, it is the fight to get a definition of the situation accepted which is close to one's own emotions and interests. Various individuals and groups have constituted themselves as 'intellectuals of the unknown': they all try to impress their view of the uni verse on their fellow men, they are the cartographers of the powers and dangers of the world; they alleviate and generate fear. Spirit mediums, medicine men and oracles perform this task. Conflict between these centers for the control of emotional life is what politics is about in the Tapanahoni. In many societies the struggle for the means of production is likely to

218 A PROPHETIC fIOVEt1ENT IN SURINAM hold our attention captive. There is 50 much to be done in describing and analyzing the fight for material goods that we hardly get around to a study of the emotional and irrational aspects of group life. In Djuka society our view of such forms of interaction is less obscured. Eap B

c
**1"'-.......... _--.......... ___ ,""W--...**

~=~~~ ______ ~====~15km

" BlJsh negro villa ge school o

ODEN VAN VELZEN AND W. VAN WETERING 219

2. THE GAAN GADU CULT As we have seen, many centers for emotional control vie for the custom and allegiance of the Djuka : medicine men and their assistants, qrouDS of spirit mediums and numerous oracles. At first glance, the situation resembles the free market of classical economics where buyers and sellers can meet and compete without interference from other social forces; only the goods traded are different. However, a closer look reveals that most oracles are moreover important than other institutions in influencing public opinion and offering emotional security. Moreoever, some of the oracles clearly predominate. Since the end of the 19th century, primacy has been won by the Gaan Gadu (Great Deity) cult with oracles at the Tapanahoni villages of Dritabiki and Gaanboli (see map B). Adherents of a few other oracles have succeeded in safeguarding their sphere of influence. The priests of the Gaan Gadu oracles have gone 50 far in controlling the market that it is almost an oligopoly. The position of these oracles was further strengthened by the support of the chief. In fact, in the early 19605, the offices of high priest of the Gaan Gadu cult and chief of the Djuka were held by the same man. But even without such a combination of functions, the high priest and chief can be expected to cooperate : they are close relatives. A closer look at the workings' of the oracle is now requi red. The oracle consisted of a small bundle tied to a plank, carried by two priests. This bundle, which presumably contained sacred objects such as hair and nails of famous ancestors, was revered as the tabernacle of the Great Deity. It was hidden from view by long draperies which touched the ground when the ends of the plank rested on the heads of the two bearers. Other priests standing in front of the bearers put questions to the oracle. The Great Deity replied through the movements of the bearers, a forward move signifying an affirmative, a backward or sideward one a negative reaction. Wild and chaotic movements indicated the god's vivid displeasure. This 'dialogue' between god and priests always took place at some di stance from the laymen 50 that they could not overhear what was being discussed. The high priest was in charge of the oracle : af ter receiving a whispered report from his subordinate priests, he issued ä final communiqué to the meeting of elders in front of the temple and shrine. As a rule the sessions of the oracle were held in public. The elders of Dritabiki and a few surrounding villages were expected to attend them. Most people who solicited the help of the Great Deity were ill; they tried to find out why they were and what they could do about it. Although

A PROPHETIC MOVEMENT IN SURINAM in the majority of cases the illness was attributed to supernatural causes, living persons were of ten held directly responsible. One example is given here. A village headman disliked by the chief fo'r his independent stance in many political matters consulted the oracle of the Great Deity. His wife had fallen ill and, although the case didn't look too serious, he had consented to escort her to the oracle at Dritabiki and solicit the priests' help. The oracle was consulted and, to the great dismay of the headman, he found himself rebuked for causing danger to his wife, her relatives and his own village. The priest reported that the illness of the headman's wife was of the gravest nature, although the patient herself was walking cheerfully around. The headman was then blamed for being the source of all misery : dangerous neglect of his wife's ancestors had caused their wrath and, in retaliation, the spi rits had visited sickness upon the woman. The priests charged a stiff fee for treatment of this patient. It is clear that such possibilities for manipulating public opinion gave the priests much scope for political control. The position of the headman was undermined, and he was punished for not being sufficiently compliant. The clientele of the Dritabiki oracle flocked from practicall} all the Tapanahoni villages, and some came from other Djuka regions (Cottica) as well. In 1962 the oracle was consulted on approximately 125 days about a total of 424 cases. To what extent did the priests exploit the dependence of the faithful ? Among the Creole population of Surinam's coastal region stories circulated about the extortion of patients and their next-of-kin by the priests. These rumours were fanned by the reports of 'competent observers' who of ten based their conclusions on guesswork by missionaries or their own knowledge of one or a few extreme cases. In actual fact, the honoraria of the priests were seldom exorbitant. Only in very few cases did their fees exceed 32 Surinam guilders (approximately $ 17), the charge for treatment of grave cases of illness or witchcraft. Usually the patients paid less; those who were not seriously ill or who were not believed to be involved in serious quarrels paid very little or nothing at all. Criticism of the Djuka therefore was less directed at the amount of the fees than at alleged cases of fraudulent manipulation of the oracle by its priests. It was the distortion of the Great Deity's judgment by the team of priests that the people resented. Another group connected with the oracles of the Great Deity was the association of the gravediggers (oZoman). Although the gravediggers did not form part of the political and religious establishment, they usually supported it. The gravediggers attended to the interment of the deceased

THODEN VAN VELZEN AND W. VAN WETERING 221 and took charge of the ritual for the dead. Their most interesting task, fr om our point of view, was to diagnose the cause of death and thereby determine whether the deceased was a witch, a sinner or a respectable person. Such an inquest was held in the following manner : the corpse was tied to a litter which was th en carried around by the gravediggers and by some village elders. The movements of the bearers in response to questions were believed to be inspired by the spirit of the dead man or woman. As a result of these inquests, seven out of every ten dead were stigmatized as witches (wisiman) and of the remaining three, two were posthumously condemned as sinners against the laws of the Great Deity; the deceased were classified respectively as wisi dede (a witch's death), misi dede (a sinner's death) and jooka dede (a respectable death). The relatives of witches and sinners were obliged to bring the deceased's effects to Dritabiki where they were cleansed and then confiscated. Some of these are returned to the relatives at the end of the ritual; other goods were placed at the secret shrine of the Great Deity in the bush, and the priests kept some of the most valuable things for themselves. These effects or God's cargoes (gadu lai), as they are called, constituted a substantial portion of the income of the priests. In 1962, the total number of these cargoes amounted to 35. A rough estimate would be that about one third to 40% were returned. How the remaining part was divided was much more difficult to find out. During the heyday of the Gaan Gadu cult, we never succeeded in visiting the secret shrine in the bush. On one occasion we were fortunate enough to be present when the priests were dividing the remainder of the goods among themselves.

THE SHARING OF THE SPOILS

October 1970. The God's cargo consisted of only one inheritance. Amelikan, the high priest, took charge of the distribution. He gave orders to his priests to pick up an object and bring it to a beneficiary. First, Amelikan sent one of his priests to the chief with two pieces of cloth and one big enamel cooking pan. Second, Amelikan's sister and his classificatory aunt were given a few pans and kettles. His favourite front bearer was presented with three pieces of cloth and one kettle. Another front bearer, persona non grata at the time, was passed over: he was sent home with a sieve, "for your wife", as Amelikan added with some emphasis. Amelikan gave some pieces of cloth and a few calabashes to another functionary of the oracle, as well as to a male kinsman. Then he called one of his children, a girl of three, to take whatever she liked and carry it home to her mother. Finally, the first priest was told by Amelikan to take a box, still half full of clothes, and carry it to his (the high priest's) house. The booty was to be shared, we presume, between the two of them. In conclusion, we can safely say that the priests were the main beneficiaries with the high priest probably getting the lion's share.

PROPHETIC MOVEMENT IN SURINAM

The chief and his matri1inea1 re1atives -both high priest and chief be10nged to the same matri1ineage -profited as we11. Members of other lineages of Dritabiki and the elders of other villages were passed over. The distribution took p1ace in front of one of the temples -the size of a big hut -of the Great Deity; it was attended on1y by the priests. Passers-by, with the exception of an inquisitive anthropo10gist, tactfu11y took a roundabout way.

The distribution of the spoi1s, the part not returned to re1atives and not dedicated to the Great Deity, took p1ace as we expected, the priests and their close kin being the sole beneficiaries. What we did not expect was that so many va1uab1e goods were actua11y 1eft to rot at the site of the bush shrine dedicated to the Great Deity. Statements of informants that a large portion of all effects were given to the Great Deity and wou1d never be touched by the priests or anyone e1se were dismissed by us as pious remarks, or de1iberate attempts to concea1 the exp10itation of the peop1e by the priests. But this is what we saw in 1974, af ter the collapse of the Great Deity cult.

Santi Goon, about an hour's wa1king distance from its hidden landing, presents a cheer1ess sight. The path, which had been cut very wide, is now part1y overgrown. At the end of the bush path is an open space, where the sad remains of wea1th earned by hard labour rot away. There is a system : at one end, the rusted boxes for c10thes pi1ed up in Chief Amaketi 's days (rough1y the 1920s and ear1y 1930s) are in view, at the other, the same type of boxes from a later period. Green mounds cover goods from earlier days. There is a huge heap of househo1d utensi1s : the much appreciated gai1y-co10ured enamel ware pots and pans -made in Hongkong -now use1ess. Among these 1ie the trophies of the proud wage-earners of the Victorian era: huge vases, stone animals, madonnas and other mant1epiece decorations. This heap was ten feet high and covered approximate1y an acre before Aka1a1i, the prophet, broke the back of the Great Deity cult and the mu1titude rushed in to rescue all that remained va1uab1e. We were to1d that there was once a pi1e of gold chains, of shoes, of plastic wares; heaps of c10thes were disp1ayed on racks of which now on1y some decayed 1eft-overs can be seen.

Discontent with the Gaan Gadu cult was rife among the Djuka in the 1960s and arose for a number of reasons. First, as we have seen, peop1e objected to the manipu1ation of the orac1e by the priests for private gain or political objectives. A1though the majority of patients were probab1y quite satisfied, instances of abuse such as the case of the headman's wife occurred repeated1y. It was these b1atant forms of abuse that continued to rank1e the Djuka. Equa11y important as a source of discontent were the costs and the poor resu1ts of the anti-witchcraft ritua1. The Djuka consider themse1ves to be a witch-ridden society. Witches are be1ieved to be ubiquitous and the fear

VELZEN AND W. VAN WETERING 223

of witchcraft is pervaSive4). The Gaan Gadu cult had so much success in the past because they promised to contain and gradually eradicate the evils of witchcraft. Had they succeeded ? Obviously not, because in the 1960s, seven out of every ten of the deceased were considered to be witches ! The witches seemed as numerous as before or, as some insisted, had even proliferated. The cost of the anti-witchcraft ritual developed by the priests was appalling. Nine out of every ten legacies confiscated meant that there was very little accumulation of wealth within families. The practice of throwing the bodies of witches into the bush without any form of burial instilled fear and repugnance into the minds of people : what would happen if a hunter shoot an animal that had fed on the abandoned corpses? It was obvious to all and sundry that the priests stood to gain much from the anti-witchcraft ritual. Suspicion grew when a number of verdicts issued by the gravediggers were later altered in such a way th at the legacy could be confiscated. Doubt also began to arise about the more prominent gravediggers. Accusations were voiced that they operated in league with the priests of the Great Deity. Rumours had it that certain gravediggers had acquired the bad habit of deflecting the movements of the bier so that the word of the spirit of the deceased could no longer be known.

3. AKALALI'S REVOLT It fell to Da Akalali from the village of Loabi (see map B) to become the chief spokesman of protest. Loabi forms part of a group of villages which have repeatedly opposed the religious and political leadership of Dritabiki. The region has been the cradle of most opposition cults that have clashed with the dominant Gaan Gadu cult of Dritabiki. Akalali claimed his ambitions we re modest at the outset : to abolish the confiscation of legacies (the God's cargoes) and to put an end to the inquests. But his actions had far-reaching consequences. The Gaan Gadu oracles had to stop their work, and the centre of religious power shifted from Dritabiki to Loabi and neighbouring villages. Akalali has now become the undisputed leader of 'organized' religion5). It started in October 1965 shortly af ter the death of gaanman and high priest Akontu Velanti. Akalali was seized by a spirit of great renown cal led ~ Gaanda (My Grandfather) or A Ogi (The Dangerous One). This spirit had manifested itself before in a number of mediums, who all became prominent. The first seven years of Akalali 's mediumship were uneventful, however. He was known as a quiet man of good manners. His claim to

SURINAM supernatural power received very little attention along the Tapanahoni. The diagnostic and medical practice associated with mediumship remained restricted to his own kin group. In no way did he reveal any revolutionary intention. Afterwards it was suspected that he used this quiet period for espionage. Under the cloak of ritual or kinship obligations he paid regular visits to most of the Tapanahoni villages. This enabled him to get thoroughly acquainted with controversies, with standing quarrels and with the identity of persons suspected of witchcraft. In the early part of 1972, Akalali began his public career. Af ter an abortive attempt to strike a deal with the priests, he ordered them to accompany him to the secret shrine in the bush where a great part of the God's cargoes was stacked away. The whole place had to be desacralized and the goods rotting away given back to the people. "It was sinful to spoil valuable goods while the Djuka people were suffering from poverty", was his message. To the surprise of no one, the priests and the chief refused to cooperate. Then Akalali, accompanied only by two or three kinsmen, went there alone, destroyed the shrine and took part of the goods back with him to his village. This was the crucial moment: the community held its breath. It was expected that the Great Deity would strike Akalali or one of his kinsmen with sickness or even sudden death. But Akalali, fit as a fiddle, made several more trips to the once sacred place with a following steadily growing in numbers and enthusiasm. At times he would go twice a week and bring back boat load af ter boat load, which he duly handed out to others. Heart-rending scenes occurred People who recognized the belongings of their parents broke into tears. Akalali did not waste much time. While the community stood stunned by his audacity, he dealt the final political blow to his adversaries. A week af ter his first visit to Santigoon, he orde red the priests of the Great Deity to stop consulti nQ thei r oracl e : "Let the Great Deity take a rest". And he added the threat that those who dared to raise the sacred bundle for a consultation would incur the wrath of his spirit. This drastic Measure was not part of his original plan. Right from the beginning he had intended to put an end to the confiscation of legacies, but never before did he mention the possibility of bringing the oracle of the Great Deity to a standstill. Annoyed by priestly obstruction and emboldened by success, he took a more radical course. In the eyes of the Djuka, Akalali '5 success was crowned with the grace of supernatural intervention. Cases of sickness and death among the priests were now attributed to the supernatural activity of the prophet's

THODEN VAN VELZEN AND W. VAN WETERING 225

powerful spirit. These misfortunes put fear into the hearts of the Dritabiki priests; they convinced the people that A Ogi, the Dangerous One, had become the scourge that rightfully punished Dritabiki for its sins. The sacred bundle was stored and the shrines dedicated to the Great Deity and his servitors were taken away. "The God eats his pension", it is now said. Since the middle of 1972, and up through today, the oracle has lain idle. There are also political factors that account for the quick surrender of the priests of the Great Deity. Af ter the death of high priest and chief Akontu Velanti in 1964, the struggle for succession opened deep fissures in the religious establishment. Akontu's younger brother, Amelikan, had finally been accepted as the successor to the high priest. Vet his position was far from secure. Amelikan had sacked a number of priests who were known as trusted stalwarts of Akontu. These priests, who had been privy to all the secret dealings during Akontu's time, now became alienated from the Gaan Gadu cult and in due time were to switch their allegiance to Akalali. In addition, Amelikan could not succeed his brother as gaanman. The ascendancy of Dritabiki's priests had been sustained by the fact that Akontu Velanti had been gaanman and high priest for more than a decade. But in 1966 Gazon, Akontu's maternal cousin, had succeeded to the secular position. Although the rivalry between Gazon and Amelikan never developed into an open fight, there was much friction and hardly any cooperation. Such signs of confusion and divisiveness in the centre of power could not fail to give heart to Dritabiki's opponents. Akalali 's next move was even more revolutionary and had far greater consequences than the suspension of a single cult. He cal led all captains of Tapanahoni villages to a meeting at Loabi. During that meeting, Akalali forbade all enquiries into the supernatural cause of death. There were to be no more inquests; all the deceased were to be buried in a coffin. For the living, every dead person would be considered 'a respectable citizen'; "we do not take i t upon ourse 1 ves to j udge but 1 eave it to God", Aka la 1 i told the meeting. These injunctions made impossible any rebirth in whatever form of the institution of the God's cargoes. All three stages of Akalali 's revolution took place in the first half of 1972 : the confiscation of the legacies and the inquest had been abolished and the cult of the Great Deity brought to a standstill. Akalali's decrees met with few acts of opposition and hostility; on the inquest in particular compliance was surprisingly widespread. Af ter this, a period of recognition and consolidation set in. Akalali managed either to stop the practice of other religious cults or to reach

PROPHETIC MOVEMENT IN SURINAM agreements with their leaders. A new hierarchy became established and spheres of influence were carved out. Not all accepted the new order whole heartedly, but none of the rivals thought it wise to oppose the new leader openly. The changes in Djuka establishment did not pass unnoticed in the outside world. The Surinam government and political parties, always eager to accommodate a changing distribution of power now that the Bush Negroes can vote in the national elections, offered Akalali a headmanship. This entitled him to a small salary and assured him of gaining access to government officials whenever he visits Paramaribo. This recognition from the outside world strengthened the position of the prophet considerably.

