Mesopotamian Culture Essay Contest
"Deep is the well of the past. Should we not call it bottomless?" is how Thomas Mann introduces his epoch-making novel "Joseph and his Brothers". This fertile sheaf of printed paper challenges its readers and blithely plunges deep into the layers of the ancient Orient, as if its subject matter were self-evident. The reader frequently needs help, jotting down question and exclamation marks in the margins. And for this reason the book is a fantastic example of the function assigned to literature when it comes to humanity’s collective cultural memory.
These troubled times are crying out for literary linchpins, books that will form connections and do the work of memory. Books to make people realise that the places where terrorism and war are currently spreading like wildfire also formed the origins of our civilised existence. To point out that our collective memory must not be limited by man-made geographical borders, which were completely unknown to ancient Mesopotamia: from its beginnings, through its heyday, to its final decline. And that the belligerent methods mistakenly used by the three great monotheistic religions to protect and spread their influence – methods that some of their supposed representatives still use today – were never part of the pathos of the ancient Orient. On the contrary, there was once a place in the Pantheon for each new divinity who came along; religious wars were unknown.
Cornerstone of literature and culture
The Orient was thousands of years ahead of Europe; until the high Middle Ages, it was the cultural centre of the world. While the ancient Greek chronicler of history, Herodotus, was marvelling at the history of ancient Egypt in the 5th century BC, Rome was still an unremarkable landscape. The end of the European Ice Age coincided with the start of agriculture and animal husbandry in Mesopotamia, known as the Fertile Crescent; this was followed by the domestication of cereal crops and animals and the development of the first settlements, then city-states and finally territorial powers. The early fortresses of the Middle East were already slumbering under a millennium of earth when the first farmers began working their land in Europe.
The oriental invention of writing in around 3200 BC laid the cornerstone for literature and scholarship. The Gilgamesh epic - the first epic in world history - was written in the Babylonian language on solid clay and continues to fascinate and inspire poets and philosophers to this day.
It is not – as is so often claimed - enlightened Romanticism that tied German classicism and later writers like Thomas Mann so closely to the Orient. It is rather the far-reaching understanding that this was something familiar, not foreign.
Preserving the fascination of the everyday
Over the last 150 years, meticulous research has brought to light much information about what was harboured over thousands of years in the heartland of the ancient Orient between the Euphrates and Tigris rivers – its fertile womb. We have available a vast wealth of textual sources that allow us to understand the beginnings and the development of our culture.
We need to throw off the blinkers of our Eurocentric perspective in favour of a whole, rounded picture; one that naturally creates the fascination and the knowledge to make us value and protect humanity’s beginnings. Thanks to the remarkable work of archaeologists and experts on the ancient Orient, these days we can reconstruct events in the Middle East from 10,000 years before Christ, up to the spread of Islam.
Alongside archaeological field work, the tireless work of scholars worldwide on the wondrous cuneiform script allows us to glimpse a world that has provided the basics of our everyday lives. Things that now seem obvious to us, like dividing a day into 24 hours, a minute into 60 seconds, a circle into 360 degrees, not to mention the use of the alphabet; and these are just a fraction of the accomplishments that have been handed down from the ancient Orient to our present day.
Overcoming cultural boundaries
Overcoming cultural boundaries is fundamental to preserving culture. But there is almost no doubt that the difficulty in this undertaking lies in the difficulty of the concept itself. The modern definition of culture is fundamentally different from the cultural understanding of the ancient Orient.
At a time when culture was not an accessory-like addition, but an essential, autonomous whole; a tool that influenced the course of events in an area that, in its natural form, did not define itself using geographical borders.
Today, in particular, it is tremendously important to be aware that the havoc and destruction in the Middle East doesn't merely represent a loss for those who are now coming to Europe; it is a loss for all of us. We must remember that the desperate people enduring life in refugee accommodation have hitherto been preserving and cultivating something that represents the keystone of our culture. It is not a case of stylising what is ours by drawing a line between it and what is foreign, but of understanding that in this sense, there is no "foreign".
The senseless extinguishing of human lives and the destruction of what humans have created is a brutal act which can only be defined as weakness and will result in much more than just silencing our collective memory. In spite of the great risks, human rights organisations are travelling to the Syrian and Iraqi crisis areas and tirelessly attempting to provide aid there; archaeological teams are going to the region dominated by terrorism to carry on their excavations and support the local population in protecting their cultural inheritance.
In places, it may have read like a naive desire for global unity, but at bottom it is just a simple conclusion by analogy, that we must protect what defines us.
Melanie Christina Mohr
© Qantara.de 2016
Translated from the German by Ruth Martin
Tyrannei in der islamischen Welt
Die Wiedergeburt des Stammes im Staat
Murder and kidnapping in Iraq
An inexorable tide
Book review: a ″Banthology″ of short stories
Framing the dangerous nations
Bachtyar Ali's novel "Die Stadt der weißen Musiker"
Poetry and truth
Breaking the Middle East′s cycle of terror
The two-pronged strategy
Islamic debate about human rights
The erroneous 'cultural distinction'
The first centuries of the 2nd millennium bce witnessed the demise of Sumerian as a spoken language and its replacement by Akkadian. However, Sumerian (much as Latin in the Middle Ages) continued to be taught and spoken in the scribal schools throughout the 2nd and 1st millennia bce because of its role as bearer of Sumerian culture, as the language of religion, literature, and many arts. New compositions were even composed in Sumerian. As time passed these grew more and more corrupt in grammar.
