Ancient Rituals of Georgian Women

Wise Women

 

Oh Lazarus,

Oh Elijah

 Bring with you

Water for our drought.

 See our feet, how dirty they are

how they tread the fertile land that groans.
See how grain splits and pushes.

Bless our dolls, our Gonja.

We made them for you from;

Cotton from your fields,

Sticks from your trees,
Beads and Cowrie from your mountains that
Once hung from Nana’s hearth.

See, we will return them to your rivers

We will stand and sing to you, we will sing your songs to the water.

We will sing and

Your grace

Will turn famine to feast and fill our bellies.

Water Goddess

Hear our song.
Let it float, fuse

Your rushing torrents, let powerful eddies

Dance to our song, to our dream, to our
Wisdom

To you.

It was the evening before I travelled to Georgia. Hot and humid, the underground was unbearable so I was glad to walk to Russell Square along tree-lined avenues. Other Georgiophiles soon arrived at the Embassy. We were all women apart from one man, who apologised for his interest. I was surprised. After all, the kinds of rituals we were exploring were ancient and albeit within the domain of women historically, the fascination for such natural magic did not preclude any gender bias. This workshop was all about how Georgian women in the past influenced the weather.

 

I felt in safe hands. There were some titans at the event. Women of academic note and with a longstanding interest and involvement in Georgia. This event however, was the first of its kind. Usually people come to workshops that are all about Georgian wine and food or song and dance but these never really scratch the surface of what the current Georgian psyche is built on. There is a growing interest too, in the previously denied voice  of women and their ancient natural magic. Normally, guide books  never get beyond Tamar – the Queen of Georgia from 1184 – 1213 who was so successful she is referred to as’ King’ Tamar, or ‘King’ Rusudan, the daughter of Tamar.  Travel writing also usually exhorts the nobility of the male voice choir and the very male tradition of the supra which continues to dominate interest in Georgian Culture both here and in the Republic. In my opinion, this is because Georgian society in itself is essentially geared  up to support the patriarchal elite and we, of course are led by the opinions of popularist writers.

 

The rituals we did to change the weather were fascinating. What was really interesting was the making of the Gonja doll. Going home on the tube afterwards, a fellow traveller asked if it was a voodoo doll! Mind you, this was after he also gave a dismissive wave of his hand to my Georgian female companions who protested loudly and vociferously   when he said that Georgia was actually part of Russia and had no identity of its own.  If there is one sure fire way to insult a Georgian – that would be the way to do it.

 

As we were making the doll it got hotter and hotter. The windows were wide open but still there was no air and the deep red wine we were drinking did little to satisfy my thirst.

 

So, what is a Gonja doll? It is a  a special doll made specifically for a particular ritual and is made out
of things easily found either in the natural world or in the home.

 

Keti showed us two sticks she had cut from one of her rose bushes. One short, one long.  She
had already cut a notch into the wood so that they  joined together easily. She then tied them
together to make the shape of a cross. With slightly dropping ‘arms’ the ‘cross’ reminded me of the
‘drooping crosses’ I often see in Georgia and which are associated with St. Nino.

 

Georgian songs often interweave the sentiment of  the pre-Christian Nana, a Mesopotamian Moon
God of wisdom and motherhood with the Christian St. Nino, who was instrumental in converting the
pagan Queen and King of Georgia to Christianity in the 3^rd Century.

 

Echoes of Nana’s spirit can still be heard in songs and language and in the ritual and symbolism of many cultures even today so strong was the cult and its influence.

 

There was lively discussion about which pre-Christian gods and goddesses were at the root of the
ritual and given that there were several  experts with PhD’s who specialised in ancient and pre
biblical history there, I was not surprised to learn that the Lazare song we were going to learn and
sing together later on, could have  been sung to the black sea Goddess Zaghush (sea) Nana. Dr. Nino
Kalandanze gave us all the back ground to the history of the Gonja  but still there was  hot debate
regarding the roots of the pagan deities. A lot of the academic discussion was lost on me because I
was too busy remembering  the stories from the epic voyage of Jason and the Argonauts and filling
in the dry bones with songs to Nana.

 

The doll came to life under Keti’s hands. She fastened, first by impaling, then by tying with string,  a
head that had been made from a cleaning cloth onto the top of the wooden cross.

 

Then came the layers of material. These had swags and  lace and jaunty undulations and the doll
soon took on the appearance of a plump, well dressed lady. The doll did not have to be a woman but for the purposes of this ritual, it was.

 

The layers were pinched in at the middle to create the illusion of a waist and then a white lace
headscarf was added. With much looping a turban-like hat was made that had copious  layers of
frothy veil hanging down the back and over the shoulders. Finally a wooden beaded necklace was
added and a face was drawn on – in this case just two crosses for the eyes and nose with a straight
stern line for the mouth.

 

We learnt the song, ‘Lazare’ which is from Kartli, a central-eastern region of Georgia which
incorporates the capital of Tbilisi. Taught by the talented and dedicated Nana  Mzhavanadze, a
visiting ethnomusicologist (her voice already tired from weeks of giving  more traditional workshops
but enlivened by the enthusiasm of the group) the three parts soon blended to create the most
exquisite sound as the different threads of our  voices came together.

 

Nana taught us the dance that went with the song too, and it was at this point, everything seemed
to start bubbling and moving, cooking and shifting.

 

Our single man, fascinated and deeply respectful of what was going on, offered to stand outside of
the circle and not take part in the ritual procession but continue to sing bass. He was met with polite
protests but, as  he said, he felt  the flow of the women’s connection ought not to be broken and
him separating himself from the group was, retrospectively, the right decision.

 

We processed, as the ritual commanded, in bare feet, around the space, singing the first part of
‘Lazare’. The heat and humidity was oppressive, but as we moved, carrying the Gonja, there was a
rumble of thunder from outside and a cool, cool breeze fanned us and the air shifted as our voices
took on a natural powerful sound that wove through the air pockets that eddied and scurried
between us.  Finishing our procession, and in my mind, having passed through the village
collecting gifts to add to the ritual, we headed  towards the river. Once there, we put the Gonja in
the middle of our newly formed circle and danced in homage to the goddesses of the past. Spirits of
the ancient world seemed to join us and the rain began to fall and patter against the hot, steaming
pavement outside.

 

I could see us all transcending time,  travelling through the village, placing the doll in the water along
with our wishes and dreams, our heart beats and our song.  The ancient timeless rhythms
connected us to the earth. Lazare and Elijah watched over us, each waiting for their cue to bring
lightening, rain, thunder and smiling, forgave our folly and beliefs in the old ways, indulged us,
blessed us.

 

We finished as the hot rain soothed the pathways and streets  and everything eventually cooled down. Was it a coincidence?

 

To celebrate our success we shared  the traditional dish of Khachapuri – a simple

flour and cheese bread made from the ingredients that would have been collected as the women
passed through the village.

 

I drank again a glass of deep red wine that now nourished and quenched my thirst where it had
not managed to before, and it felt strangely satisfying.

 

Sarah Cobham
July 18^th 2014