4. CONSOLIDATION OF A PROPHETIC MOVEMENT As was proper to a man in his position, Akalali began to build his own village. It is called Njun konde ('new village') and situated on an island not far from his native Loabi. In January 1974 we counted about 55 houses, not large or impressive ones, but simple structures as are built in bush camps. Many inhabitants of Loabi have settled there. Quite a few patients who intend to stay for prolonged treatment have built houses in the village, and simple huts have been provided to accommodate visitors. To deal with the many who apply to him for supernatural help and guidance, Akalali has created an apparatus which closely resembles that of the priests of the Great Deity. He recruited a number of priestly assistants, mainly from among his matrilineal relatives; but men from other villages were enlisted as well. Of the latter group, a few had played a role, albeit a marginal one, in the Great Deity cult. It is this group of assistants that assures the prophet a steady flow of information about the affairs of other kin groups and villages. The older assistants serve as priests, the younger ones, under 45 years of age, run errands and manage the organization, but they are not allowed to officiate at the shrines. This hierarchic pattern is characteristic of all religious organizations among the Djuka, and the prophet has not sought to change it. The rewards of religious and medical practice are considerable People make voluotary gifts to Akalali, which they consider an investment in health and well-being. As yet there are no fixed honoraria for treatment. Only in the case of witchcraft exorcism is there a set price. The prophet will probably want his position to be more secure before he will attempt to fix payment for every 'prestation'. It is clear that the prophet, his six

ODEN VAN VELZEN AND W. VAN WETERING 227

wives, some twe1ve assistants and their dependents live off the revenues of the re1igious 'enterprise'. A long cherished wish of the community of Loabi and neighbouring villages has now been fu1fi11ed : the flow of material benefits is directed to them instead of to Dritabiki. The prophet's medica1 practice adheres strict1y to the traditional pattern; he has not tried to introduce changes. Treatment consists of prayer and 1ibations at shrines and ritua1 ab1utions with herbal remedies. Diagnoses are given by the prophet himse1f in a state of trance when the spirit is be1ieved to use him as his mouthpiece. The same spirit can a1so be consu1ted through a sacred bund1e, carried by two bearers, and interpreted in exact1y the same way as the Great Deity was. Af ter dethroning the Gaan Gadu priests, it was expected of Aka1a1i that he wou1d take care of the re1igious welfare of the peop1e. The abo1ition of the inquest and the posthumous punishment of witches created a vacuum which now had to be fi11ed. The same prob1ems that confronted the Gaan Gadu priests had to be addressed by Aka1a1i : sickness, misfortune and above all the danger of witchcraft. The fear of witchcraft is endemic among the Djuka and no political leader can afford to omit the matter from his 'program': he had to deve10p ritua1 techniques. Af ter all, when Aka1a1i brushed aside the cult of the Great Deity he destroyed the anti-witchcraft ritua1 which had a1ways been the cornerstone of the cult. Un1ike his activities in the fie1ds of medica1 practice and ritua1, in which he faithfu11y copied tradition, the prophet's method for coping with witchcraft was origina1. As a matter of fact, boundaries of experimentation were strict1y set: the regu1ations imposed by the government of Surinam wou1d not a110w the inf1iction of any physica1 harm on suspected witches. This is the main reason why the prophet, 1ike the priests of the Great Deity in the past, is so emphatic about the overall objective of the ritua1: to save 1ives, not to destroy them. The prophet claims that his spirit has bestowed on him the gift of seeing into others and detecting any witchcraft -- a sort of mental x-ray. To c1eanse the Djuka community, he began in the midd1e of 1973 with a large popu1ation survey; all Djuka in the Tapanahoni area were summoned to his village to undergo an examination (keZi). The idea of this examination is to set apart those affected with witchcraft. The witches are th en separated into two categories : those who have been contaminated by others without being aware of it, and the rea1 witches who de1iberate1y seek to ki11 or main fellow humans. The second part of the ritua1 is the c1eansing by fire. At a p1ace in the forest especia11y reserved for the ritua1, the prophet makes the contaminated and suspected sit down very close to a b1azing fire

PROPHETIC MOVEMENT IN SURINAM

which is supposed to drive the evil out. The parallel with a public health campaign is striking; the aim of the ritual is to protect both the community and the affected ones, and restore them to a normal 'healthy' condition. The infected but innocent are preserved from further decay; the real witches are deprived of their powers to harm others and themselves. The method is successful ~n the first place because people respond to the summons. In January 1974 the prophet claimed to have judged approximately 2700 persons -men, women and children -in the preceding year. This estimate is not likely to be wide of the mark, as the prophet has a primitive form of accounting using planks with chalk marks. We have also witnessed that, in early 1974, he dealt with more than 200 persons in just a few days. How many of the 2700 were witches we do not know, but they will certainly number more than 200. 6) It is remarkable how people obey Akalali 's summons and flock to his village for screening; the risks involved of public disgrace and a painful ritual would seem a deterrent. Nonetheless they go because the risks of staying at home are higher. Those who refuse are gossiped about behind their back. Accounts of who has been screened and who not are carefully kept. A refusal to go may lead to the banishment of the suspect by his village community. Those who have undergone the cleansing ritual have lost the stigma of withcraft, at least for the time being. The Djuka consider the campaign a great success. Though they expect the witches to relapse in due time, the general expectation is that, for the first few years at least, they will be free from the scourge of witchcraft. The prophet has also undertaken to redress the i~iquities of the past; he proposed a large feast of atonement to the spi rits of all those who had been denied proper burial af ter being fraudulently condemned as 'killed by the Great Deity'. These spirits were honoured with two and a half months of traditional dancing and repeated food offerings and libations.The moment to inaugurate such a prolonged ritual was ill chosen, however. The dry season starts in Surinam at the end of August, the appropriate time for preparing fields. This work should be finished before the rainy season begins, on pain of losing the harvest of staple foods the next year. Many used this as an excuse for not attending the religious manifestations; the agricultural work must be done before people can take part in festivities. Confronted with these objections, Akalali began bluffing and made promises of supernatural intervention : the whole population of the Tapanahoni should come and take part in the ritual whereupon his spirit would postpone the onset of the rains. Threats were added; all those who did not heed the callof his spirit would be killed by 'accidents' while working their

U. E. THODEN VAN VELZEN AND W. VAN WETERING 229
fields. The result was that most Djuka complied, with the exception of the villagers of Tabiki, who collectively refused : in December 1973, their black-scorched fields could be seen on the hills at the lower end of the Tapanahoni. It is noteworthy that Tabiki is the centre of the only cult of importance which is not yet subjugated to Akalali. Moreover, every village had at least a few skeptics who furtively set their earthly needs above their spiritual ones. Unfortunately, Akalali could not control the weather. The rains came early in 1973, robbing the Djuka of any possibility to burn the fel led trees and cut branches. For hundreds of Djuka there were worries about an imminent food shortage. Complaints were heard everywhere, and the food prices rose steeply in a short time. Disappointment was widespread and some critics openly ridiculed Akalali 's hollow promises. Vet, curiously enough, this fiasco did not diminish belief in the prophet's other claims. The consequences of pious idleness were cushioned somewhat by the produce harvested from fields prepared in preceding years.

5. DISCUSSION Most Djuka applaud Akalali 's reform measures; they were seen as conducive to improving the quality of life. Akalali forced the Gaan Gadu oracles out of business and at one stroke put an end to institutions overtly connected with political intrigues and around which many corrupt practices had grown. He abolished the much-hated confiscation of legacies, the so-called God's cargoes, and the practice of abandoning the corps es of witches to wild beasts. He prohibited any discriminatory treatment toward the dead and their relatives by abolishing the inquest. The Djuka regard these changes as accomplishments, real steps on the road leading towards modernization and progress. It is obvious th at the emotions of people have been touched; the prophet has met important needs. But the euphoria in the villages of the Djuka will not last long. Disappointments will soon arise and shortcomings will become glaringly visible. Why ? First and foremost, neither Akalali nor any other religious leader can bridge the gap between Tapanahoni society and the outside world. He has no channels of communication fit for such a purpose; he cannot rely on an organization which could mobilize the Djuka for nation building projects or any other actions meaningful within the wider society of Surinam. He cannot, for example, deliver the votes of the Tapanahoni Djuka to one of Surinam's

A PROPHETIC MOVEMENT IN SURINAM major political parties. Akalali himself is quite aware of his lack of leverage with the authorities of the dominant society. This is probably the reason why he has never even attempted to formulate the political and economie needs of the people into a few clearly defined demands. But, there are other explanations for the absence of political initiative than the great differences between Bush Negroes and the coastal societyalone. As we will see, Akalali 's hands are tied in such a way that he cannot free himself sufficiently for any serious political task. A religious leader must look af ter the emotional needs of the people. Akalali cannot hope to become accepted as a religious leader without presenting 'solutions' for the people's basic fears. Societies of this scale and type have limited circuits of social and economie dependenee from which it is difficult to escape. People feel themselves vulnerable to others with whom they are in daily contact. Their kinsmen and fellow villagers may withhold goods or emotional support, perhaps smear their name or even inflict injury through natural means or through witchcraft. His followers will therefore demand from their leader th at he find remedies for these dangers. Thus we have seen that Akalali '5 main effort was directed to devising new ritual for the eradication or containment of witchtraft. A new religious leader is likely to create irrational solutions to daily problems. For example, the 1973 prohibition against cultivating bush gardens in the right season was a serious departure from common sense. The question is why do people comply 50 easily ? The answer is certainly not that the Djuka mind is governed by some sort of a ~rimitive mcnta 1 i ty or that tl1Ey love gamb 1 i ng 50 much with the 1 aws of nature. They usually take a hard-headed look at the practical problems which confront them. The reason is that people are tempted to raise the stak~s when they join new religious movements. To incur tremendous costs, both er.otional and mat~l"Ïal, is to demonstrate their involvement, and hO~1 much they deserve a supernatural blessing. Only those who really run risks are worthy of the attentions and favour of the gods. Later generations who ha ve not shared in the enthus i as ti c fee 1 i ngs of the fi rs t years wil 1 look with amazement and disgust at all these proofs of commitment. Later generations see only foolishness or sin, and they will avidly await the crumbling of the edifice of power in order to cut out the abuses and excesses. One man can play a pivotal role in overthrowing a religious establishment. But he cannot hope to run a new religious movement single-handedly. The medical practice of the priests of the Great Deity has been taken over, and there is a new oracle which must be consulted regularly. To take care

THODEN VAN VELZEN AND W. VAN WETERING 231

of these activities, the prophet needs; assistants, who must be paid so that they can devote enough time to the new ritual. Thus, Akalali has to demand fees to keep his organization going. With the passage of time, the needs of the new priests tend to grow. This will tempt them to skim off a substantial part of what material wealth the Bush Negroes have. They will also be tempted to influence political life in the Tapanahoni area through their oracle. As Akalali 's movement grows older, the defects and abuses will become more visible. Disappointments wil 1 grow and set the stage for a new reform movement. In conclusion, we would like to state our agreement with Van Baal (1969 : 77) : "Movements of this kind do not lead anywhere;
they are just turning around in circles .... "

NOTES

1. Cf. review by F.M. Keesing (1961:148) and C.A. Valentine (1961: 1114-
   1115). It is notoriously difficult to specify the meanings of concepts such as 'rationality' and 'irrationality' and then employ these systematically in an empirical investigation. In order to escape at least some of the ambiguities surrounding definitions of a general character, we prefer to use the concept of rationality in a narrow way. "Rational behaviour" is here defined as all conscious actions of individuals aimed at achieving concrete objectives such as material rewards and forms of political security or enhancement. "Irrational behaviour" is caused by affective mechanisms (emotion, drive, instinct, impulse) rather than intellective mechanisms (Simon, 1964 : 574). It of ten springs from the unconscious and gives expression to feelings of anxiety and other emotions; it is characterized by the twin elements of high cost and high risk and militates against the dictates of experience and common sense. However. as these definitions are rather narrow, they cannot cover all or even most of the activities of prophet and followers. Thus a third category is needed which we call 'traditional '; it encompasses all actions considered appropriate to secure common and generally accepted goals. Tradition offers 'solutions' to human needs that vary widely and entail few risks and costs. When new irrational elements are incorporated into religion, af ter some time the routine of life will wear off the sharp edges. As a rule the passage of time reduces the costs of ritual and other religious obligations. The area of irrational behaviour gradially shades over into traditional behaviour.

PROPHETIC MOVEMENT IN SURINAM

2. Most of the material for this artic1e has been taken from Thoden van Vel zen and Van Wetering (in preparation). Field work in the Tapanahon:i .. region of Surinam took p1ace from June 1961 ti11 November 1962, during ._ the month of August 1965, again in September and October 1970 and for a few weeks in December 1973 and January 1974. The first and second periods were financed by The Netheplands Foundation fop the Advancement of Tpopical ReseQPch (Wotpo), the third period by the AfPika-Studiecentpum at Leyden. Our stay in 1973/1974 was supported by the Univepsity of Utpecht and Wotpo. For background information on the culture and socia1 structure of the Djuka the reader is referred to Köbben (1967, 1968, 1969a and 1969b). For the Saramaka, the second 1argest grouping, we wou1d refer to Price (1970, 1973, n.d.).
3. Census data for 1971 give a tota1 of 39.500 for all 8ush Negroes. The number of Djuka wi11 probab1y not exceed 15.000.
4. For an account of witchcraft be1iefs and accusations see Van Wetering (1973a, 1973b).
5. By organized re1igion, we mean all re1igious activities which require the cooperation of Djuka from two or more villages and occur with some regu1arity. As a matter of fact, a large part of re1igious 1ife fa11s beyond the scope of organized re1igion. Some ritua1s require on1y the assistance of a few re1atives and occur irregu1ar1y. Many re1igious phenomena, such as possession, are to some extent an individua1 affair.
6. One informant was ab1e to supp1y the names of 113 pers ons in neighbouring villages who had undergone the c1eansing ritua1. In view of the fact that many peop1e came from the remote areas as we11, it can be understood that the list is far from exhaustive.
   

   REFERENCES CITED

8aa 1, J. van 1960 "Erring Accu1turation" Amencan Anthpopologist 62: 108-121. 1969 "The Political Impact of Prophetic MovementslO Internationales Jahpbuch fUp ReZigionssozioZogie 5: 68-88. 8urridge, Kene1m 1960 Mambu London: Methuen.

THODEN VAN VELZEN AND W. VAN WETERING 233

Keesing, F.M. 1961 "Review of Burridge (1960)" Man 61: 148. Köbben, A.J. F. 1962 "Uni ty and Di suni ty: Cotti ca Djuka Soci ety as a Ki nshi p Sys tem". Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde 123: 10-52. 1968 "Continuity in Change: Cottica Djuka as a Changing System". Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde 124: 56-90. 1969a "Classificatory Kinship and Classificatory Status: the Cottica Djuka of Surinam" Man (N.S.) 4: 236-249. 1969b "Lawat the Vi llage Level: the Cotti ca Djuka of Surinam" In: Law in Culture and Society Laura Nader, Ed. Chicago: Aldine. La Ba rre, Wes ton 1972 The Ghost Dance New Vork: Delta Sooks Pri ce, Ri chard 1970 "Saramaka Emigration and Marriage: A Case Study of Social Change" Soutl7hJestern Journalof Anthropowgy 26: 157-189. 1972 "The Guiana Maroons: Changing Perspectives in "Bush Negro" Studies Caribbean Studies 11: 82-105. 1973 "Avenging Spirits and the Structure of Saramaka Lineages" Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde 129: 86-107. n. d. Saramaka Socia l Structure: Ana lysis of a "Bush Negro" Society (in press) Simon, Herbert A. 1964 "Rationality" A Dictionary of the Social Scienaes 573-574. New Vork: MacMillan. Thoden van Velzen, H.U.E. 1966 Politieke Beheersing in de Djuka Maatschappij. Leiden: Afrika-Studiecentrum (2 vols., mimeo). Thoden van Velzen, H.U.E. and

W. van Wetering
n.d. Djuka Religious Leaders (in preparation).
Valentine C.A. 1961 "Review of Burridge (1960)" Ameriaan Anthropologist 63: 1114-

1115.
Wetering, Wilhelmina van 1973a Hekserij bij de Djuka. Amsterdam: doctoral thesis. 1973b "Witchcraft among the Tapanahoni Djuka" In: Maroon Societies Richard S. Price, Ed. Garden City: Doubleday.

IDEOLOGY AND CHANGING SOCIETY

G. W. Locher
This essay on mYth, ideology and a changing society is a continuation of the article on "Myth in a changing world" I published in 1956. Now as well as then, my starting point is the experience I gained during an investigation of the connection between society and religion in the inlands of West Timor (Indonesia). While investigating the relation between myth and social-political structure, the following phenomena struck me. In the first place, 1 found that the former dominant group of arealm, which had encompassed various tribes and peoples in the past but was no longer in existence, still showed such astrong influence by means of the central myth of that realm on the social-political thoughts and activities of all groups concerned. I was also impressed by the endeavours of other groups to distantiate themselves from the central myth handed down from the past and their efforts to legitimate their independent position through their own myth. It also happened that people tried to claim a higher position than previously occupied by making changes in the myth of their group. This occurred in the years round 1940, when the possibility already existed in that remote area -- and was actually advocated by some young people --to reject the old myths, at least as norms for the contemporary and future social-political situation.

In the article "Myth in a changing world", I dealt with the two first phenomena. For the sake of comparison, I gave some examples of myths and their functions in the social-political field in New Guinea and in Java. At the end of this essay, I indicated briefly the continuation of the myth in reflections on past, present and future, as we find them in nationalism as well as communism in Java and in Indonesia. I th en argued that it by no means meant a distinction with regard to what happened and is still happening in the West. My article ended by opting for a scientific concept of myth as useful for studying all societies and cultures, as far as we know them in the history of mankind.

IOEOLOGY ANO CHANGING SOCIETY 235

One of my colleagues, who was engaged in sociology of the West as well as in cultural anthropology and sociology of the non-European world, responded to this article by remarking that this use of the idea of myth for all societies and cultures evoked the question of the relation between myth and ideology. No doubt this was a sensible question but not one that could easily be answer:d. Ideology, like myth, belongs to those concepts which are used in the most divergent and of ten most contradictory ways. When I am now speaking of myth, ideology and a changing society, can only do it because it appeared possible to make a choice fr om the many meanings of myth and ideology, which led to a combination that can be used in practice -- in other words, with which we can get to a bet ter understanding of specific cases. Through the idea of myth, which I already used in my publications, I made a choice concerning the meaning of the idea of ideology, which could be brought into agreement with it, at any ra te where it concerned social-political relations. Before elaboratin~ on the choice of the concept of ideology I must first give a short definition of the idea of myth as I use it. In the first place it does not mean gossip without base nor an unreal emotional presentation of events. A myth can be untrue according to certain criteria, but it is not untrue and unreal because it is a myth. People speak of prophets in general, and we can th en make a distinction between true and false prophets, as people talk about faith in general and can then make a distinction between true and false faith according to certain criteria. But neither "a prophet" nor "the faith" itself is true or false. In the article "Myth in a changing world", I remarked that I join the scientists who do not judge the idea of myth as being true or false.

I then described the idea of myth as referring in general to the represe.ntat i on by means of language of events whi ch human bei ngs consider as absolutely essential for their existence and as giving meaning simultaneously to the present, the past and the future. In doing 50, we leave the point whether these events actually possess this meaning according to our views outside of our consideration; likewise the question whether these events could really have taken place according to our scientific knowledge.

The event expressed in myth, which gives meaning at the same time to present, past and future, can take place at a time which according to the myth has a different character from the usual time, as we find with myths that occur in a kind of primeval time. However, the myth can also be related to the past, future or present of the "usual time", but then always in a total meaning; that is, it is of essential significance for

LOCHER

the entire course of time. The latter is closely related to what lévi-strauss calls the double structure of the myth; at the same time historic and ahistoric (';à la fois historique et anhistorique"). 2) In the marxist view of history the final class struggle revolution has this 'totalizing ' significance; the final revolution is of essential meaning for the entire historic process: past, present, future. In the idea of myth, as I use it, it does not belong to the nature of the myth to be directed to the past. The fact that we know many myths that are oriented to the past, does not mean that the orientation towards the past is inherent in the myth. In many cultures the orientation of the myth towards the past, or towards a future considered as a return to the past, will strongly predominate, although we should be mindful of changed representations of the past in the myth in order to legitimate new things and situations. In the cultures such as those of the modern West we can expect an orientation towards the future without this future essentially being considered as a recurrence or partial restoration of the past. What is inherent in the myth is that it refers to an event which involves present, past and future. But the stress with regard to the last th ree categories can widely diverge in the various myths. This use of the idea of myth deviates greatly from the meaning of the false story, as when we speak about fantastic liars as of "mytho- maniacs". Now wh en we meet the same kind of contrast in the various meanings of the term ideology, it is self-evident to choose a description of ideology th at con ne cts with the meaning of the idea of myth used by us. In the first place, this includes a clear rejection of the idea of ideology as a misrepresentation of reality. For ideology, too, it may mean that it is untrue according to certain criteria, but not that it is untrue because it is an ideology. Furthermore, this choice means a rejection of the idea of ideology as exclusively aimed at the maintenance of the existing state of affairs, which corresponds somewhat to the rejection of the idea of myth as exclusively aimed at the past. This idea of ideology means that ideology and truth --also scientific truth are not mutually exclusive in prinaip~e, and it is also clear that the idea of ideology can be used in a conservative as well as in a revolutionary sense. The choice of this interpretation of the term ideology corresponds in general to what I have found in R.F. Beerling's philosophical-sociological investigations and to Harry M. Johnson's Soaio~ogy. a systematia introduation. 4) In his important essay on ideology, Beerling remarks that ideology gives an answer to manis question about what attitude he should take in this world and how to act. An answer to

IDEOLOGY AND CHANGING SOCIETY 237

this question can be supported by but does not result from scientific argument. While man is faced with a finite and partial reality, ideology as a world view interpretation system transcends this limitation. For ideologies are not scientific knowledge systems but world view interpretation systems. Ideology as such an interpretation system may have the function of hel ping man to reconcile himself with the actual state of affairs, in which he is directly faced with finite and partial reality. In this connection Beerling refers to the world view of the Indian caste-system: a metaphysically sanctioned order connected with the free making karma and reincarnation principles in relation to factual existence. An ideology that transcends finite and partial reality also may have the function of getting man to rebel against the actual state of affairs in which he lives, and making him strive to change prevailing circumstances and established relations. As an example Beerling mentions liberalism which in the name of individual freedom (as the summum bonum) acts against absolutism and government interference. From this, Beerling can define an ideology as all the fundamental ideas to which an appeal is made wh en a certain social system legitimates itself. This may be taken in a conservative sense but mayalso become revolutionary in character. This is evident from his further definition of an ideology as a complex of assertions or statements in the form of activating value judgements concerning reality, adhered to by an authoritative group or one that is striving for authority.5) Thus Beerling establishes a close relation between ideology and social system. We notice the same with Johnson, to an even stronger degree, wh en he makes this analytic distinction between religion and ideology: Ideology is concerned with social systems in their social setting. 6) Johnson, too, does not limit the idea of ideology to the preservation of the existing system. He distinguishes conservative and revolutionary ideology, regarding reactionary ideology as a special form of revolutionary ideology. According to Johnson, not only do ideological contrasts occur but, in general, each group of the society may have its own ideology apart from participation in the ideology of the society as a whole. If ideologies differ from each other, it does not mean that they are exclusive of each other. It is not difficult to make a connection between this idea of ideology and the idea of myth used by us. It becomes a very close relation if we bring Johnson's ideology pre-eminently into connection with the 'social systems in their social setting and at the same time limit the myth to a certain category, namely the myth with a clear social-political tendency. These myths are characterized by their rendering of

LOCHER events, which are considered as being of fundamental importance for social-political existence by those who are the followers of these myths. Thus in connection with the western world, we can consider the history of the coming into existence and the development of the nation as a myth within the ideology of nationalism. For those who consider these events as fundamental for their existence, the history of the French and Russian revolutions acquires the character of a myth within the framework of the ideology involved. We need not reject the objectivity of the term because in national socialism, for instance, their own concept of history is of ten indicated by the term myth, even though there is noquestion of a neutral use of the idea. Af ter this introduction we shall see from some examples that we can also apply this combination of myth and ideology to the non-European world, especially when such a society experiences a significant change. The examples have been taken from the period just before and af ter the last World War and are consecutively related to Timor (Indonesia), Malaya and China. All three of them refer to myth and ideology of arealm. The first deals with the Atoni in the interior of Timor, the western part of which belonged to the former Dutch East Indies, whereas the eastern part was Portuguese teritory.7) The Atoni lived on the inland of western Timor, where in the old days the population lived scattered in small villages, especially on hilltops and in the mountains. They practised swidden agriculture with maize as the staple crop and they had cattle, especially buffaloes. The gardens we re cultivated on the slopes, whereas the low country was used for cattle. The Atoni did not have any written culture but they did have an extensive oral tradition in the social-political field, which was interpreted by marera, the spokesmen, of the chiefs and clans. In former days an important part of the Atoni population of Timor, which numbered more than two hundred thousand people in 1930, had been organised in the princedom of Sonbai, as we know from the reports of the East India Company. This princedom was named af ter the ruling dynasty, which had as a residence a small area cal led Oenam. The centre of the Sonbai princedom mainly consisted of the princedoms of Molo and Miomafo, with the traditional ruling families of Oematan and Kono, respectively. Over these and various other princedoms, the Sonbai princes of Oenam had a kind of suzerainty. However, by the twentieth century the Sonbai princedom had completely vanished, having already disintegrated in the previous centuries. Princedoms like Molo and Miomafo had become independent under their own rulers and were recognized as such by the

IDEOLOGY AND CHANGING SOCIETY 239

former Government of the Dutch East Indies. But various members of the old Sonbai generation believed in a return to the glorious past. According to the mYth of the princedom of Sonbai, this family was of heavenly origin and in primeval times a marriage had been contracted between the ancestor of this family (who represented the heavens and the sun) and a daughter of the ground priest, Koene, who represented night and earth. More than once the Sonbai family had almost disappeared in the course of time, according to the story told by the Sonbais themselves, which, however, emphasized the return of Sonbai to his old position. The Sonbai myth knew a rise and fall, an alternation of light and darkness. just as the sun seems to set during the night but then reappears and lifts itself gloriously. The Sonbai traditions further related that Sonbai could also ,maintain his position against the foreign powers and that he had of ten been too clever for the Dutch. Around 1930 it seemed as if the cyclical Sonbai myth and the Sonbai princedom were going to be realized again and this time by the Dutch themselves. In the beginning of this century the Government had explicitly stated that the Sonbai princedom was finished and that no efforts for the restoration of this princedom would be tolerated. People were allowed to pay homage to Sonbai only in a religious capacity, specifically with regard to rair.. But the Atoni, especially the princes who had formerly been under the suzerainity of Sonbai, had been assured that they need not fear his return. The surprise was great when all at once the Government expressed its strong desire that the population of Molo choose a descendant of the Sonbai family as areplacement for the raja of Oematan who had been dismissed. But what could the Atoni know of a temporary policy of the Government in Batavia, which involved an effort to integrate all those small domains into larger princedoms under rulers from old families, who according to tradition had been respected over extensive areas. In order to realize this policy gradually, orders had been given that in case of vacancies of heads of smaller units, members of that kind of influential lineage should be chosen. Explicit, however, was that such a position could not be considered as a stepping stone to a higher one. It happened th at a Sonbai became raja of Molo under strong pressure from the Government, even though according to old Timorese ideas the right of succession belonged to a prince from the'Oematan family. Af ter some time this policy of concentration was abandoned in Batavia and no larger princedom was created of which Sonbai could become rul er. The rise of Sonbai af ter a temporary eclipse had begun in a miraculous way, entirely according to the mYth, but it did not carry through. The new prince

G. W. LOCHER
of Mo10, however, did not remain passive. His activity was especia11y aimed at obtaining the old tit1e "prince of Oenam" and beyond that of Mo10. According to tradition, in which he strong1y be1ieved, official recognition of that name wou1d set him again above many of the Atoni princedoms, a1though he to1d the Dutch authorities that it was of 1ittle importance. He wanted to see the myth of his own fami1y fu1fi11ed, as appeared from his fanatic stubborness. He went to the Dutch but had no success with them, and then to the Japanese when they conquered the is1and, but a1so without any favourab1e resu1t. He again put forward a request for this tit1e as soon as a Dutch government official arrived in the interior with the a11ied troops. This government official was one of my students from the N.l.C.A. (Netherlands Indies Civi1 Administration) training in Austra1ia and comp1ete1y informed by me on this matter before he set out into the interior from Koepang, where I was in the autumn of 1945. Through my investigation in Timor in 1940 and 1941, I knewa lot about the ambitions of Sonbai and the importance of the tit1e he so much desired. Sonbai be1ieved in the ~th and ideo10gy of the princedom Sonbai and aimed at the restoration of his position as prince of Oeman in a return to the past. At the same time, however, just before and af ter the Wor1d War, we find a group called Bana in the princedom of Miomafo who wanted to distantiate themse1ves from the traditional central myths of the states of Sonbai and Miomafo on the one hand and, on the other, propagated a changed version of their own ~th. This was done in order to 1egitimate and deve10p the position of the leader of the Bana group as a ru1er of the territory of Bikomi (the biggest and most dense1y popu1ated area of the princedom of Miomafo) and a1so to support his ambition to become the head of the princedom of Miomafo, as there was no suitab1E candidate from the traditional 1ine of rul ers in the Kono lineage. I sha11 never forget how in 1941 this Bana had his story of origin to1d to me by an official spokesman in the presence of all the eminent peop1e of his group. In this story, he omitted every hint of dependence on the princes of Miomafo or the Sonbai princedom and, instead, made it c1ear now InuC1t they owed to the Bana fami1y and to the country of Bikomi. He distantiated his myth from the traditional central myths of the princedom of Miomafo and from the princedom of Sonbai, but he maintained the princedom ideo10gy and recogni.zed the need to legitimate the higher position of prince he so much desired by means of the required representation of the past. In this case too everthing went on in exact1y the same way as before the war, as if there had been no Wor1d War 11 at all in the meantime. In his The PoLitiaaL System of the Atoni of Timor, Schu1te Nordho1t exp1ains what happened with Bana in

IDEOLOGY AND CHANGING SOCIETY 241

the big meeting to arrange the succession in the princedom of Miomafo. 8) We must emphasize the fact that we are dealing with a society in which many groups have their own myth and, moreover, participants in a central myth of the realm to which they bel ong. The shifting in the relation to the central myth, even the substitution of the mYth of the own group (af ter suitable changes) as the myth of the realm, has not been an uncommon phenomenon in the so-called traditional societies. The recognition of new versions was enforced. Myths have been aimed at forgetting the past, just as this sometimes has been the function of historiography, as Renan remarked. 9)

I now refer to an example from Malaya, a story from Malayan literature. According to Teeuw, it has the character of a myth in the sense described in my "Myth in a changing world", to which Teeuw also refers. To the reaction to this myth in recent times, my Leiden col leagues de Josselin de Jong and Teeuw devoted important publications in which both use the term ideology.10)For many, this reaction did not mean a rejection of the story as being no longer relevant to the present time, but involved a reversal of the appreciation of the two main figures in the mYth as an expression of a very clear rejection of the old princedom ideology. This concerns the Hikayat Hang Tuah, which Teeuw called the only original Malayan romance when he spoke in 1959 about the Malayan novel at a congress organised by the Oosters Genootsohap in the Netherlands. It is the story of a figure who has sómetimes been cal led the typical Malayan hero. In the seventeenth century version of the story, he is not only the valiant warrior but also the personification of the perfect faithful servant, who is forever seeking what is beneficial to the prince and, through him, to the community. In this faithfulness, he even endures the most bitter injust- ice from an individual prince. In a central episode of the story, this absolute faithfulness is set against his bosom-friend Hang Jebat's behaviour. Owing to the generally accepted opinion that Hang Tuah was dead--due to the misguided prince--Hang Jebat obtained the powerful position of Hang Tuah together with the dagger possessing supernatural power. Eventually he usurped and misused all power in the society, even that of the prince. In this emergency the hereditary Prime Minister revealed to the prince that he had savej Hang Tuah's life. The latter was summoned and, af ter his return, a battle arose in which he eventually killed his friend Hang Jebat. Teeuw pointed out that in the story of this happening, not just the story of an individual is given: in several respects it has a ahistoric character. Hang Tuah is more than an individual, even more than a here:

LOCH ER

he is the prototype of Malayan man and his story is the Malayan mYth. Hang Jebat represents the brutish power which--no longer subjected to obedience-- only comes to destruction, whereas Hang Tuah represents the faithfulness and obedience to the prince whi,ch is the basis of the Malayan society. He stated that modern Malayan intellectuals tried to interpret the story from the point of view of a dynamic change of social structure. Hang Tuah is seen as the defender of a 'feudal' order and Hang Jebat becomes the champion of the resistance against that order. Teeuw also mentioned the opinion of the Russian orientalist Parnickel whose first idea about Hang Jebat was more positive than later on, although he persisted in his marxist social historical explanation of the story in its various versions. De Josselin de Jong recognizes that Parnickel '5 article owes much to that by Teeuw but he distinguishes between the study of the revaluation of Hang Tuah and Hang Jebat from the point of view of the literary critic and that of a sociologist. In the "The Rise and Decline of a National Hero", de Josselin de Jong's analysis of the story in a diachronic sense is very absorbing: namely, first the rendering from the 16th century in the 'Malay Annuals' of the Hang Tuah figure as a valiant warrior but also as an individual figure with several faults, seen from the point of view of the hereditary Prime Minister's lineagei then both the historic and ahistor;c figure from the dynast y's viewpoint from the later period of the Hikajat Hang Tuah, who is the eternally faithful servant of the prince and of the Malayan society, the supposition even being that he lived on secretly for centuries and was to reappear when the Malayan sultanate would be in mortal danger ö and, finally, the decline of the figure of Hang Tuah and the rapid rise of his opponent Hang Jebat in the appreciation and interpretation of the myth in young independent Malaya. This was most evident in the film about Hang Tuah shown in 1956 and viewed by more than 9 million people, in scenes of battle between Hang Tuah and Hang Jebat, and in verbal and written discussions about both these figures. De Josselin de Jong explained the reinterpretation as a choice for the rebel, who rejects the traditional political norms and follows his own individual way. It also is the result of the disappear-ance of respect and loyalty for the sultanate. The people no longer recognised the daulat (mana) of the royalty since the princes had not been fighters for the national independent state of Malaya, but remained closely associated with the foreign rul ers, in sharp contrast to the ancient position of the princes as opponents or victims of the invading

IDEOLOGY AND CHANGING SOCIETY 243

European rul ers. The fact that the myth was reinterpreted in this radica1 way, instead of being abandoned as irrelevant, indicates the strong inf1uence of the myth as such. Moreover, this reinterpretation indicates a rejection of the past and a concentration on the present instead of on the future and on 1aying the foundation for it in the present. Fina11y, a no te concerning the prince's behaviour according to the Ma1ayan princedom ideo10gy: betraya1 of the prince was considered an unpardonab1e sin, and faithfu1ness to the prince the highest virtue, especia11y wh en an individua1 prince made 10yalty difficult. If a prince wou1d behave very bad1y towards his subjects, they were not allowed to be unfaithfu1 towards their rul er. But the princedom ideo10gy in this area a1so indicated that the prince's serious interference with the appropriate standards of behaviour wou1d be punished by an outside avenging justice. 10)

In our last examp1e, China, we a1so find the idea in the old imperia1 ideo10gy of bad consequences, if the emperor did not act according to the right order. The emperor as the son of heaven kept the mandate of heaven as long as he expressed the cosmic standards for the entire community. Disturbances in the order of things, no matter whether they came in the form of natura1 catastrophies or revo1t among the people, could be a sign of the 10ss of this mandate but they were not a factor in themselves. As to the peop1e, they did not have a right to revo1t. Until the success of the rebe11ion was evident from the course of events, rebe1lion was unjust. As Levenson said: "Unti1 they succeeded, rebels had no right, and the peop1e's wi11, if they claimed to express it, had to wait on Heaven' choos- ing."ll) The interpretation of the events was done by Litepati through the study of the classics. These classics were standard works because they expressed the essentia1 order of things. Intrinsic c1assica1 learning meant the exercise of divining from canonica1 historica1 records how men in general shou1d make history for all time. 12} The Confucian Litepati were interested the study of history, but ideas were not concentrated on processes but on the unchangeab1e and lasting things. Events were judged according to the firm idea1 of the Confucian moral uni verse and they showed the consequences of deviations from it as a 1esson for later generations. As a matter of fact, it does not concern the history of one of many countries, however important in itself, but world history. For the Confucian scholars, China was the wor1d proper and the world events occurred in its history. To this world be10nged the emperor, the gentry, the peop1e,

Literati, whose position stood between legalism as the ideology of authorit- arian emperorship, on the one hand, and Taoism as the ideology of the more or less anarchistic existence concentrated on the self, on the other. 13) In Republican China we find the de-mythoiogising of Chinese history as standard world history. Instead of being the world, China as a nation was confronted with the world--even with the prospect of being overcome by that world. The bearers of Confucianism lost their place in modernising Republican China. In their effort to continue their universal world in the modern universal world, they changed from cosmopolitans to provincials and vanished from actual history into the history which belonged to the past. 14) In later times we see a movement coming to power in China which shows an even greater break with the Confucian tradition. Communism rejected the classics as bearers of the insights into right order for all times. It put process against statis and entailed a standard history aimed at the future as a total process of the world events, in which China is placed by the communist movement. The remarkable thing is the tendency of Chinese communism in later years to put China more and more at the cent re of the new phase of world history, 50 that Chinese history is becoming world history again. The bearer of this myth, which entails the entirE: history, is the trained communist party as representative of the Chinese people. Instead of the mandate of heaven for the leaders, the mandate of the people is now relevant-- for according to Mao Tse-tung, it is the driving force of world history.15) This entire historic process should not only be compared with the present situation, but again and again the image of the past must be adjusted. As the historian Jan Romein remarked at the end of his essay on "Zekerheid en onzekerheid in de geschiedwetenschap" (Certainty and uncertaintv in history) "that by wanting the future mankind is making in one process history and the past of that history.,,16) That is the reason that there are many discussions in China on questions such as: Has Confucius done his part historically, or does he belong to the progessive line in his time, which runs from the past along the present to the future?

Now, I have given examples from Timor, Malaya and China in order to ascertain if myth and ideology as ideas that tune in to each other can also successfully be applied in the world outside Europe. All these examples were about the myth and ideology of arealm. Those from Timor showed a concentration on the past: in one case in the

IDEOLOGY AND CHANGING SOCIETY 245

sense of a change of the present through a return of the past in accordance with the traditional myth; in the other case, they attempted to legitimate a change in the present by a changed image of the past. In both cases the ideology of the realm was maintained. The example from Malaya showed a concentration on the present, in which an inversion occurred of the appreciation for the main figures of the myth of the realm as opposition against tradition and as rejection of the princedom ideology. But the myth itself was not abolished as irrelevant. The example from China concerned a concentration on the movement of the present to the future and the rejection of a standardised view of history from the classics, which was to refer to all time, and acted as myth of the realm for the Confucian imperium. This view of history was replaced the marxist history aimed at the future as a standard myth. There was a distinct tendency to give China a central place in future world development: to a certain degree a return to the old cosmopolitan idea of the history of China as world history proper. In this example we note a radical replacement of myth and ideology and, at the same time, a tendency to maintain or to return to certain structures which were also clearly present in the past. With this essay I hope to have demonstrated that the handling of the neutral concept of ~th in combination with a similar concept of ideology is not only significant for a comparative study of societies outside Europe but mayalso offer prospeets for a comparative study of ~th and ideology in societies all over the world and from various times and cultures.

NOTES

1. G.W. Locher, "Myth in a changing world", Bijdragen KITLV, 112:2, 1956, pp. 169-192.
2. Claude Lévi-Strauss, AnthropoZogie Structurale. Paris, 1958, p. 231.
3. G.W. Locher, "Transformatie en Traditie", Mededelingen der Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen, Afd. L, nieuwe reeks, 34: 6,
   p. 7-9. about: change and transformation of the standard setting past.
4. R.F. Beerling, Wijsgerig-Sociologische verkenningen, Tweede Bundel, Arnhem, 1965, pp. 7-63. about : Ideology Harry M. Johnston, Sociology: A systematic introduction, International Library of Sociology and Social Reconstruction, London, 1961, eh. 21: Ideology.
5. Beerling o.c. p. 53 and p. 30.
6. Johnston o.c. p. 592.

LOCH ER

7. See the publication mentioned under note 1. and H.G. Schulte Nordholt, The politiaal system of the Atoni of Timor, Verhandelingen KITLV: 60, The Hague, 1971.
8. H.G. Schulte Nordholt, o.c. pp. 293-306.
9. See "Transfonnatie en Traditie" (mentioned in note 3) p. 8.
10. A. Teeuw, "De Maleise Roman", Fo!'WT1 der letteren, May 1960, pp. 108-120 and "Hang Tuah en Hang Jebat" in the same magazine, February 1961, pp. 37-48.
    P.E. de Josselin de Jong, "The Rise and Decline of a National Hero", Journal of the MaZaysian Branah. Royal Asiatia Soaiety, 1965: 2, pp. 140-155 and 239.
    P. E. de Jossel i n de Jong, "The Character of the 'Mal ay Anna 1 s'·, in: Malayan and Indonesian Studies, eds. John Bastin and R. Roolvink, oxford, 1964, p. 239.
11. Joseph R. Levenson, Confuaian China and its Modern Fate, 3 volumes, January 1958 (second print 1965), February 1964, March 1965, '101. 11, The Problem of Monarahiaal Deaay, p. 12.
12. Joseph R. Levenson o.c. Vol. lIl, p. 100.
13. Joseph R. Levenson o.c. Vol. lIl, p. 101 vvo
14. c.f. Joseph R. Levenson o.c. Vol. lIl, p. 3: To depart from history was to enter it.
15. About the 'stasis" see Joseph R. Levenson and Franz Schurmann, :hiy.~: An Interpretive History. from the Beginnings to the Fall of Ran, UCP, 1969, p. 48. Furthermore use has been made of the work by the Leiden sinologist E. ZUreher, among other things in his inaugural lecture, Dialoog der Misverstanden, Leiden, 1962; c.f. G.W. Locher, "Nieuwe relaties tussen de culturele antropologie en de geschiedenis" in Bijdragen en Mededelingen betreffende de gesahiedenis der Nederlanden, dl. 83, 1969, p. 45 and the publication mentioned under note 3, p. 15.
16. Jan Romein, In opdraaht van de tijd, Amsterdam, 1946, p. 43.

DUTCH TRIBE

J. D. J. Waardenburg

Van Baal is one of the first anthropologists who attempted to carry out research On certain aspects of Dutch religion and compare them with the same aspects of other religions studied in the field, in Indonesia1). His concern was not only to establish a documentary record, but to interrogate the data as an anthropologist with the question in mind as to why these Dutch people, as one of the varieties of mankind, expressed themselves religiously, why they did it in this way, and what was implied in the way they did it from a comparative point of view. The problem is legit;mate, and the investigation of the "home religion" also belongs to the tasks of the scholarly study of religion. The interesting question is rather why at present, more than twenty-five years af ter Van Baal's publication, Dutch science of religion, with a few exceptions, has hardly paid any attention to the scholarly study and interpretation of present-day religion among the Dutch themselves. 2) This may partly explain the relative lack of good solid information concerning the different religious communities and their affiliated institutions which exist in Holland at present: Protestant, Catholic and Orthodox Christians, Jewish and Muslim communities, some Hindu and Buddhist groups and meditation societies, and other groups with religious or generally idealistic intentions and inclinations. As far as we know there does not even exist a simple listing of them in printed form. 3) About their ideas it is still more difficult to obtain unbiased information. One result of this lack of information is th at those who are not concerned with religion themselves of ten have not the slightest idea of what it ~ay mean to others. Another result is th at a number of opinions are current ~ow on what is going on in Holland religiously, but most of these )pinions are the result of what Church pastors consider to be their lastoral responsibility, or of what laymen consider to be, on the basis If their own experiences and thoughts, the positive or negative sides of hat particular kind and shape of religion with which each one of them

Such opinions mayalso be the result of what a particular scientific outlook, ideology or world view makes people think of. religion generally. From a scholarly point of view, however, they are just opinions about religion in this country. If we want to arrive at scholarly conclusions, valid for Dutch and non-Dutch, religious and non-religious readers because they are true, we must take a realistic point of departure, analyze things as they present themselves, and use procedures of research which not only do justice to the data, persons, and groups that are subject of inquiry, but also have their own, theoretically based self-critical rationality. We are concerned here with a domain of life in Dutch society about which, strictly speaking, we have much less reliable information than is claimed to be available by the different parties involved. Actua 11y, thi s 1 ack of i nformat i on perta i ns not on ly to the "i nner" religious experience, but also exists with regard to the "outer" side of verifiable empirical data and facts.

THE PAST AND lTS RELIGION

In Dutch society one of ten finds the oplnlon, sometimes as an explicit idea and of ten as a latent feeling, that people of former times were more religious than people are nowadays, that they had a stronger faith and a deeper religious awareness than the present generation. One may even hear th at Holland, as far as the past is concerned, has been an eminently religious country. Such opinions are to be found both among those who can see their own faith only under the authority of what the faith of the forebears or the spiritual life of the community was at the outset, and among those who mirror their own areligiosity or unbelief over against the religiousness or belief of others, at present or in the past. Now what do the historical data themselves say about this matter, and how are we going to interpret them? The regi on of the Low Countri es as a who le was "Cathol i c Chri s ti an" until the first half of the 16th century, when the Reformation movement obtained adherents here and there, especially on the Calvinistic side, so that among the Chri stians a di stincti on was made between "Protestants" on the one hand and "Roman Catholics" on the other. During the war of independence (1568-1648) against Catholic Spain, Calvinism in particular developed and was to put its stamp on official Christianity in the Netherlands for several centuries. How relatively weak Calvinistic

AND THE DUTCH TRIBE 249

Protestantism still was at first appears for instance from the fact that in 1573, the year in which William the Silent became a Protestant, only about 5% of the population ~appened to be Calvinist. The "Reformed" Church was consolidated only at the Synod of Dordrecht (1618-19). On this occasion the more liberal Arminians or "Remonstrants" were condemned for their doctrine of free will, in favor of the stricter Calvinistic Gomarists or "Contra-Remonstrants" with their doctrine of double predestination. As the established orthodoxy the latter group was not only to determine the main lines of the establishment and development of official Protestant religion in the Republic of the United Netherlands, but they would also draw political, social, and economic consequences from their stern convictions with theocratic tendencies, that would put their stamp on social life in Holland. Characteristically, however, among the Protestants of the Reformed Church of the country there would continue to exist, side by side with this strict and exclusive Calvinism, a more liberal and tolerant current. Depending on circumstances, this non official undercurrent could exercise sometimes more and sometimes less influence, and so allowed Christianity in the Netherlands to offer more room for different convictions and kinds of religious experience than was the case in the neighbouring countries. In this way, Roman Catholics were tolerated; in its "Golden Age" (l7th century) and later, the country could assimilate a number of Protestant refugees from France and Central Europe, Jewish immigrants from Portugal and later from Eastern Europe, and original, liberal minds like the philosophers Descartes and Spinoza. Between 1651 and 1795, Calvinism was state religion, with limited tolerance of Roman Catholics, Lutherans, Mennonite groups, and the Remonstrants. In 1816 this church received the name Nederduits (at present: NederZands) Hervormde Kerk. In 1853, thanks to Thorbecke's liberal policy, the Roman Catholics received the right to organize themselves freely, so that bishops could be nominated in the Netherlands. Although important spiritual movements like Pietism in the 18th century and the réveil movement in the 19th century developed practically outside the church institution (and implied an indirect protest against the religious institutional state of affairs), religious history in the Netherlands until the 20th century coincides by and large with the church history of this country. Every Dutchman was a nominal member of the church and in his spiritual life had to direct himself toward it. In the 19th century, within the Dutch Reformed Church, there occurred "Calvinistic" splits which were to have important consequences for Protestant religion and society in the Netherlands. On the one hand, there were the hyper-

J. D. J. WAARDENBURG

orthodox scriptural and fundamentalist movements leading to the Gereformeerde break-away groups of 1834 and 1892. In the first case, church and state took repressive measures against the separatist church group claiming to be more Calvinistic than the Calvinists, and a number of adherents emigrated to America. In 1892 the neo-Calvinist Gereformeerde Kerk established itself as an independent church institution alongside the Hervormde Kerk, and could assimilate part of the members of the church group of 1834. On the other hand, there were modernist groups in the second half of the 19th century who organized, not without difficulties, their own liberal Christian communities over against the more orthodox communities of the official church. In addition, during the last hundred years a number of other Protestant churches and spiritual-religious communities developed outside the Hervormde Kerk; at the same time a growing number of workers loosened or lost their links with religion or started to revolt against it, like some free-thinking intellectuals.

SOME FACTS 4)

As far as the Roman Catholics are concerned, their percentage of the total population increased slowly af ter an initial decrease in the 18th century: from 47% in 1656, it became 34% in 1726, 38% in 1850, 35% in 1909 and 40.4% in 1960. The history of Christianity in the Netherlands has been dominated by the opposition of Protestants and Catholics; some forms of this opposition are still visibly at work today. Protestants and Catholics began to find each other in the common attempt, by means of specific Protestant and Catholic political parties, to obtain government subsidy for private schools of a confessional character. This was granted af ter World War I. It is instructive to trace over a period of a hundred years the percentage of Dutch people belonging to a church (Roman Catholic, Calvinisti c, "Other") or not belonging to any church. according to the successive official censuses. 5)

Other churches (incl. Without Catholic Hervormd Gereformeerd Lutherans,Mennonite-church (Calvinist)(Neo-Calvinist) Baptist groups, and affil ia- also Jewish communities tion

I Either because one wants to be considered explicitly as such, or because one has to be considered implicitly as such since one has not been baptized or confirmed or is a member of a Jewish community.

This table shows a clear decrease, over the last hundred years, of membership of the NederZands Hervormde Kerk and of "Other churches", and a manifest increase in the percentage of those without church affiliation. Apart fr om these figures at least three facts may be mentioned which could give rise to and support the current opinion that the country was more religious formerly than at the present time:

a) There are enough data available to ascertain much more intensive churchgoing in the past. This concerns both the number of people attending church service or mass, and the number of services or masses held each week.
b) The authority of religious leadership -- minister or pastor, Protestant ecclesiastical institutions or the Catholic hierarchy directed from Rome -- was much greater formerly. This holds true not only for the individual church members but also for society as a whole, including institutions and channels of public authority, so that one could speak of the Netherlands in past time as a ministers' or a pastors' country ("domineesland").
c) Formerly there was a great number of religious institutions which played an important role in communal life and society, not only in view of people living in poverty, and in need of help but also in view of the needs of specific groups, leading to the establishment of Christian or Catholic youth, women's, and professional associations. Part of the work of such institutions was done directly by the churches,

One could include in this group also the missionary societies and groups, working within the country and abroad, which found a broad audience precisely among the "laymen". So four facts have been advanced in support of the opinion that the Netherlands were more religious formerly than at the present time: decrease of the percentage of church-affiliated people, less churchgoing, less authority on the part of religious leaders, ministers, and pastors, and a decreasing number of institutions working on Christian principles. Now what is the nature of these facts and how are they to be interpreted?

INTERPRETATION OF THESE FACTS 6)

To start with, one should be aware of the ambiguity of the facts themselves. If at the census of 1859, 0.1% of the Dutch population admits not to be church-affiliated, and in 1960 18.4%, the difference is impressive, but it does not say very much about the attitude of 99.9% of the population toward religion in 1859, and the corresponding 81.6% a century later. The other facts, taken by themselves, .are also not without a fundamental ambivalence or ambiguity. The churchgoers of former times indeed went to church, but this act could to a large extent be interpreted as social rather than specifically religious behavior. The authority of ministers and pastors in numerous cases rested not so much on a greater recognized knowledge of religion alone, but rather on the simple fact that they provided leadership and authoritative advice, if not prescriptions, in all kinds of affairs to a population which**--even if people were able to read and write here and there--**in many respects must be considered not to have been able to knowand judge, and in any case as uninformed. As to the place of religious institutions, it could be as prominent as it was since there were hardly any other institutions that could cater to existing human needs. How many of the people who were actively involved in this work did it in the first place for "human" reasons which were then as now self-evident from a human point of view, be it now rather in public or "neutral" institutions? Looking back at the religious Netherlands of the past one cannot be but struck by such ambiguities and ambivalences of innumerable "religious" facts. This ambivalence must have been partly visible to the religious leadership at the time, but it certainly was not investigated by them. This ambivalence, to a certain extent, had to do with the fact that belonging to a given church or community had direct social consequences

DUTCH TRIBE 253

and, conversely, that in social intercourse a pers on stepped back behind the ramparts of the church or religious community to which he belonged. Social status and religious status being interwoven, one had, in order to be taken into account socially and economically, to be religious at least in a social sense, since one's place in society was largely determined by one's choice, position, or standpoint with respect to a given church or religious community, or to religion as such. The consequence is that, with some clear exceptions, there is no absolute guarantee that a given case of socio-religious behavior or participation was really "religious" in its motivations or intentions, even if one uses the religious convictions of the period as the norm. The fact of the ambiguity of given religious facts is connected, moreover, not only with their social function but also with an inherent quality of what we call "religious". Actually, it is intimately related to the very problem of human authenticity. Given the ambivalence or ambiguity of religious facts as far as their religiousness is concerned, as students we must be most careful in our interpretative efforts so as not to draw incorrect conclusions. A few examples may suffice. In the first place, there are indications in the literature and in ecclesiastical documents of former times that even then there was irreligiousness. This could be found perhaps less among the burghers than in certain regions in the countryside, in the lower classes in general, in artistic circles and the world of entertainment, and not least among those who wanted to leave the Netherlands for one reason or another and who preferred the wider world, which for most of them in practice meant living overseas in the colonies. The way of life of such people and groups abroad caused many a minister or pastor to give serious warning and threaten hellfire and brimstone. Nor did the life of the burghers themselves, who have always played a major and serious role in the Netherlands, always conform to the stern prescriptions and direct rules of Protestant or Catholic ethics. The very protests of spiritually-minded and religiously-oriented movements and revivals, and the emotional utterances of individual ministers and monks indirectly indicate that even at home there existed realities of life that did not in the least correspond with what the religious-ethical ideal prescribed. In the second place we have to take into account that formerly, even apart from the fact that not everybody was able to write, everything that was explicitly anti-religious was not only not allowed to be expressed, but actually could not officially be printed and distributed. Only in certain cases -- as in literature and the plastic arts, in popular ballads, and in the amusement sectors --people could express themselves against

canclude that there must have existed powerful mechanisms of suppression, even repression. There certainly was a broad spectrum between the truly faithful and the unbelievers. We may assume that the majority of the people found their place somewhere within that spectrum. In our investigation we need not, however, only oppose a "religious" to a "non-religious" Holland and speculate on the size of the latter in different times and places. We can also investigate religion in the Netherlands by relating it to certain manifest social developments, particularly over the last hundred years. It is our task, then, to ascerta- the relationship between changes in church constitutions, religious institutions, and actual religiosity, on the one hand, and broader social movements and processes, on the other as for instance:

(1) the self-identification of groups of the population -- workers in town or in the countryside, lower-middle classes -- which had been practically imperceptible until the middle of the 19th century, and which could now express and identify themselves as "non-religious" (socialist workers over against the churches) or as "religious" (groups in Christian associations, Reformed, Catholic, or other);
(2) the rise of a class which had been impoverished particularly by the new industrialization and which identified itself now as "proletarian" They would acquire their own "non-religious" or anti-religious ideology over and against the established classes and the established religion which, with its institutions, was felt to be exploiting the people;

a~e to rise in the older social structure but which --by increasing education and consequently by continuous inspiration of recent scientific discoveries -- was able not only to take a critical stand against existing religious ideas and interests, but which was also in a position to choose new attitudes and to develop new ideas;

(4) the growing participation of women in public life, in social institutions and in the labor process. This meant not only essential changes in the given social structures including the family, but to a large extent also restructuring a number of human relations and revision of religious norms governing these relations;
(5) the slow but inevitable disintegration of existing social constellations and traditional structures under the impact of industrialization, and of the modernization processes connected with it. The kind of religion conditioned by the old constellations and structures was unable to function in a society caught up in the throes of reorganization. Such movements and processes, to which others could be added, imply that not only thc placc of thc churches but also the function of e given religion within society had to undergo considerable changes. If from time to time regressions in religion occurred in the form of fundamentalistic movements, the latter could retard the effects of the historical process by keeping to themselves and obstructing "progress". They could not prevent the course of history; at most they could isolate themselves from it.

THE PROBLEM OF DUTCH RELIGION

There are at least three preliminary questions to any research on religion in any society, and they must also be posed for the Netherlands. These questions are: (1) whether there is religion in this country nowadays; (2) if so, what the evidence is for the presence of religion; and (3) how this religion can be investigated, making use of what the Dutch themselves understand by "religion". This may seem to be an academic starting point, but actually we find ourselves in the midst of the problem in any scholarly study of any religion. In such an investigation we formulate questions which are hardly put by the people themselves and which actually may be resisted by them, but posing them is of basic importance for the success of the scholarly enterprise. Let us imagine someone visiting the Netherlands and, being interested in religion, someone who happens not to be a Christian. He will look for "religion" in this country in order, first, to make an inventory of it; second, to describe what Dutch people are doing with their religion; third, to try and understand this; and, fourth, to explain why Dutch society has this kind of religion at all. Our visitor finds himself before a most formidable task. He must collect the data

"re 1 i gi ous" facts in a correct way, and assess what these facts actually mean to people, not only rationally but also -(and perhaps especially)-in terms of feelings and emotions. And th en he must develop and test hypotheses that may lead to explanation. During his stay our visitor, in sofar as he is able to grasp the Dutch language, will hear and see a lot of things (for instanee, through radio and television); but he will have difficulty in bringing this into a clear connection with the "religious" fact of the Christian broadcasting companies. Making his way through the country, he will find churches, mostly closed during the week and sometimes even on Sundays. If he discovers the numerous religious institutions that built these churches, still the mutual connections between these institutions that built these c~urches relations between these institutions and the world at large will be a problem to him. He will have difficulty, not so much perhaps in finding religious leaders, but in deducing from their way of speaking, acting and thinking relevant information about wh at is actually happening in the Netherlands, religiously speaking. If he contacts the people themselves, probably no one will be capable of giving him realistic, unbiased and correct information. On the contrary, as soon as he touches the subject, our inquirer will find, especially among those who adhere to religion, a fairly irrational and poorly thought out way of acting and behaving, and also a flood of words that show relatively little logical coherence and th at are difficult to understand. If he is around at Christmas time, the significanee of this feast will most probably escape him. Once he understands its meaning, he may ask why the festival takes place the way it does, without receiving a clear answer. Our visitor will be struck, to be sure, by a great many emotions that are disguised as all kinds of convictions and pertinent opinions. These emotions are the more indicative of psychological dependencies and fixations, as the corresponding ideas are promulgated with greater absoluteness, pretension and conceit. Contrariwise, if our visitor should travel to certain regions in the countryside, he will then have difficulty in recognizing religion in what is held to be religion there, and in seeing more in it than a pattern of life which has been traditionally determined, is in unsteady equilibrium and has been endowed with a religious quality. He will be able to recognize the most important features of this pattern of life in the towns among the burghers, the lower-middle classes and the workers as we]l, be it with other nuances, not necessarily religious; that is to say, of ten more religious or, on the

DUTCH TRIBE 257

contrary, non-religious. Listening to sermons of religious preachers, or to sermon-like speech in general, will strengthen the impression of our visitor that religion in Holland may be summarized to some extent as the reactive and irrational world of representations of people who have singular ways of dealing with the world around them and with their fellows. Whatever his particular experience, it would be very difficult for such a visitor to arrive at an idea or even an image of Christianity on the basis of the confusing impressions he would receive during even the most conscientious and systematic research performed in this country, impressions he would try to explain. What moves these people, where they are going, will remain largely hidden from our visitor. He will also wonder where their soul is to be found beyond their ordinary daily life, which is not so very different from that of people in other countries. Religion in Holland indeed has special features and plays a curious role in the country. In this respect, Holland is, from a descriptive, comparative point of view, more comparable to countries like Lebanon and Israel, India and Pakistan, than to any other country in Europe. One may think of the role that religion plays in numerous conflicts, debates and discussions concerning subjects that are not in the least of a religious nature, and one may point to the authority assigned in those discussions to statements by religious leaders. One thinks of the role of religion at a moral level, in a pedagogical sense, and in the self-identification of individuals and groups. One would certainly point to the role of religion in the process of vertical pluralization (verzuiling): in education,7) political parties,8) communication media, labor unions, professional associations, sport and other leisure organizations, and the promotion of other group interests. It is interesting to observe that this vertical pluralism has been determined less by the church institutions as such than by religious pressure groups which succeeded in subjecting the vital sectors of social life to their interests. This was done by means of ideologies with religious tenets, or by presenting complete philosophies of life and views of the world. They succeeded in making the pragmatic and human functioning of these sectors subordinate to principles which, all considered, hardly anyone is able or even willing to stick t~. One could also point to the continual tension which exists among the faithful between, on the one hand, those who (consciously or not) submit to the authority of Bible, Tradition or Church as a whole -- be it applied to the situation of the moment -- and, on the other, those who claim to be led by intelligence, insight and experience. In hardly any country, as far as we can ascertain, is the

in the history of this country, as alluded to above. One mayalso point to the practical absence, at least at the present time, of a real living Dutch culture and of a genuine, creative, independent intelligentsia. One finds, however, nearly everywhere in this country what may be cal led the weapon of the narrow minds: the instinct to lay bare the mistakes made by others, the need to pass judgment on other people, the desire to be critical at all cost. On the whole, there is a singular lack of what most other societies know: a basic human warmth and wisdom. Comical as it may appear from the outside, it seems impossible to live with on the inside; but the Dutch succeed in doing so. Calvinism and Jansenism have put heavy demands on the people; although the religious intention slowly may have lost its force, the same kind of psychological attitude nevertheless has continued to permeate in human relations, scholarship and the arts -- making any major creativity in these domains a near impossibility. Like other things, religion r.an present itself as a monster.

The huge impact of Calvinism may be summarized in simple words: a totalitarianism of absolute control, not only of the outward but also of the inner life and conscience of one's fellow men, a life coming under the great Interdiction; the rise of staunch, simple-souled and direct-minded people, counterparts of policemen and schoolmasters, silent tyrants as upholders of order, who were always small-minded because so many dimensions of life were lost on them. People with repressed feelings and emotions no longer suffered under this repression because they suppressed themselves. A rigid social order with great formalism and arrogance of leadership; dignity and importance attached to one's opinions, ideas and theology; endless meetings of democratic decision-making with coffee and cigars and weight throwing on all sides. The impact of Catholicism with Jansenist tendencies can be summarized in parallel terms: a kind of "people's religion" under the laws of nature or sublimating it; an induced naiveté, submission and respect for the established hierarchy and order; over against the stiff unconsciousness of the Calvinists an abundant love of life. The perfect obedience: when the pastors called for more babies, they arrived; when the orders cal led for more missionaries, they went; when the clergy cal led for more money, it came; when a new generation cal led for Revolt and Insurgence, people conformed.
The true saints in Holland were those that kept silent ....

As far as religion in Holland is concerned, one may point to the presence of an almost national tradition of theological thought at least among Protestants, but also to the practically complete absence of a national philosophical tradition. One may note that in matters such as

DUTCH TRIBE 259 wor1d economie po1icies and international polities, fami1y planning and socia1 1egis1ation, the State of Israe1 and the rights of Pa1estinians, marxism and air pollution, quite a number of peop1e can on1y be brought to a decision on re1igious grounds or with a re1igious 1egitimation. Fina11y, one may point to the dialectics of excessive obedience and submission to ecc1esiastica1 or bib1ica1 authority on the one hand, and the complete refusa1 of any authority at all on the other. If one adds to this a predi1ection for end1ess considerations and argumentation, and the increasing fear of being manipu1ated when not taking militant action, it is 1egitimate to ask whether this re1igion shou1d not be seen as one of the deeper eaus es of the turbu1ences of new generations.

CHANGE OF CHURCHES

In Western Europe, the Netherlands have the highest degree of non-church affiliation; that is to say, the process of "dechurchment" is stronger here than e1sewhere. In 1960 the percentage of non-church affi1iated peop1e was 21% in Utrecht, 30% in the Hague, 34% in Rotterdam, 48% in Amsterdam, and 53% in the Ijmond-region near the North Sea coast not far from Amsterdam. A1so within the churches the actua1 participation of the members is decreasing. In the Roman Catho1ic Church, the number of vocations in the orders has sharp1y reduced, and on the who1e the number of vocations to become priest or minister has very much diminished. Among the reasons brought forward by socio10gists to exp1ain this process are: the inadequate answer of the churches to the pro1etarization which resu1ted from industria1ization, the 10ss of function of the churches within the context of Dutch society, and the ending of traditional patterns with which the churches identified themse1ves.

•.. the churches in their traditional form have considerab1y lost significanee for their members. Participation has decreased to private 1ife, and normative integration has be§~me weaker. Moreover, the pattern of expectation has changed •..

As a consequence, the p1ace of the churches in Dutch society has changed fundamenta11y. They have been ob1iged to adopt new attitudes toward non-church affi1iation. L. Laeyendecker distinguishes three attitudes which occurred in historical sequence, depending on whether the churches i denti fi ed the process of "dechurchment" with a deel i ne of rel i gi on as such, or whether the churches rather conc1uded that they had given an inadequate answer to the prob1ems of the time:

(a) the defensive reaction by the churches, their unwi11ingness or inabi1ity to change themse1ves and their consequent isolation. This

J. D. J. WAARDENBURG

attitude itself is reflp.cted theologically in the idea that the present problem of the Church is how to translate revealed truth into the language of the time and how to use new techniques in order to transmit this truth.

(b) the organizational reorientation making for the formation of communities and parishes on a new, smaller scale and in new forms, together with a recognition of the ecclesiastical structure and a reconsideration of the relation between office-bearers and the laity. This is connected with a new theological interpretation of religious authority.
(c) the theological reorientation which allows for changes in ecclesiastical structures and in life patterns. This actually implies a theological reinterpretation of religious truth. The churches themselves have also become more pluriform, which makes for a greater differentiation in their own circle. This also has its consequences for given pretensions of being absolute, making for new relations among the churches themselves. A sign of this is the expansion and deepening of the ecumenical movement in the sixties, both on the side of the Protestants and of the Catholics. In the Netherlands the movement became possible only when a clear Protestant majority had disappeared and when the birthrate of the Catholics showed a clear decrease. 10) This resulted in a numeri cal balance between Protestants and Catholics in the Netherlands and was the beginning of a "defrosting" of the sharp, even inimical opposition between the two which had lasted until long af ter World War 11. Then other oppositions softened as well: between gereformeerde (neo-Calvinist) and other (e.g., hervormde) Protestants, or the opposition within the churches between the more orthodox and the more liberal wings. In many respects, the Netherlands' religious situation of the second half of the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth centuries can be characterized as that of a front situation: a confrontation between churches themselves, between church-affiliated and non-affiliated people, between the faithful and the unbelievers. At the time the air was full of rivalry and critical position taking. In the ecumenical movement, positive as it showed itself to be, the constraints of given historical and sociological factors appeared to be strong and painfully palpable for those looking for ecumenical union out of a deeper longing or expectation. The ecumenical action of churches has, of course, apart from religious also practical and social-psychological motivations. Human factors like disillusionment with one's own church or aresentment caused by one's own negative experiences in religious matters may have played a part. The change of the place and function of the churches in Dutch society has other consequences as well. One may think of alesser normative integration of the people, alesser mutual assimilation of existing religious value systems, a more restricted degree of identification of people with given church denominations, a decreasing authority of the

On the whole, the influence of the churches is on the decline.

CHANGE OF RELIGION

As a consequence of the weakening of a central religious authority and of mundane factors like modern communications media, the shades of meaning --negative and positive -- which religion represents for people in the Netherlands have become pluriform, too. Not only details but the fact of religion itself has become poZy-interpretabZe. This implies not only that people are actually freer to go with or against and can determine their thought and action accordingly, but also that religion as such much less than formerly can be said to represent one objective, generally recognized -- whether accepted or rejected -- value. Religion actually evolves into a number of subjective forms of meaning -- accepted or conferred; that is to say, it evolves into patterns of interpretive meaning, which run para lle 1 to the "1 i fe worl ds" and 1 ife projects of i ndi vi dua 1 persons and distinct groups. Moreover, most denominations have lost their fixed identity, and hence their absolute meaning, and they have become poZy-interpretabZe. In many churches, more varied attitudes and positions can be taken nowadays than in the past, and one can move from one church to the other with less difficulty than in former times. It is now also possible to dissociate oneself from a given church without the worst secondary mundane consequences. This all points in the direction of a greater freedom -- a greater consciousness and demand for that freedom -- which people have acquired when confronted with the fact of religion. If it is true that people are conditioned or even determined in their innermost being by their religion, it is now possible to enjoy a dimension of freedom in it: to "choose" one's religion, to "keep" one's freedom or to 'acquire" it with regard to any or all religion. Less than formerly can one claim to be a victim of a given religion. Another interesting element of change is that nowadays a number of religious attitudes can be found in the Netherlands which have little if anything to do with the churches. One may think of individual expressions in literature and art, of new religious movements --christian and non-christian -- which arose in the sixties, of action committees opposing established religious institutions and ideas -of ten precisely from a

,place in that social context. It should be possible to assess the degree to which religion is interpreted by the people as a reference to a purely religious focus, and the degree to which it's function is instrumental to reaching non-religious aims; in practice the two go together. In a great many cases, religion today -perhaps more than formerly -is actually used as an ideological means either to realize or to legitimate a mundane aim. It is a well-known fact that at present any independence or autonomy of "religion" is of ten denied precisely on religious grounds. One curious consequence of this is that, to the extent that religion is more "diffused" or "utilized", its existence for its own sake becomes rarer. Thus it is an ever more difficult subject for sociological inquiry as something apart: either because it is relativized under an absolute transcendence or because it is utilized for immanent purposes. A final major change of religion in the Netherlands stems from the gradual secularization of Dutch society, 50 that not only culture and social life, but probably even to an increasing extent politics in the country no longer may be subjected to religious legitimation, and certainly not to any direct religious authority.11) This process of secularization is at the basis of the shifting of the place of the churches from the center to the margin of Dutch society. Conversely, this very shift means the rise of secular sectors of society; this implies that the churches will become in their turn an even more marginal social phenomenon. One consequence is th at ethico-religious values and norms that derive from a religious inspiration may continue to function as secular social values and can be used for other aims and purposes in the social process. Another consequence is the rise of quite a number of theoreticalor practical ideologies which pretend to offer solutions for particular problems and which contest each other bitterly in terms of power as well as of rational self-legitimation. The norms have simply taken a subjective validity, such th at it actually becomes more and more difficult to perceive any unified structure of Dutch religion, or even to claim its existence. The 1966 poll is instructive in this respect, too. 12)

DUTCH TRIBE 263 THE QUEST FOR METHOD

Our hypothetical visitor to the Netherlands, making further inquiry, could begin assembling data and facts like those mentioned here: on the history of the religious groups, on the churches, on religious changes as perceived by people on the spot, and he might use the results of polls held on religion in the country. However, the problem of how to interpret such data would then become the more and more urgent. The simplest solution would be that our visitor naively measure and evaluate these data simply according to his personal religious ideals or to his personal ideal image of religion. Another easy but unsatisfactory solution would be that he simply pass judgment on these data on the basis of theological, philosophical and ethical criteria which he considers to be authoritative, depending on the community to which he belongs or to the theological revelational system to which he adheres. This, however, would not help him to interpret the data adequately according to their proper meaning as data. It would appear to be a methodological requirement of our visitor -- if he wants to arrive at an adequate interpretation of such "religious" data -- that he acquire access to the world in which these data exist and whose religion he wants to know about. There is evidently only one way to gain access to this world. namely via the people who live there. To make sense, a poll, for instance, presupposes that the student has a certain foreknowledge of the matter under investigation and the people he wants to interrogate, so that he can decide what fa cts he wants to acquire and formulate his questions accordingly. He must still do this in terms of the minds of the people to wh om he has to convey questions which they can understand. So in this case our visitor would have to address himself first of all to people who can be good informants : who, in other words, can give him correct factual information. But as soon as he wants to interpret this information, he must again have informants who can not only give him information on the subject of the information acquired, but who can discuss the meaning of this subject and thus make it clear to him. Here, however, we have a requirement of a different order: this informant must be a potential discussion partner, otherwise the meaning cannot be conveyed to the student. But this is still not enough. Our visitor, in his contact with his informants, must use a third criterion to minimize the chance that they won't speak the truth and maximize the possibility that they will come to a human communication and valuable discussion with him. That is to

So many students have been misled by their informants that, methodologically speaking, given data, phenomena and expressions can be interpreted, understood and explained adequately only on the basis of authentic human expressions, in words or in acts. And in the case of religion, this is a necessary requirement. Evidently it is only if behavior is authentic that one may assume in or behind religious data (in some cases explicitly called "irreligious"!) a religion, a religious conviction or a faith; or that, conversely, an attitude or behavior against such areligion, conviction or faith may be deduced. Whether the authenticity is on the part of the subject under investigation or on the part of the informant as a third party, is another problem: our contention is that it is only through authentic expressions that human intentions in general, and religious intentions in particular, can be known. This leads, of course, to a number of practical and theoretical problems into which we cannot enter here. In each society (including the Duteh), on the other hand, many ways of

roZe reZigion pZays in a given authentiaity or in a given degree of inauthentiaity. This problem is to be solved for each case separately;. the attitude which the given pers on or group takes with regard to the larger religious community to which this individual or group belongs may provide a clue to it. In all these considerations it should be acknowledged that a clear distinction between "authentic" and "inauthentic" can be made only in a relatively small number of cases; there of ten will remain an ambiguity as to authenticity or inauthenticity, an ambiguity which calls itself for further research. What we want to stress here, however, as a methodological requirement, is that the authenticity of the informant in his relation to the student is a condition sine qua non for the validity of any knowledge and interpretive understanding acquired through this informant as intermediary. The student's own honesty and concern for his authenticity are presupposed. A typoZogy may be an important heuristic tool in the study of a given religion. For further inquiry into Dutch religion one might develop a typology like the following, whereby four types of persons are distinguished according to their attitude in religious matters:

(1) those who have an explicit faith with personal experience, whether they are considered to be "orthodox" or whether, by deviating fr om that orthodoxy on the basis of their own explicit faith, they are considered as "liberals" or "heretics";
(2) those who believe in an implicit way, who take a given truth to be true in some indirect way, mostlyon the authority of someone or something that represents truth but is not truth itself. Religion is here imbedded within a given social behavior; sometimes it simply is the legitimation of it. The personal problem what and how to believe what is "real" and "true" hardly imposes itself here;
(3) those who are aware, in an existente that confronts them with problems, that they are lacking a faith or who even despair of all faith; whatever may be the reasons th at such an absence of faith is felt as a lack or as a want;
(4) those finally who, af ter all, don't have the foggiest notion of what religion or faith might be, who have not the slightest idea of missing anything or of what they might be missing. To them religious matters are no problems and they are virtually incapable of understanding what moves their more religious fellow men. Such a typology is only auxiliary of course, and it should never be applied as a scheme. In terms of research, the problem is not how to classify given persons and groups within a typology, but rather how people identify themselves, how they act and where they stand within the social

One may think here of persons of types 1 and 2.

(b) To the extent that people have no religion or faith, it may again be asked what they are doing with the facto Again the question is not so much what the social consequences of this attitude are in the context of Dutch society, but rather what attitude these people take with regard to a radically secularized society, and what stand they take with regard to problems with which others deal in a "religious" way. The question may be added whether or not such persons, who may be supposed to belong to types 3 and 4, ever had areligion or faith themselves, what kind of religion or faith they eventually may have known or met, how they interpreted that religion at the time, and how they do so at present.
(c) With regard to all people the question is legitimate whether they have something which takes the place of religion, performs a religious function or conveys a religious meaning, even if it is not qualified as being "religious" as such. One need not only think here of a philosophy of life or of an ideology which may substitute for a religion or may link up with a certain religion. One may think as wellof certain everyday activities, attachments, representations, emotions, etc. that implicitly bear an absolute character for the people involved and that mayalso consciously have an absolute meaning for them.
In any such inquiry a central issue should be whether or not there is a religious authority with which the person or group concerned identifies himself, either positively (to which he submits or to which he appeals) or negatively (against which he opposes himself). This authority need not be a church institution per se. Apart from the fact that such an institution itself appeals to higher authority, it is within a given institution always a particular concrete part or element th at is authoritative, be it the person of a minister or priest. Also, if such a religious authority is, for instance, the Bible, a tradition, the example of others, or personal experiences -even if not considered to contain a direct affirmation of God's will -it is always possible to describe the setting and limitations of what is considered to be the source of such authority. It is of interest to assess more closely how the person or group concerned see their own freedom with regard to that source of authority, and what value this personal freedom mayor may not have for the person or group. When interpreting religious data one willof course also have to take into account their historicalorigin and their social setting. Within a more theoretical framework it is legitimate, moreover, to develop a more

DUTCH TRIBE 267 general point of view, by which the person or group involved is seen, for instance, in terms of a secularization process, of a dialectic between church-mi ndedness and "dechurchment", or between rel i gi os i ty or a- religiosity, of levels of cultural development reached by means of education (including communication media), of the degree of originality (spontaneity, creativity) which is proper to a given person under given circumstances, etc. Any serious study of religion in the Netherlands must also give due attention to specific psychological, social and cultural features that are proper either to Dutch society as a whole or to specific groups within it. It is possible to direct one's inquiry in the fjrst place to those concrete changes (including disappearances and renewals) of religion in the Netherlands which can be observed and analyzed in an empirical and even direct way. One may think of the decrease of auricular confession and of the second church service on Sunday, the changing character of sermon and liturgy as a whole, changing attitudes to non-Christians (for instance, in the Third World), the changes in religious education at home and in school, in confirmation classes and Bible study groups. These latter points, which have to do with the instruction in and appropriation of religion, and the awakening and growth of a particular faith, are of major importance for the future. From this point of view, the present-day changes in the theological education of theologians and religious leaders are also of major interest; such changes cannot be seen only in terms of better professional education, didactic technique and rationalization, for the whole education of the future clergy is at stake here. Of particular interest would be, for instance, a closer study of the relations at different levels, institutional as well as personal, between Protestants and Catholics during the period of their five-year "Gentlemen's Agreement" in the Faculty of Theology of the University of Utrecht, over the period 1970-75. 13)

THE STUDENT OF THE STUDY OF RELIGION

In the work of Van Baal and of other students of religion the attempt is made to come to grips with man's religious expressions and to arrive at a general valid knowledge of them on the basis of reason and experience. These studies are concerned in principle with everything calling itself religious, behaving in a religious way, or having religious pretensions. In the absence of a very close cooperation between several specialists, such studies seem to become more and more problematic, appearing to be

Van 8aal 14) and others shows, the study of religion is much more than cl ass i fyi ng so-ca 11 ed "rel i gi ous phenomena", a lthough descri pti ve classifications may be useful in an auxiliáry way. If we have learned anything since the times of classical phenomenology of religion,15)it is the truth that the meaning of a phenomenon is linked to the scale of the scholar, to its own context and to the people involved in it. Any real understanding of a religious fact is precluded from the outs et if it is isolated from the culture in which it has its place and from the people who live with it. As is visible in the work of Van Baal, new vistas have been opened of which only two may be mentioned. In the first place there occurs the problem of what may be ca11ed the "subject 's meaning", that is to say, what a given (religious) phenomenon may have meant or may mean to certain groups and persons involved in it. In the second place there is the more philosophical problem of what may be deduced from the very fact of such meaningfulness of (religious) phenomena, not only with regard to the meaning-conferring capacity of mankind's different religious views, but also with regard to the fact that man by entertaining such views has tended to be a homo reZigiosus. Like G. van der Leeuw on the basis of his classical phenomenology, J. van Baal arrives at the age-old problem of man and his religion on the basis of his descriptive anthropology. Both Van der Leeuw and Van Baal have devoted a great deal of work to the treatment of this problem, however different their approaches and actual treatments may be. 16) Once this problem has been posed by two eminent schol ars of religion, we may continue to investigate these religious phenomena as closely as possible, interpret them as human expressions, and attempt a systematic reflection on the phenomenon of religion considered precisely as a human expression. That is to say, the problem of man's religion is redefined as the phenomenon of reZigion in its reZation to the phenomenon of man. What can be said now about the religion or religiousness of the student of religion? What could we say about the religion or religiousness of someone studying the religion of the Dutch (or, for that matter, any other) tribe, and what relation does the student's religion bear to the religion of the people under investigation? The more experience the study of religion as a special field of research has acquired, the less important this question has turned out to be in practice, notwithstanding the many theological and ideological discussions on the subject during the first decades of the scholarly study of religion when this problem was raised. It is the research

DUTCH TRIBE 269

qualities, not the religion of the student, which determine the quality of his work and, specifically, whether he has found an approach and perspective that do optimal justice to that aspect of his material which he wants to study. From experiences in the past as well as on theoretical grounds it is fair to say that a given religiosity, a-religiosity or anti-religiosity on the part of the student may be a handicap as well as a benefit to accomplishing a given research task: it all depends on what mental shape this religiosity, a-religiosity or anti-religiosity takes, especially whether it is fixed. In this profession we are not concerned whether a student believes or not, has a faith or not, but whether his particular (ir)religion or (un)faith generates presuppositions that are either favorable to accomplishing this research or th at strip it from the very start of its positive meaning and even may obviously stand in the way of any adequate inte~pretation, understanding and explanation. For this reason it is not a specific faith th at matters, but the way in whiah a possibZe faith funations within a given researah task. And it is intersting to see that in practice it is much less the student himself who wonders about his faith or unfaith as an alternative, than the people around him who may pose nasty questions about his presumed faith or unfaith. Just as there are examples of students who could not come to any fruitful research due (in part) to the consequences of their form of belief in personality traits and mental fixations, so there are examples of students, who, being constantly involved with their surroundings on matters of faith and unfaith (as is usual in theological seminaries and faculties!), became most seriously handicapped in the pursuit of their research. The profession of the scholarly study of religion has established itself now; like other professions, it has its right of existence when the professional work done is of quality and actually bears fruit. And since in other professions people are free to develop their own thoughts on religion and the like, the same rights are to be claimed for those holding the profession of the scholarly study of religion. Van Baal 's lifework is a case in point. 17) Another problem which is of ten raised with regard to the professional student of religion is that of the student's being an "outsider" or an "insider" with respect to the subject under investigation. We would suggest a solution along the following lines. In the first instanee, the student of religion establishes data, ascertains facts and analyzes them. With the help of working

J. D. J. WAARDENBURG

hypotheses, models or theoretical points of view, he tries to explain and to understand these data. In order to do this he will take an "objective", th at is essentially an object-directed attitude: not only with regard to the factual data under investigation, but also with regard to the religiosity or a-religiosity of the persons and groups whom he studies. Like a physician who starts taking a pragmatic, object-directed and realistic attitude with regard to his data -- which is also his professional attitude with regard to the interaction of people and to the relation of the people with the world around them --the student of religion will take in the first instance the attitude of an observing outsider with regard to the religion he studies. In this he must be detached from whether the religion studied rises or falls, externalizes or interiorizes itself, lives or dies. It is his task to analyze the data and to ascertain what is happening to the people in a given society, as far as a given religion plays a role in it, especially where the meaning of existence of these people is concerned. He must make his diagnosis; and if his loyalty should lie anywhere, it is with the people he gets to know and understand through his work, rather than with their particular religion, philosophy or ideology. It is only in the actual practice of his research that such a student may arrive at an awareness that he has become partly insider, too, although this may be for a short period, and it maybe due to many reasons --for instance, to an increased interest taken in the other people, or to comparisons made between one's observations and one's other, mostly earlier, experiences. The result of it is that, with regard to the data under study, a kind of "understanding capability" comes into operation, which may even take the shape of a sort of "mental participation". In this stage, too, the student's striving af ter objective truth can very well remain intact and his rational capacities can be pushed until the bitter or sweet end, when he can "turn back" from being a "half-insider" to the status of an "outs i der". On theoreti ca 1 grounds one may rej ect any such form of involvement of the student with his subject of inquiry, and in practice one may doubt in certain cases the student's capacity to carry out pertinent objectivations with regard to such involvements. On such grounds, procedures of formalization may be preferred. In the kind of research outlined here, however, with a certain degree of involvement o~the side of the student while maintaining full rationality, there occurs for the student a dialectic of "outside" and "inside" with regard to the subject chosen for investigation. Here the "outside" is the

DUTCH TRIBE 271 point of departure. It may be of interest to note in this connection that a similar kind of dialectic exists for those involved in a particular religion; here, however, the "inside" represents the point of departure. The student party on the one hand, and the involved party on the other hand, both enjoy a margin of relative freedom which allows them to become conscious of a given situation both from the outside -- as "analyst" or "observing party" -- and fr om the inside -- as "participant" or "involved party". The general human possibility of moving from the "inside" to the "outside" of a given situation (with numero us variations) is realized by a student, so to say, in the reverse way. Instead of the usual sequence from the "inside" to the "outside", he is able to move from being an outsider an insider (at least partially, and if he wants it). This moving from "outside" to "inside" may happen in different ways --for instance, by the fact that one's imagination (including memories, experiences, etc.) takes effect (which one can then objectify), or by the fact that working on data of other people evokes certain kinds of inter-human interest and "mental participation" (which one can then also objectify). The curious result, however, is th at the student in this way may somehow arrive at an "inside" position with regard to the people he studies. From a philosophical point of view, this could be formulated thus: that the student's ex-istence out of his own being and his co-existence with other human beings are conditions enabling him to understand wh at has meaning for other people. This "understanding" itself takes new forms. It would appear that a time of increasing and most varied interaction --in which people experience a great number of situations with different degrees of participation and with different ways of reflecting upon it (through actual experience or through imaginative experience, as evoked, e.g., by reading or by the mass media) --is conducive to a situation in which one can become both outsider and temporary (partly) insider with regard to a given religion, and in which the insider of a given religion can become an outsider as well. It actually is only in the modern life situation that the whole dialectic of inside and outside could develop itself, since nowadays a great number of people are "outsiders" wi.th regard to a given ideology, religion or faith, without having to be ashamed of it. From a philosophical point of view, there seems to be a clear possibility at the present time to be both insider and outsider to given religions and ideologies, and this may account for the very interest taken in "understanding". It also may generate new kinds of understanding on the basis of a certain inter-human loyalty.

INFORMATION ON RELIGION IN THE NETHERLANDS

Coming back to our main subject, the departing inquisitive visitor to the Netherlands mentioned earlier could only plead, on the basis of his experiences in the country, for more research and better information about religion in the Netherlands. Apart from the argument of scholarship there are at least five main arguments to be brought forward:

1. People in the country itself, in order to see things in their true perspective, have to be much better informed about religion and religious communities existing in the country. Unless one would wish a definite break with re gard to a past that has been stamped by religion over nearly the whole social and cultural realm, and if one wants to avoid an alienation with regard to this past, one should be informed about the data of that past and about the nature of that "religious" stamp which continues to work be it in more hidden secular ways. We don't mean here only the desirability of knowledge of the Bible in order to understand the work of Rembrandt, or the desirability of knowing church history in order to appreciate old church architecture and buildings. Our concern is a clear elementary knowledge of the history and the present situation of the Protestant, Catholic, Orthodox, Jewish and since recently also Muslim communities in the Netherlands, so th at Dutch people may better understand the Netherlands and themselves.
2. There is within the religious communities the ever-present risk that people, because of the intimate character of their own circle with its particular problems, hardly keep a sound outlook on reality, its possibilities and impossibilities. When one is sufficiently entangled ideologically and sufficiently tied emotionally --as happens in these communities --one may be at the mercy of those evil forms of stupidity and blindness that are sanctioned religiously or ideologically. A better pragmatic knowledge of "religion in the Netherlands" in the social, cultural and historical framework of this country is requisite for those who are themselves involved in that religion.
3. There is the simple human argument that sOlneone who has put himself under whatever religious authority owes it both to himself and to others to be lucid about the reasons and aims for which he has done this. He or she has to know its implications not only for his or her own sake but also with regard to its effect on and possible fruits for other people. We have become conscious of the strange effects of an almost unbridled and religiously legitimized individualism on the liberal side, and of a corresponding religiously legitimized collectivism on the orthodox side. The then current views on others and on society made existing together a near impossibility.
4. A better study of "religion in the Netherlands" may be helpful to see both religion and irreligion in this country in a deeper common perspective. Just as the religious history of the Netherlands can be studied better within the larger framework of Dutch or West European history, so religion in the Netherlands can be studied better within the broader framework of the present-day social and cultural situation in the Netherlands and in Western Europe. If both religious and non-religious expressions and movements are analyzed and understood according to their intentions, it could very well be th at common denomi nators wi 11 be found for both "rel i gi ous" and "non-religious" intentions. There is no reason why the scholarly study of religion would have to concentrate itself particularly on far-

DUTCH TRIBE 273 away, non-Christian religions, since so little research on present-day religion in the Netherlands has been done and since a precious service could be rendered here.

5. A real study of religion in the Netherlands can actually be an eye-opener for the relative inadequacy of the actual performance of this religion: measured not only from the point of view of its own norms and claims, but also from the point of view of the very real problems with which the population of this country will have to cope in the near future. Such a study could indeed throw a light on the provincial, nearly comical and certainly middle-class character of religion in the Netherlands as it functions today. It could, among many other things, provide a better insight into the strange relationship between Dutch reality and the of ten unbridled pretentieus judgments -- with "religious" arguments -- with regard to everything that takes place -- or ought to take place -- on earth between Jerusalem, Mecca and Moscow. And 50 it could induce a reasonable self-knowledge in the Dutch people.
   It is our sincere hope that some younger scholars will get together and publish in the not too distant future an informative book that gives a clear description of the starting points and main tenets of the religious communities in the Netherlands -- especially those of Christianity, Judaism and Islam -- where the concrete organizations and institutions of the different communities are summed up with relevant data like membership, fields of activity and names and addresses of the different institutions, and where an "Introduction" would survey the most important problems which are discussed nowadays within these communities, and which they are objectively facing. Further studies are needed as well. 18)

ANNEX THE 1966 POLL

One of the few polls on religion held in the Netherlands on a national scale is th at of 1966 among people age 17 years and over, 1708 in number (847 men, 861 women), as an ordinary random test. The results were published under the title of God in Nederland. Een statistisah onderzoek naar godsdienst en kerkelijkheid in Nederland (God in the Netherlands. A statistical inquiry into religion and church-affiliation in the Netherlands. 19) We shall present here some of the many data acquired.

I. THE MEANING OF FAITH

(1) It appears that 81/84% of the Dutch of 17 years and over have been raised within a religious faith (Question 51 a).
(2) It appears that 34/32% of the people are not church-affiliated. This is 58/51% in the larger cities, 34/31% in the other towns, and 20/21% in the countryside. On the other hand 36/35% is a member of the Catholic Church, 19/20% of the Hervormde (Dutch Reformed) Church,

8/8% of the Gereformeerde (neo-Calvinist) Church. The higher the income, the greater the percentage of those affiliated with a church (Qu. 64 a).

(3) It appears that for 34/29% of the people "faith" has no particular meaning in life. It is interesting to note that this percentage is 12/9% of the Catholics, 16/17% of the Hervormden, and 3/0% of the Gereformeerden. On the other hand, of those who say th at they never go to church 24/32% state that "faith" has yet a certain significance in their lives (Qu. 61).
(4) On the question of how one would react upon one's child taking a quite different religious orientation, 14/15% answer th at they would oppose it; 25/21% of the Catholics and 26/23% of the Gereformeerden make this statement (Qu. 44). And on the question of how one would react upon one's child having no faith at all, 25/25% answer that they would oppose it; 44/40% of the Catholics and 40/48% of the Gereformeerden make this statement (Qu. 45).
11. CONTENTS OF FAITH
(5) It appears that 46/48% of the people are of the opinion thdt what happens in the world happens according to a certain plan; 18/13% hold that it is due to accident, and 31/32% hold that there is a combination of plan and accident (Qu. 4).
(6) On Question 15, "Do you consider the Bible as the word of God?" 58/60% answer in the affirmative, 24/21% with a denial; 14/14% answer "partly", and 4/5% say that they don' t know. An affi rmati ve answer is given by 66/63% of the Catholics, 70/76% of the Hervormden, and 97/98% of the Gereformeerden. Interesting is the percentage of those not affiliated with a church: of them an affirmative answer is given by 17/30% of those who did not receive a religious education, and by 35/40% of those who did receive such an education.
(7) It appears that 59/60% of the Catholics believe that Adam and Eve existed as such; this percentage is 74/74% for the Hervormden and 89/97% of the Gereformeerden (Qu. 14).
(8) It appears th at 56/57% of the people believe in an afterlife; 37/32% don't believe in it, and 7/11% answer that they do not know for sure. Interesting again is the percentage of those not affiliated with a church and believing in an afterlife; 9/15% of those who did not receive a religious education, and 26/31% of those

DUTCH TRIBE 275

who did receive such an education (Qu. 12).

II I. THE CLERGY

(9) It appears that 84/84% of the people do not believe that the clergy can be easily missed, and that 9/7% believe so (Qu. 31). (10) On Question 13, referring to a problem of conscience about which one cannot talk at home or.with the family and asking to whom someone would turn, more than a third of the people questioned state that they would turn to a clergyman: 18/18% to a Protestant minister; 17/13% to a Catholic priest. Among the Catholics 46/37% would turn to a member of the clergy, among the Hervormden 49/44%, and among the Gereformeerden 52/66%.

IV. PLACE OF THE CHURCH

(11) It appears that 67/69% of the people go to church or to other religious meetings; 52/50% of them go regularly (Qu. 55). Of the Catholics, 4/5% never go to church, 23/25% of the Hervormden, and 2/1% of the Gereformeerden (Qu. 54). (12) It appears that 46/45% of the respondents were married in church, 30/36% not in church, 24/19% are not married (Qu. 17). (13) It appears that 90/88% of the people are of the opinion that someone can be a believing person without ever going to church; this opinion is held by 87/84% of the Catholics, 91/93% of the Hervormden, and 82/71% of the Gereformeerden (Qu. 21). (14) It appears that 71/69% of the people are of the opinion that the influence of religion on life is decreasing; 55/52% deem this to be a less favorable sign (Qu. 30).

V. CHURCH RULES

(15) Question 66 asks those who are church-affiliated whether they are of the opinion that they have to keep to all the rules of the church or religious group with which they are affiliated. Apart from the 34/32% who are not church-affiliated, 31/34% answer affirmatively, 22/19% negatively; 12/14% answer "it depends", and 1/1% do not know. (16) Apart from the 34/32% who are not church-affiliated, 36/32% think that the churches have no right to prescribe binding rules to their members, and 15/12% think that they have (Qu. 23).

VERTICAL PLURALISM (VERZUILING)

(17) It is interesting to see the percentages of those who are in favor of associations being based on a religious basis or on religious principles, both on the whole and per denomination (Qu. 35). The following percentages are in favor of a religious basis or of religious principles for:

Of all Of the Of the Of the respondents Cathol i cs Hervol'/Tlden Gerefol'/Tleeroen

Youth associations 58/54% 71/62% 69/65% 90/95% Radio and TV broadcasting associations 41/39% 53/46% 47/49% 82/92% Labor unions 32/31% 41/40% 36/30% 75/83% Sport associations 21/24% 26/29% 21/21% 53/69%

(18) At the elementary school level, 86% of the Catholics, 54% of the Hervol'/Tlden and 96% of the Gel'efol'/Tleerden would send their child(ren) to a school with a religious basis (Qu. 36). (19) The following table20) summarizes the data of the percentage of those advocating that social activities be based on religion or on a definite philosophy of life: Of the church-affiZiated Of the non church-aff. In Of the Of the Of the Without a With a total Catho-*Hervo1'T7/"" Gerefor-*religious religious 1 i cs den meerden education education

it are more religious than the less well-to-do; the countryside is more religious than the towns and cities. There is no parallelism between church-affiliation and affirmation of belief or faith; actually there is a growing discrepancy between faith on the one hand and the church on the other hand. If the church has of ten been a symbol of religious group solidarity, this function disappears in a pluralistic society with not only a greater number of churches but also other institutions that have taken over tasks formerly performed by the churches. Whereas until the sixties changes with

DUTCH TRIBE 277

regard to the churches expressed themselves in an increase of non-church affiliation, they express themselves since the sixties in changes within the churches themselves, also apart from a decreasing church-going. The bond with the churches turns out to be greater among people who are not to be counted among the "active" population, in terms of profession and marriage, than among those involved in active commitments in their everyday life. Compared with other countries in Europe, religious changes express themselves in the Netherlands in the first place in canceling church affiliation; elsewhere in Europe, the church affiliation is retained but church-going decreases. Characteristic for the Netherlands is the existence of associations and groups on the basis of religion and philosophy of life. This organization of society on a religious-philosophical basis is the so-called "vertical pluralism" (verzuiZing); newer generations, however, tend no longer to accept this as self-evident.

NOTES

1) See J. van Baal, Over wegen en drijfveren del' retigie. Een godBdienst- psychotogische studie (On ways and motivations of religion. A study in psychology of religion). Amstérdam: Noord-Hollandsche Uitgeversmaat- schappij, 1947.
2) Studies have been made by Dutch sociologists of religion and something is done now in psychology of religion on this subject. Historians and phenomenologists of religion, however, have remained largely unaware of the work being done, since they have been concerned with the study of religions other than Christianity and Judaism.
3) An excellent first attempt in this direction is the little volume edited by Dr. R. Boeke, Verder dan de Oekumene. Een kwart eeuw vez- kenning in Nedertand van reZigies del' weretd (Wider than the Ecumene. A quarter of a century of exploring religions of the world in the Netherlands. Rotterdam, Wereldgesprek der Godsdiensten, 2nd edition
1975). The ecumenical movement itself has resulted already in a much bet ter information about the participating churches. A survey of the churches in the Netherlands is given in C.N. Impeta, Kaart van kerke- tijk Nedertand. 3rd edition (Kampen: Kok, 1972, 319 pp.).
4) A number of data in this and also some other sections have been taken gratefully from the study by Leo Laeyendecker, "The Netherlands" which appeared in Hans Mol, ed., Western Retigion: A Sociotogicat Inquiry (Religion and Reason, Vol._2; The Hague & Paris, Mouton, 1971), pp. 325-363. It also contains a good bibliography on the subject (pp. 356-
363).
5) L. Laeyendecker, "The Netherlands", p. 330. 6} The author is indebted to Dr. R.C. Kwant and Dr. P.H. Vrijhof for discussing at length ideas of this section, and the typology given later This article would not have been written without the stimulation of these discussions.
7) Also at the level of higher education, the (neo-Calvinist) Vrije universiteit (Free University) in Amsterdam was founded in 1880, the Catholic University of Nijmegen in 1923.

Partij (Anti-Revolutionary Party) 1878;

Roomsch Katholieke Staatspartij (Roman Catholic State Party) 1883; Sociaal Democratische Arbeiders Partij (Social Democratic Workers Party) 1893; Christelijk Historische Unie (Christian Historical Union)

1895. Three of these parties are explicitly religious parties.
      9) L. Laeyendecker, "The Netherlands", p. 337.
      10) Until 1947 the average number of living born children in the one hundred first marriages of Catholics surpassed that same number of the Gereformeerden (neo-Calvinists) with 13.6%, of the Hervormden (Dutch Reformed Church) with 44.6%, and th at of those not affiliated with a church with 63.2%. On the Protestant side this has been interpreted (ana I think correctly so!) as a conscious birth policy on the side of the Roman Catholic hierarchy, following its doctrine of natural law, in order to have in the end a Catholic majority in the country. If realized (and it still went into that direction during the fifties), this would have been a catastrophe for the country from a demographic poi nt of vi ew. The "bi ndi ng advi ce" in the so-ca 11 ed mandement (1954) of the Catholic bishops in the Netherlands imposed on Catholic citizens to vote for the Catholic political party. In the Netherlands the rules of the Roman Catholic Church with regard to mixed marriages, as valid until the new decisions at Vaticanum 11, were obeyed conscientiously. As far as the Netherlands are concerned, the "pill" came just in time!
      11) L. Laeyendecker, "The Netherlands", p. 342
      12) See the Appendix.
      13) At the moment that this is written, the discussion on the possible definite cooperation of Protestants and Catholics in this Faculty is s ti 11 goi ng on and the resu lt cannot be foreseen. Among the rnany considerations, those of scholarship and education seemed to be less than might be expected at a faculty of a regular State University (Rijksuniversiteit). During this period, weaknesses and deficiencies were critically exposed: personal honesty, administrative competence. democratic policymaking were put on trial; and the dependency on decisions taken by a professorial Männerbund or by Vatican authorities made the trial more painful. Events show to what extent such a faculty can be subject to fears from the inside. pressures from the outside. power manipulations and incompetencies. not less than other faculties.
      14) J. van Baal. Symbols for Communication. An introduction to the anthropological stuay of religion (Assen. Van Gorcum & Comp. N.V.-- Dr. H.J. Prakke & H.M.G. Prakke. 1971). especially Chapters X and XI.
      15) Compare the author's "Grundsätzliches zur Religionsphänomenologie". Neue Zeitschrift fUr Systematische Theologie und Religionsphilosophie, XIV,3 (1972), pp. 315-335.
      16) Both Van der Leeuw and Van Baal. in their thought on religion, pay attention mainly to nonliterate religions and enter from there into the discussion of man as a religious being. The approaches themselves are of course completely different.
      17) It is interesting to note that at present Van Baal has an appointment in the two Faculties of Social Sciences (section of anthropology) and of Theology (section of godsdienstwetenschappen) at the University of Utrecht. It is indeed the author's firm conviction that the study of religion and scholarship in this field should not be limited to the Faculties of Theology. The best solution would be to establish an inter-Faculty program (Arts, Social Sciences, Theology) in which students from all three faculties can obtain degrees in godsdienstwetenschap (study of religion), be it with different kinds of emphasis. In such a program schol ars can work together on an interdisciplinary basis.

RELIGION AND THE DUTCH TRI BE 279

For a bibliography of studies related to the subject (until 1969), see L. Laeyendecker, "The Netherlands", pp. 356-363. A recent study of the Roman Catholic Church in the Netherlands is Walter Goddijn, The Deferred Revolution. A Social Experiment in Church Innovation in Holland, 1960-1970 (Amsterdam-New Vork: Elsevier, 1974, VI + 202 p.). Compare for Belgium: K. Dobbelaere and J. Billiet, "Godsdienst in België -Een Sociologische verkenning", De Gids op Maat- schappelijk Gebied, Vol. 64, Nr. 11 and 12 (November and December

1973), pp. 879-894 and 983-998, and Vol. 65, Nr. 1 (January 1974), pp. 39-56. "Ingesteld in opdracht van De Geïllustreerde Pers nv. Inleiding prof. G.H.L. Zeegers, commentaren dr. G. Dekker, drs. J.W.M. Peters". Amsterdam: Van Ditmar, 1967, pp. 312+12. Similar polls were held in Germany and among Austrian military. See: Werner Harenberg, ed., Was glauben die Deutschen? Die Emnid-Umfrage, Ergebnisse und Kommen- tare (München: Christian Kaiser, and Mainz: Matthias Grünewald, 1968, 242 p.) For Austrian soldiers, see: Adolf Höll and Gerhard H. Fischer, Kirche auf Distana. Eine religionspsychologische Untersuchung über die Einstellung ~sterreichischer Soldaten au Kirche und Religion (Wien-Stuttgart: Verlag Braumüller, 1968, 114 p" For the Netherlands, see also ontkerkelijking en buitenkerkelijkheid in Nederland tot 1960. Eindrapporteurs: H. Faber en T.T. ten Have (Series "Bouwstenen voor de kennis der maatschappij", Nr. 65; Assen-Amsterdam: Van Gorcum, 1970, X + 550 p.). A review of some important studies of Dutch Protestant religious history is given by Hans 1101, "Towards a Sociology of Rel igious Orthodoxy", Sociologia Neerlandica, Vol. X, Nr. 2 (1974), pp. 202-211. For the religious situation in the United Kingdom, see A Sociological Yearbook of ReZigion in Britain, which appears annually since 1968.

20) God in Nederkand, p. 292.

FAITH: SOME SOCIOLOGICAL COMMENTS.

P. H. Vrijhof
1. "Religion and ch:-istian faith": an old and well-known theme in theological discussions. According to Barth, religion pertains to human nature and can thus only lead to dishelief and idolatry. Christian faith stems from the revelation of God's Word and is diametrically opposed to this natural religion. These two shut each other out and are irreconcilab'le. Barth's ~osit;on has been very influential, especially among Protestants. In time, opposition to Barth arose. Oietrich BOIlhoeffer speaks of Barth's revelation-positivism and is unwilling to reject natural religion as desbelief. Others, too, turn away from Barth's antithesis between religion and Christian faith, and return to the question of natural religion. The notion dawns that one must first comprehend natural religion as a human phenomenon before sharply distinguishing between it and Christian faith. We can speak here of a liberalisation or humanisation of theology, following the orthodox Barthian period. Protestant theology thus joins Roman Catholic theology, as the latter has always retained the idea of the so- cal led link between God and man. As is well-known, Barth firmly rejected the idea of a natural knowledge of God. Precisely on this issue did he consider the decisive difference between the Protestant and Roman-Catholic versions of the Christian faith to be most visible. The question of religion and Christian faith is of lesser importance for the history and phenomenology of religion. These sciences approach religion as an empirically given phenomenon. A distinction can be drawn between a natural and a revelationary religion, but both are treated as forms of the human phenomenon of religion. The Christian faith is thus looked upon and analysed as a specific form of religion. The empirical sciences of religion, however, pay relatively little

AND CHRISTIAN FAITH 281

attention to Chrlstlanlty. IhlS they leave to tneology and its auxiliary disciplines. Barth's antithesis between religion and Christian faith has subsequently received little attention as an empirical problem. One of the empirical sciences of religion is the sociology of religion, which focuses on the relationship between religion and society. That is to say, within the sociological perspective religion is a function of the society. This functional analysis approaches religion as a human projection, grounded in specific infrastructures of human history. To this approach the distinction between religion and Christian faith is of no relevance. This so-called methodological atheism rejects the introduction of that distinction into the domain of the empirically oriented sociology of religion. 1) Though the principle of methodological atheism is quite acceptable in view of the aims of an empirical science of religion, it has led to the impression that the sociology of religion has no comment to make on the distinction between religion and Christian faith. This impression is premature and incorrect. This article thus seeks to express some sociological comments which concern the relationship between Christianity and Western civilization. Hence, this contribution can be subsumed under the heading of "Religion and Culture" which is the focal theme of this valedictory collect10n of essays in honour of our colleague, van Baal.

2. The Christian religion has undergone a specific development which we need to review briefly. The Christian religion emerged af ter the appearance of Jesus and his disciples. Within the Roman Empire, Christian communities were quickly formed and initially met with threats and persecution. In 313 A.D. the Christian religion was put on an equal footing with contemporaneous heathen religions by Constantine's imperial Decree of Milan. In the year 380 A.D., Emperor Theodosius prohibited the public worship of pagan gods. Christianity became the state religion and was intended to supplant the diverse heathen religions. The Christian communities were united in the organised institution of the Christian church, in which the Roman bishop increasingly came to play a decisive role. It was indeed Rome that strove for the conversion of the remaining parts of Europe. This proces of convers ion has resulted in a Western Christianity as we still know it today. The attempts to make converts was initially directed at the ruling prince and his tribal community. If the ruler was converted to

VRIJHOF

Christianity, then his people could follow suit. Conversion thus gained a political dimension by contributing to the consolidation of the ruling authority. The Christian faith was modified in accordance with dominant heathen religions. Pagan practices were retained where possible and given a Christian interpretation. In this way, the change from heathenism to Christianity was able to take place without occasioning serious controversies. The old pagan gods were still held to exert their powers but, being only secondary deities, were less publicly worshipped. The place of honour was reserved for the God of Christianity. The initial process of Christianization was followed by the missionary activities of the newly es"tablished monasteries in their neighbouring territories. The proces of Christianization was later consolidated by the parochial system, based on the old tri bal and village community. The organisation of the church thus ran parallel to the organisational nature of the teritorially bound rural society. The church was a community church to which everyone belonged by force of tradition and habit. Those who did not participate in the activities of the church placed themselves outside the social community. Informal social control was sufficient to ensure that only a few remained outside the church. Thus the church came to occupy a central position in the life of the individual and the community, a position which has remained unchanged for centuries. On the basis of her central position, the early Christian church also came to fulfill a crucial function in the society: it provided the ultimate legitimation of individual existence and social order. This function can be termed the religious function of Christianity. In the Christian religion, the individual, people and society were formed into a synthesis which found its ultimate purpose in God. Subjectivistic religiosity tied in with the official model of Christian religion. Thus Christianity also performed a stabilising and integrative role in the society that reached its peak in the Middle Ages. Let us now take a closer look at this development of Christianity with respect to the adaptation of Christianity to heathen religions. The pagan felt himself to be dependent upon mysterious forces in nature, forces which he worshipped as being gods and which he acknowledged as exercising decisive power over man and the world. The heathen religion constitutes a sacred COSw.os in which the existence of man and the world are explained and validated. This is the

St. Augustine and Thomas. Anyone at all familiar with the history of Western civilization will acknowledge this influence. Nonetheless, the penetration of this dualism into Christianity was tied to the latter's religious function. It was due to this that Greek thought could continue t.o exert such a tremendous influence on Christianity. Up until the present time, the dichotomy between God and man, heaven and earth, the immortal soul and the mortal body etc., has been accepted as more or less self-evident. And precisely this self-evidence demonstrates how deeply this dualistic, theistic thought on religion is rooted in our Western civilization. That is why we can speak of a general definition of religion in our culture. The proces of the Christianization of Europe can now be simply characterized as the adoption of the religious function of paganism by Christianity whereby the latter was embraced in a general religious, dualistic framework. Christianity became Christian religion which in principle left the heathen religions intact. This is not to say that Europe remained under the sway of paganism. Rather, converted Europe was characterised by the presence of a heathen religious substratum. This substratum is usually seen as a religious and cultural residue, as religious folklore and sentiments that could still be found among the illiterate masses. Such a view may be attractive but is nonetheless incorrect. The heathen religious substratum was not to be found at the periphery but at the very centre of religious life. However, this substratum only seldom touched the surface, and even th en in an incidental manner. This is due to the above-mentioned central position of the church in society: thus this substratum was concealed and glossed over by the church. We wish to elaborate this point a little. The Christian religion, with its dogmas and norms, was dominant

P. H. VRIJHOF
and customary in the territorially bound rural society. Atheism and recusancy were marginal deviant phenomena occurring only in certain sophisticated circles. The masses were inextricably bound up with the Christian church and her social and spiritual authority. General religious feelings and attitudes were expressed in terms of Christian dogmas and norms as well as participation in church activities. This is why one of ten finds general religious feelings and attitudes so intertwined with Christian ideas. It is extremely difficult to distinguish, for example, between the belief in God and the belief in some sort of Higher Power. It is likewise nearly impossible to dis- entangle Christian ideas from heathen beliefs in many of the forms in which Christ, Maria and the saints are worshipped. Looking at the participation in churchly sacraments and acts, particularly those of baptism, marriage and burial, we see that the old so-called rites of passage and Christian practices and attitudes go hand in hand. At times paganism rises unmistakably to the surface, as was the case with the Germanic Christianity of the thirties and with the widespread belief in fatalism at the occurrence of natural disasters and the like.

3. The central position of the Christian religion as a religious and social institution was thoroughly unsettled by the emergence of industrial, urban society. The territorial boundaries of village and neighbourhood communities were increasingly effaced by the progressive development of industrialisation and its concomitant process of urbanisation. The social conventions of the village community no longer functioned in the urban society. Thus conventional Christianity began more or less to lose ground. The Christian church was, moreover, insufficiently equipped to fulfill her pastoral duties in the growing cities. Hence people increasingly turned away from the church. Attendance at services and participation in church activities diminished while the number of 'dormant' members grew. The former community church became a minority institution with only a small part of its members actively participating. The industrial, urban society gives rise to patterns of functional relationships which extend way beyond the residential communities. The latter are no longer centres of social intercourse and play only a subordinate role in the daily societal life. Communities other than the residential arise, such as those concerning the family, school, profession, recreation and the like, each with its own organ-

CHRISTIAN FAITH 285

isation and norms. Church and religion also come to constitute a specific area of social interaction, that of religious and spiritual life, an area which is seperated from other spheres of social activity. Church activities are restricted to the still available spare time in the residential area to which the church with its parochial system remains organisationally bound. The church-oriented religion has thus been reduced to a residual position in the private sphere. This is evidenced by church attendance and participation, which are generally confined to the aged and women, who are more closely tied to the residential community. As the Christian religion is restricted to the private sphere, so it retreats from the public domain. We have already noted that this retreat is related to the fragmentation of societal life. The church loses its authoritative hold over social and spiritual matters and is unable to subscribe to the new norms. This loss of social functions of the christian religion is manifest today in such processes as the "depillarisation" taking place in social and political life. This loss of function does not occur at an equal pace in all social areas. Thus we see that the Christian religion is assigned an important role wh en we come to questions concerning life and death, personal upbringing and education. Nevertheless, the fact remains that the ultimate legitimation of man and the world by the Christian religion is no longer ubiquitous and self-evident, as was the case in the earlier, rural society. As Christianity loses its religious function, other religions are able to extend their influence into Western society. One can point in this context to the increasing interest in Eastern religions. Furthermore, we find new religious movements emerging in which the notion of natural religion takes on a new and active form. Secular world-views and ideologies proclaiming the ultimate legitimation of man and the world also develop. Some of these are recognized as such -- e.g. Nationalism and Marxism. Ot hers are more diffuse so that they perform a more latent religious function in the society. Such an ideology does in fact provide the society with an ultimate context of meaning and values in terms of which social life is integrated and social activities are validated. For this reason we can call such an ideology a societal or civic religion. The American sociologist Will Herberg speaks in this context of the 'operative religion of a society'. German *Rassen-*or VoZksgemeinsahaft and the American Way of Life -- sometimes just cal led American Democracy -- are two very

U.S.A., we see that the established Christian religion is inextricably interwoven with the American Way of Life. Thus, the latter is of ten expressed and confessed in Christian terms, and impregnated with general religous attitudes and feelings. Once more the adaptability of the Christian religion to other religions is evidenced. Retrospectively, it is clear that the loss of function of the Christian religion implies the emancipation of, and differentiation into, diverse religions and ideologies. The Christian religion is no longer dominant and commonplace, the others no longer marginal and deviant. The modern society is a pluralistic one in which different religions coexist on an equal footing. The Christian church has thus come to stand in the market place of religions and Weltansahauungen as the de fender of the Christian religion. 3) In this market situation, the Christian religion became an article of consumption in the private sphere. The religious function of Christianity has thus been reduced to a residual one which may well disappear alltogether. As Christianity has lost its religious function, so the relationship to a transcendental reality is no longer ubiquitous and self-evident. Put differently, as the religious function of Chri~tianity diminished, so its religious interpretation became problematical. Modern man no longer feels himself to be dependent upon supernatural powers and has no longer any need for an ultimate (Christian) religious legitimation of man and society. Thus, the commonly accepted definition of religion in Western civilization, a definition which for centuries had been laid down by Christian religion as being essentially dualistic and theistic, is challenged. This is the sociological core of the contemporary religious crisis, in which a modified function for Christianity is being sought. The search for this new function will also entail a redefinition of Christianity. Certain trends in this search for a new function can be pointed out, as we shall attempt to do in the next section.
4. The (Christian) religion functions as the ultimate legitimation of man and society. In the Christian faith, the emphasis falls on the expectation of the Kingdom of God. In short, religion addresses itself to retrospective certainty, Christian faith to prospective expectation. The Christian faith is based on the tension between the present and the future, expressed by the words hope and trust. Religious certainty dissolves this tension and deprives Christian faith of its perpective

Old Testament can be seen to relate the vicissitudes of the Israeli people in response to the recurring temptation of the religious anticipation. The account begins with Abraham and his companions who leave the community and the protectiv~ gods of the country of Ur behi nd. He fo 11 ows an unkno,,!"! God to an un known des t i nati on whi ch this God will reveal in time. This exodus is repeated wh en the people of Israe are led out of their bondage in Egypt by this same God, cal led Yahweh by their leader, Moses, who again will reveal their destination in time. The settlement of the people of Israel in the land of Kanaan did not bring an end to this exodus. It has repeated itself unto the present time in diverse and harrowing forms. Not only is this exodus a factual part of the history of the people of Israel, it also characterises them. Israel keeps travelling towards God's future, trusting in His promise. And time upon time does Israel fail to measure up to its destiny. It then forgets God's promis~, and falls prey to the religious certainties of visible and tangible deities. Judges and prophets sternly remind the people of God's promise, which can only come about by acting in accordance with His will. The people of Israel then forsake their religious heathen certainties and face again the uncertain future with their hidden God Yahweh. Thus the people of Israel again and again embark upon an exodus from the heathen religion to the Yahwistic faith. Israel lives in the expectation of the coming of God's salvation till the end of time. Can the people of Israel sustain this expectation? Or will they keep on succumbing to religious certainties? These questions still remain with the people of Israel. The figure of Jesus occupies a pivotal position in Christianity. In his teachings he shows himself to belong to the tradition of Old Testament prophets. He completely rejects any religious anticipation and instead admonishes his people to trust in God's promise. That is why he withstands the temptation in the wilderness, and the repeated pressure to establish God's Kingdom here on earth. It is also the reason for his opposition to the scribes, who have changed the law into an idol. But Jesus not only recalled God's promise, he fulfilled it. God's future is revealed in the death and resurrection of Jesus even though that future will only become fully visible at the end of time. For the Christian faith, Jesus is

VRIJHOF

Redeemer as well as Indicator, who fulfilled God's promise while pointing to its completion. The belief in Jesus as Saviour became of central importance in Christianity. He is therefore called Christ, i.e. Messiah, the Son of God and king of His people. At the Council of Constantinople (381 A.D.), the essential unity of God and Christ was explicitly stated and confirmed. The Council of Chalcedon (451 A.D.) recognized Christ as God and man, united in the one person. In this way, Jesus was deified and raised above the stature of men. The dualistic interpretive framework was thereby able to penetrate to the very co re of Christianity. Within the Roman Empire, Christianity could thus replace the heathen religions and become a state religion, while the Christianization of Europe was able to take place as a proces of adapting Christianity to the heathen religions. Christianity became Christian religion, represented by the church as the guardian of divine certainties and norms, and legitimator of the social and spiritual order. The expectation of a divine future became peripheral and only came to be expressed outside of the official Christian church. In the preceding section we noted that the religious function of Christianity has receded. As aresult, the religious, dualistic interpretation of Christianity has become problematical. At this point the question of the meaning of Christ's role for the Christian faith also enters the discussion. The question of the meaning of Christ in the Christian faith today is for Dietrich Bonhoeffer the most crucial question. Bonhoeffer resolutely rejects the dualistic interpretation of the meaning of Christ into a divine and a human aspect. Such an interpretative scheme he terms thinking in two dimensions which has been surpassed in principle by the coming of Christ.

"Es gibt abel' niaht ZûJei Wirktiahkeiten". writes Bonhoeffer, "sondern nul' eine WirkZiahkeit. und das ist die in Christus 4 offenbar gewordene GottesUJirkZiahkeit in del' WeUUJirkZiahkeit". )

This perspective emphasizes anew Christ as the Indicator of God's promise. This emphasis has been strengthened in recent times. Hence the concern for Jesus the man, and for the question as to the meaning of his role for the Christian faith. The renewed attention to Jesus the man leads to another confrontation between Christianity and Judaism. The latter views Jesus as a prophet and a teacher, pointing to the coming of the Kingdom of God. Judaism rejects Jesus as the divine Saviour. It holds salvation to be an ongoing process which will only end with the new creation at the end of time. The belief in Jesus as the divine Redeemer is for Judaism therefore

P. H. VRIJHOF
revolutionary. The history of the European Christian church, from the early middle ages onwards, testifies to this. The Christian faith, however, is not at the outset opposed to social and spiritual changes; it is in principle, revolutionary. Vet the Christian faith**--it needs be said on ce more--**can never legitimate one particular ideology. The Christian faith lives in the expectation of the coming of God's kingdom; in this perspective the Christian must develop his duties in the present according to his own insight. That is why ethics and poli tics are of such importance in the Christian faith. Christians hence join in the renewed search for the meaning of the Bible and Christian traditions for man and society, a meaning which must be capable of inspiring and guiding Christian actions. We noted that Christianity loses its religious function and has to surrender its religious interpretation. Therefore, a new function and interpretation for Christianity must be found. We briefly indicated above the direction of current endeavours. Briefly put, this direction entails a transformation of Christian religion into Christian faith. The Christian faith is no religious, supernatural support, but a Christian, worldly source of inspiration. One could say that the Christian faith turns from the religious heaven back to God's earth. Af ter many centuries, the Christian faith is able to regain its authentic character. In other words, af ter many centuries, the Christian faith embarks upon an exodus out of the domain of Christian religion. This exodus characterises the Christian faith, which expectantly lives towards God's future while wishing to remain faithful to the present.

5. We have in the preceding paragraphs described the relationship between the Christian religion and Western civilization. In this description religion prevailed as an objective system, in terms of which religious behaviour is measured and judged. This structural approach, however, is not the only one possible for the analysis of the above-mentioned relationship. The religious system always refers to human action. It is bound up with human behaviour, without which it would be unapproach- able and unrecognizable. The sociological implication of this is the methodological primacy of social interaction. It is in such interaction that system and behaviour are linked, because and in so far as people together maintain a social order. In short, human society is a humanly defined order. This statement implies an immediate relationship between defining and structuring; thus, affirmative definitions promote structural stability at human society, while negative definitions are conducive

proces~ of defining which results in (re-)structuring. In the social process of defining, man confronts ultimate questions, for which he is unable to supply answers grounded in certainty. These ultimate questions nevertheless require ultimate answers that cover this existential shortcoming. Such ultimate answers to ultimate questions are generally known to us as religion. We have thus reached the fundamental paradox of religion as question and answer, as certainty born of uncertainty. This general description of religion points out the function of religion which the social sciences further analyse: religion functions as the source of ultimate meaning in the social defining process. Ultimate answers, being ascribed to gods and powers, offer a certainty which can thus be relevant and effective. Religion becomes a sacred cosmos in which man and his world are ultimately explained and validated. This is the legitimating function of religion, which we earl ier on, in section 2, referred to as the general function of religion. This legitimating function is related to the dualistic, theistic interpretation of religion. These two are generally held to be the central characteristics of religion. The Christian religion was dominant and normal in Western civilization. Hence the theistic characteristic was emphasized. In section 3 we described how the legitimating function of the Christian religion has atrophied. The Christian answe'rs no longer suffice. thty are no longer viable. Other systems of beliefs, among which secular atheistic ideologies and Weltanschauungen, take over the religious function. Such systems are termed pseudo-religions because and in so far as they function as a source of ultimate meaning in the social defining process. They become pseudo-religions because of the lack of reference to a higher transcendental rality, even though they exhibit more or less religious characteristics such as the acknowledgment of a higher source of authority and power, and a certain doctrine and cult. We have now reached the dilemma of the functional and substantial definitions of religions, a dilemma which is well-known in the sociology of religion. The use of the functional definition implies that all systems that bestow ultimate meanings are viewed as being religious systems, irrespective their content. In using the substantial definition on the other hand, one points to the content characteristic for religion, i.e. to a relationship with a transcendental reality.

VRIJHOF

The functional definition appears to us too general and too vague. It furthermore can lead to curious consequences. In the functional perspective of religion it follows that as long as the Christian religion carries out the function of ultimate legitimation, it can be said to be areligion. Should this function however vanish, then the Christian religion can no longer be considered to be areligion. The sociology of religion would in this way lose sight of· the social reality, in which the Christian religion is still seen as areligion. The question as to what religion is, is ultimately settled in the social reality, i.e. the social process of defining. Religion is never a special entity·to be set aside and defined apart from social reality. On the contrary, religion as a social phenomenon is inextricably bound to the social process of defining. Hence, each and every definition of religion, even scientific ones, remain tied to this defining process. In this process religion is always substantially defined. This is by-passed in the functional definition of religion. Therefore, this definition must be rejected as one-sided and inappropriate for the empirical analysis of religion. The social process of defining is an ongoing, socio-historically variable process. Hence, every definition of religion, including a scientific one, is historically and culturally situated. That is to say that we can fundamentally recognize that the empirical sciences of religion are practised within a specific cultural framework which conditions scientific conceptions as it does indeed any other activity. Such a recognition is especially important now that the function of providing ultimate legitimation on the one hand, and the relation to a transcendental reality on the other, are no longer general and self-evident concomitants. The central task of the empirical science of religion is therefore to analyse and guide the social process of defining, in which the currently dominant definition of the (Christian) religion has become problematic, and in which processes of redefining religion are taking place. Scientists generally show little awareness of the above-mentioned cultural conditioning of definitions of religion. The dominant definition of religion, in which a relationship to a transcendental reality is stipulated, is usually accepted as being a generally valid and universal definition of religion, expressive of a fundamental condition of human existence. The Roman Catholic religion views man as being asearcher for God by nature, as homo religiosus. This view has been most fully articulated by Thomas Aquinas in his doctrine of

CHRISTIAN FAITH 293

the natural knowledge of God. For many centuries this doctrine exterted a great influence on Western Christianity. Each individual was held to contain a divine seed that needed to be made to grow. Therefore Christianity could adapt to heathen religion. One can speak in this context of a Christian version of homo religiosus. Barth rejected this Christian homo religiosus. According to him, natural religion could only give birth to idolatry and disbelief. K.H. Miskotte -- an early exponent of Barth's theology -- saw paganism as the ubiquitous natural religion of man 6). In such statements, man is also seen to be naturally religious. One can speak here of the heathen version of homo religiosus. Homo religiosus is a theological-anthropological concept, expressing religiosity as a fundamental human characteristic. This concept thus generalises the dominant definition of religion, which is culturally bound. Strictly speaking then, homo religiosus is not a theological-anthropological, but rather a cultural-sociological concept. Bonhoeffer is aware of this; he rejected the notion of a general religious apriori concept. Modern man has no longer any need for a god in his daily existence. We are approaching -- according to Bonhoeffer -- a completely irreligious age. Vet this statement shows that Bonhoeffer still retains that very definition of religion which he relativised with his rejection of a religious apriori concept. Bonhoeffer, moreover, appears to subscribe to a specific view of modern society, in which the nature of this society and the irreligiosity of modern man are held to be linked. We find such a perspective also in Max Weber's notion of disenchant- ment of the world by the process of rationalisation, which effaces the sense of a supernatural and sacred order. In the works of modern sociologists of religion, such as S. Acquaviva, and B. Wilson, we likewise find this view 7). Basically, it comes down to this: the modern rationalised society as such is irreligious. A type of individual emerges in this society who shall neither need nor search for religious interpretations. We see here the polar concept of homo religiosus: homo non-religiosus. It could be said that both concepts, though diametrically opposed, are embraced by the generalisati~n of the dominant definition of religion. Such a point of view, however, misjudges the social process of defining, in which objectification and subjectification alternate. With respect to (Christian) religion, processes of subjectification are taking place in which the question of the meaning of the (Christian) religion for man and society is posed anew. Put differently, the function of religion as providing ultimate meanings in the social

VRIJHOF

process of defining is being examined. And such an inquiry leads back to questions concerning man and the constituents of human existence. Earlier on we referred to the shortcoming of human existence, which will always require a certain compensation. Man, in this respect, will always be a religious being, and the provision of ultimate meanings will always be a necessary part of the social process of defining. In our Western culture, the provision of ultimate meaning was placed in a transcendental framework. The provision of ultimate meaning hence became ultimate legitimation, offering final certainty. Now that this transcendental framework has lost her monopoly, the question arises if the provision of ultimate meaning must always embrace ultimate legitimation. Cannot an ultimate answer be that ultimate certainty cannot be had, that it is premature? This question reaches into the very core of the Christian faith. The Christian faith leaves ultimate questions open, does not provide a compensation for man's existential uncertainty. The Christian faith views really ultimate answers as being eschatological. Hence, the Christian faith can be characterised by trust and surrender, a faith in which man lives with uncertainties in the expectation of God's redeeming future Kingdom. The Christian faith as such can be considered to be anti-natural. Man will always seek and safeguard religious certainties and compensations for his existential shortcoming. In section 4 we outlined how the Christian faith must look upon this safeguarding of religious certainties as a forever recurring temptation and premature religious anticipation. With religious certainty, Christian faith also rejects the function of legitimating man and society, and the related dualistic, theistic interpretation. The Christian faith does not propose a relationship with a transcendental reality, a relationship in which man and the world are legitimated. Rather, the Christian faith is a human, worldly way of existence based on a messianic, eschatological inspiration. Bonhoeffer's paradoxical statements about a faith without religion, and a worldly transcendence, point in this direction. 8) The Christian faith acts on its own responsibility, without the cover of final certainties. Christian faith is in this respect a form of humanism, which likewise seeks to avoid final certainties. This humanism, however, is still generally regarded as irreligious, or even anti-religious. Therefore, the Christian faith as such cannot be regarded as a form of religion, as several contemporary theologians do. Barth's thesis

CHRISTIAN FAITH 295

th us appears to be largely valid, even though his motiviation of the differentiation between religion and Christian faith needs to be modified. Religion and Christian faith do not stand opposed to each other as, respectively, human potential and divine grace. Both are embraced by the social process of defining in which the question of their function is posed anew. This question points to the relation between religion and Christian faith on the one hand, and human existence on the other. Theology and sociology can supplement each other here in fruitfull cooperation. 9) This cooperation focuses on the analysis and guidance of the social process of defining with respect to Christian faith and religion. Such an analysis will be of great import not only to science but also to the spiritual and religious life of our times.

NOTES

1. Berger, P.L., The Sacred Canopy, New Vork. 1967, p. 100, p. 180.
2. Herberg, W., Religion in a Secularized Society, Review of Religious Research 1961/62, p. 146, pp. 148 ff.
   

   3. Berger, op cit., pp. 137 ff.

4. Bonhoeffer, 0., Ethik, München, 1961, p. 61.

5. Bonhoeffer, 0., Sanctorum Communio, München 1960, p. 145.
6. Miskotte, K.H., Als de goden zwijgen, Haarlem 1965, pp. 15-16; see also K.H. Miskotte, Edda en Thora, Amsterdam 1939, p. 28.
7. Acquaviva, S.L., L'Eclipse du Sacré dans la civilisation industrielle, Paris 1967; Wilson, B., Religion in a Secularized Society, Penguin Books 1969.

8. Bonhoeffer, 0., Widerstand und Ergebung, München 1955, pp. 182, 211, 241, 259 ff. See also G. Ebeling, Die nicht-religiöse Interpretation biblischer Begriffe, in: Die mündige Welt, 11 Band, München 1956,

   p. 13, 47 ff.

9. Cf. K. Raiser, Identität und Sozialität. G.H. Meads Theorie der Interaktion und ihre Bedeutung für die theologische Anthropologie, München 1971.

IV

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PUBLICATIONS

BY J. VAN BAAL UP TO 1975

J. VAN BAAL UP TO 1975.

1934 Godsdienst en samenleving in NederUxndsch Zuid-Nieuw-Guinea. Dissertation, Amsterdam 1934.

1935 "Enkele opmerkingen over ethnologische terminologie". Koloniaal Tijdschrift 24 (1935). Pp. 143-152.

1939 "De bevolking van Zuid-Nieuw-Guinea onder Nederlandsch Bestuur: 36 jaren". Tijdschrift voor Indische taal-. landen volkenkunde 79 (1939).

1940 "De bevolking van Zuid-Nieuw-Guinea". Tijdschrift Nieuw-Guinea 5 (1940-41) pp. 174-192 & 6 (1941-42) pp. 48-68 & 71-93

1940 "Een en ander over de bevolking van het Boven-Bian-Gebied (Zuid-Nieuw-Guinea)". Tijdschrift voor Indische taal-. land-. en volkenkunde 80 (1940). pp. 568-584.

1940 "Een reis naar het Gab-Gab-gebied (Midden-Fly-rivier.)" Tijdschrift voor Indische Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 80 (1940) pp. 1-14.

1941 "Het Ali p-feest te Bajan". Djawa 21 (1941) pp. 1-37.

1941 "Solidariteit" Koloniaal Tijdschrift 30 (1941) pp. 14-34.

1947 OVer wegen en drijfVeren der religie; een godsdienstpsychologische studie. Amsterdam.

n.d.-Bevolkingsgroepen in Nieuw-Guinea".

Schakels 59 pp. 2-13.

1948-De Westerse beschaving als constante factor in het hedendaagse acculturatie-proces". IndOnesi6 2 (1948-49) pp. 102-139.

1948-Antwoord op H.T. Fischers: Verwestersing". IndOnesi6 2 (1948-49) pp. 556-58.

1949 Review of C. Hooykaas Enige Sasakse Volksvertelsels. in Bijdmgtm tot ds Taal-. Landen Volkenkunds 83, 2/3. pp 311-312.

299

1949 "Indrukken van het Seventh Pacific Science Congress" in Tijdschrift Binnenlands Bestuur 1949.

1949 "Oudheden op Lombok", Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde B3, 2/3, pp. 301-304.

1950 Review of C.A.O. van Nieuwenhuyzen Mens en Vrijheid in Indonesië under the titl e "Di a 1 ecti ek der Vri jhei d" in Orientatie no. 33, June 1950.

1950 "The function of reason in primitive mentality".

Indonesië 4 (1950-51) pp. 314-325.

1951 Review of J. Hoek: Dajakpriesters; een bijdrage tot de analyse van de religie der Dajaks, in Indonesia 6, no 3, p. 294-295.

1951 Review of G.J. Held: De Papoea, cultuurimprovisator, in Indonesië 5 (1951-52) pp. 379-3B3.

1951 Review of G.J. Held: Magie, Hekserij en Toverij, in Tijdschrift van het Koninklijk Nederlands Aardrijkskundig Genootschap LXVIII, 2.

1953 "The Nimboran Development Project"

South Pacific 6 (1952-53) pp. 492-499, 503.

1953 "The Nimboran COl1l11unity Development Project". South Pacific COl1l11ission. Technical Papers No. 45. Sydney.

1953 Nederlands Nieuw-Guinea. Anti-Revolutionaire Partijstichting,

the Hague

1953 "Algemene sociaal-culturele beschouwingen".

In: Klein, W.C. Nieuw-Guinea. De ontwikkeling op economisch, sociaal en cultureel gebied in Nederlands en Australisch Nieuw-Guinea Deel I. pp. 230-258. the Hague

1953 Review of P. Arndt, SVD Religion auf Ost-Flores, Adonare und Solor Studia Instituti Anthropos Vol. I, in IndOnesia 6, no. 6, p. 571-

572.

1953 "Feesten in Nieuw-Guinea".

Bezinning, Jan.

1953 "Netherlands New-Guinea: Educating the New-Guinea village".

In:Symposium on Popular education. Leiden 1953 pp. 151-159

1954 "Volken"

In: Klein, W.C. Nieuw-Guinea. De ontwikkeling op economisch, sociaal, en cultureel gebied in Nederlands en Australisch Nieuw-Guinea. Deel 11 pp. 438-470 . 'the Haque

1954 "Er groeit iets goeds in Nieuw-Guinea"

Oost en West 47 (1954) pp. 5-7

1954 Nota over bevolkingsproblematiek

Hollandi a

BIBLIOGRAPHY

1956 "Leven en werken in Nieuw-Guinea"

Nederlands Nieuw-Guinea 4 (1956)

1956 "De Papoea ontdekte een nieuwe wereld".

Oost en West 49 (1956) pp. 8-11

1956 "Om eigen wereld"

Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde 112 (1956) pp. 193-203

1957 "In Memoriam Prof. Dr. Gerrit-Jan Held"

Nieuw-Guinea Studiën 1 (1957) pp. 3-10

1958 Review of Erhard Schlesiers: Die melanesichen Geheimkulte. Untersuchung über ein Grenzgebiet der ethnologischen Religions- und Gesellschaftsforschung und zur Siedlungsgeschichte Melanesiens. in Bijdragen tot de. Taal,- Landen Volkenkunde 114 (1958) pp. 325-

331.

1958 "Mogel i jkheden voor ondernemi ngslandbouw i n Nederlands Ni euw-Guinea".

Mededelingen van het Nieuw-Guinea Instituut 6 (1958) pp. 111-118.

1959 "Nieuw-Guinea, het lot van de soldaat".

Oost en West 52 (1958-59) nO.7 pp. 7-9.

1959 "Verzoening in dienst van het onrecht".

Anti-revolutionaire Staatkunde 29 (1959) no. 1 pp. 1-15.

1959 "De taak en mogelijkheid van de Europeaan ten opzichte van Azie en

Afrika" in De Wereld en Wij, Nationale Organisatie van Anti-revolutionaire Jongeren Studieclubs. the Hague 1959.

1959 Het Nieuw-Guinea vraagstuk. Een opgave voor de Natie. Kampen 46 pp.

1959 Review of J. Boelaars Papoea's aan de Mappi in Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde 115 (1959) pp. 99-103.

1959 Review of H. Nevermann: Söhne des totenden Vaters. Dämonen-und Kopfjägergeschichten aus Neuguinea., in Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde 115 (1959) pp. 277-280.

1960 "Nécessité d'un Institut pour les recherches ethnographiques en

Nouvelle Guinée" in Actes du VIe Congrès International des Sciences Anthropologiques et Ethnologiques, Paris 1960.

1960 "Erring Acculturation".

Ame2~can Anthropologist 62 (1960) pp. 108-121.

1960 "Acculturatieproblemen in primitieve gebieden" in OKW-mededelingen 1960, no. 35-36, pp. 385 e.v.

1960 "De magie als godsdienstig verschijnsel". Inaugural lecture. Amsterdam.

301

1961 "Procedures of ensuring compliance by the public with measures

taken" Paper for Institute of Soaial Studies tuJo year aourse.

1%1 "Commentaar op J. Keunings': Nederlandse strafrechtspraak aan de Wisselmeren (Centraal Nederlands Nieuw-Guinea)".

Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 117 (1961).

1961 (with E.M. Uhlenbeck): "Het tiende Pacific Science Congres"

Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 117 pp. 475-480.

1962 Preface in C. Vreede-de Stuers: De Hindoese vrouw en moeder. Traditie en nieuwe denkbeelden. Amsterdam.

1962 Review of Annali Lateranensi (Publicazione del Pontificio Museo

Missionario Ethnologico).

Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 118 (1962) pp. 402-405.

1962 Review of C.A. Schmitz: Historisahe Probleme in Nord-Ost Neu Guinea i n Nieuw-Guinea Studien 1962, 6 no. 3.

1962 Review of C.A. Schmitz: Beiträge ZUl' Ethnographie des Wantoat Tales. Nordost Neuguinea. in Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 118 (1962) pp. 489-491.

1963 (with E.M. Uhlenbeck) Rapport over het Tiende Pacific Science

Congress

Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetensahappen 1963 (XIV)

pp. 5-13.

1963 "Magi c as a rel i gi ous phenomenon"

Higher eduaation and researah in the Netherlands 7 (1963) no. 3/4, pp. 10-21.

1963 "The cult of the Bull-Roarer in Australia and Southern New

Guinea".

Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 119 (1963), pp. 201-214.

1963 Review of F. Sierksma's: De roof van het vrouwengeheim in Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 119 (1963) pp. 469-471.

1963 "De Oproep" in Federatie Contaat 1963 no 2, pp. 31-34.

1964 Review of Th.G.Th. Pigeaud Java in the 14th aentury. in Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 1964

1964 "Educati on in non-Wes tern countri es"

International Review of Eduaation 10 (1964) pp. 1-11.

1965 Review of Claude Levi-Strauss': Le Totémisme aujourd'huiin Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 121 (1965) pp. 147-152.

1965 "Het skandalon gezien vanuit de ethnologie der religie"

Vox Theologiaa 1965, pp. 55-62.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

1965 "Jan Petrus Benjamin de Josselin de Jong" in Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde 121, pp. 293-300.

1966 Dema. Desaription and analysis of Marind-Anim aulture (South New Guinea). With tr.e collaboration of J. Verschueren. The Hague.

1967 Mensen in verandering. Ontstaan en groei van een nieuwe aultuur in ontwikkelingslanden. Amsterdam.

1967 Review of P. Lawrence & M.J. Meggitt (eds) Gods, Ghosts and Men in Melanesia, in Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde 123 (1967) no. 2, pp. 287-289.

1967 "Steun aan de ontwikkelingslanden, een toekomstperspectief".

184e Algemene Vergadering van de Maatsahappij voor Nijverheid en Handel, Amsterdam 1967.

1967 Review of A. Lommel: Primitieve Besahavingen, in Oost en West 1967,60 pp. 19.

1968 J. van Baal, J.M.S. Baljon, C.J. Bleeker, e.a.

De verhouding tussen de levende godsdiensten Kampen.

1968 Dictaat godsdienstethnologie (theorie) Amsterdam.

1968 "Folk religion and the worldview in the South-Western Pacific".

Paper on the llth Paaifia Saienae Congress Tokyo 1968.

1969 "De moderne school: een geïmporteerd instituut in de ontwikkelings-

landen" in Onderwijsproblemen in ontwikkelingslanden. Groningen 1969.

1969 "Ontwikkelingswerk -contradicties rond een groeiende taak in een

kri mpende were 1 d". Kontakt der Kontinenten, Soesterberg 1969.

1969 Review of Andreas Lommel: Primitieve Besahavingen in!3 ijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde 125 (1969) 146-47.

1969 "The political impact of Prophetic Movements".

Internationales Jahrbuah für ReligionBsoziologie 5 (1969) 68-88.

1970 "The application of the concept of structure".

Anniversary aontributions to anthropology. Twelve essays published on the oacasion of the 40th Anniversary of the Leiden Ethnologiaal Soaiety W.D.O. Leiden.

1970 "The part of the women in the marriage trade:

objects or behaving as objects?"

Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Landen Volkenkunde 126 (1970) 289-308.

Review of K. Burridge: Tangu Traditions in Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 126, no. 2, pp. 273-276.

1971 Symbols for aommuniaation. An introduation to the Anthropologiaal study of religion Assen.

1971 "In Memoriam pater Jan Verschueren MSC" Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Landen Volkenkunde 127, no. 4.

1972 De boodsahap der drie illusies. Overdenkingen over religie. kunst en spel. Assen.

1972 "The contribution of Anthropology to the decency and ultimate failure of the colonial regime (with special reference to the

Dutch in Indonesia), paper for Seminar Anthropology and Administration. University of london 1972.

1972 "De kleine wereld: dorp in de tropen"

De Gids 1972 no. 4 pp. 306-315.

1972 "Het dilelll11a der dekolonisatie". Rrview of Adrian Pelt: Libyan independenae and the United Nations. in Internationale Speatator. 26 (1972) pp. 1172-1177.

1972 "Pourquoi épouser le marxisme?"

Review of luc de Heusch': Pourquoi L'épouser? et autres essais~ in Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Land-en Volkenkunde 128 (1972).

1972 Review of R. Schubert: Methodologisahe Untersuahungen an Ozeanisahe Mythen-material. in Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Land-en Volkenkunde 128, no. 4, 1972, pp. 516

1973 Review of M. Strathern: Women in Beween. in Bijdragen tot de Taal-. Land-en Volkenkunde 129, no. 4, pp. 518-520.

1974 De agressie der gelijken; ons aultureel breiwerk: één reaht. één avereaht. Assen.

1974 Review of B.R. Wilson: Magia and the Millennium. in Mens en Maatsahappij 1974, pp. 450-451.

1974 "De fenomenologie van offer en geschenk" in Nederlands Theologisah Tijdsahrift 29, no. I, 1974.

1974 "De culturele antropologie tussen praktijk en wetenschap", in

Niet bij wetensahap alleen ....• liber amicorum of dr. A. Piekaar.

1975 "Tussen kolonie en nationale staat: de koloniale staat", Symposium leiden University Fourth Centennial.

1975 Anthropologiaal Papers on reaiproaity and the position ofwO/nrm van Gorkum 1975 (in press).

1975 Collegediktaat Godsdienstwetensahappen. Utrecht.