Akkadian, when it supplanted Sumerian as the spoken language of Mesopotamia, was not without its own literary tradition. Writing, to judge from Akkadian orthographic peculiarities, was very early borrowed from the Sumerians. By Old Babylonian times (c. 19th century bce), the literature in Akkadian, partly under the influence of Sumerian models and Sumerian literary themes, had developed myths and epics of its own, among them the superb Old Babylonian Gilgamesh epic (dealing with the problem of death; see belowEpics) as well as hymns, disputation texts (evaluations of elements of the cosmos and society), penitential psalms, and not a few independent new handbook genres—e.g., omens, rituals, laws and legal phrasebooks (often translated from Sumerian), mathematical texts, and grammatical texts. There was a significant amount of translation from Sumerian; translations include incantation series such as the Utukki lemnuti (“The Evil Spirits”), laments for destroyed temples, penitential psalms, and others. The prestige of Sumerian as a literary language, however, is indicated by the fact that translations were rarely, if ever, allowed to supersede the original Sumerian text. The Sumerian text was kept with an interlinear translation to form a bilingual work.
The continued study and copying of literature in the schools, both Sumerian and Akkadian, by the middle of the 2nd millennium led to a remarkable effort of standardizing, or canonizing. Texts of the same genre were collected, often under royal auspices and with royal support, and were then sifted and finally edited in series that henceforth were recognized as the canonical form. Authoritative texts were established for incantations, laments, omens, medical texts, lexical texts, and others. In myths and epics, such major and lengthy compositions as the Akkadian creation story Enuma elish, the Erra myth, the myth of Nergal and Ereshkigal, the Etana legend, the Gilgamesh epic, and the Tukulti-Ninurta epic were reworked or re-created.
Of special interest are philosophical compositions, such as the Akkadian Ludlul bel nemeqi, “Let Me Praise the Lord of Wisdom,” and theodicies (justification of divine ways) that deal with the problem of the just sufferer, similar to the biblical Job. They constitute a high point in the genre of wisdom literature. From the 1st millennium bce the rise of factual historical chronicles and a spate of political and religious polemical writings reflecting the rivalry between Assyria and Babylonia deserve mention. Very late in the millennium, the first astronomical texts appeared.
The Akkadian myths are in many ways dependent on Sumerian materials, but they show an originality and a broader scope in their treatment of the earlier Sumerian concepts and forms; they address themselves more often to existence as a whole. Fairly close to Sumerian prototypes is an Akkadian version of the myth of “Inanna’s Descent.” An Old Babylonian myth about the Thunderbird Anzu, who stole the tablets of fates and was conquered by Ninurta, who was guided by Enki’s counsel, is probably closely related to the Sumerian story of Ninurta’s contest with Enki.
Also important is an Old Babylonian “Myth of Atrahasis,” which, in motif, shows a relationship with the account of the creation of human beings to relieve the gods of toil in the “Enki and Ninmah” myth, and with a Sumerian account of the Flood in the “Eridu Genesis.” The Atrahasis myth, however, treats these themes with noticeable originality and remarkable depth. It relates, first, how the gods originally had to toil for a living, how they rebelled and went on strike, how Enki suggested that one of their number—the god We, apparently the ringleader who “had the idea”—be killed and humankind created from clay mixed with his flesh and blood, so that the toil of the gods could be laid on humankind and the gods left to go free. But after Enki and the birth goddess Nintur (another name for Ninmah) had created humans, they multiplied at such a rate that the din they made kept Enlil sleepless. At first Enlil had Namtar, the god of death, cause a plague to diminish the human population, but the wise Atrahasis, at the advice of Enki, had human beings concentrate all worship and offerings on Namtar. Namtar, embarrassed at hurting people who showed such love and affection for him, stayed his hand. Next Enlil had Adad, the god of rains, hold back the rains and thus cause a famine, but, because of the same stratagem, Adad was embarrassed and released the rains. After this, Enlil planned a famine by divine group action that would not be vulnerable as the earlier actions by individual gods had been. Anu and Adad were to guard the heavens, Enlil himself earth, and Enki the waters underground and the sea so that no gift of nature could come through to the human race. The ensuing famine was terrible. By the seventh year one house consumed the other and people began eating their own children. At that point Enki—accidentally he maintained—let through a wealth of fish from the sea and so the humans were saved. With this, however, Enlil’s patience was at an end and he thought of the Flood as a means to get rid of humanity once and for all. Enki, however, warned Atrahasis and had him build a boat in which he saved himself, his family, and all animals. After the Flood had abated and the ship was grounded, Atrahasis sacrificed, and the hungry gods, much chastened, gathered around the offering. Only Enlil was unrelenting until Enki upbraided him for killing innocent and guilty alike and—there is a gap in the text—suggested other means to keep human numbers down. In consultation with the birth goddess Nintur, Enki then developed a scheme of birth control by inventing the barren woman, the demon Pashittu who kills children at birth, and the various classes of priestesses to whom giving birth was taboo.
The myth uses the motif of the protest of the gods against their hard toil and the creation of humans to relieve it, which was depicted earlier in the Sumerian myth of “Enki and Ninmah,” and also the motif of the Flood, which occurred in the “Eridu Genesis.” The import of these motifs here is, however, new: they bring out the basic precariousness of human existence; mankind’s usefulness to the gods will not protect them unless they take care not to annoy them, however innocently. They must stay within bounds; there are limits set for self-expression.
A far more trustful and committed attitude toward the powers that rule existence finds expression in the seemingly slightly later Babylonian creation story, Enuma elish, which may be dated to the later part of the 1st dynasty of Babylon (c. 1894–c. 1595 bce). Babylon’s archenemy at that time was the Sealand, which controlled Nippur and the country south of it—the ancestral country of Sumerian civilization. This lends political point to the battle of Marduk (thunder and rain deity), the god of Babylon, with the sea, Tiamat; it also accounts for the odd, almost complete silence about Enlil of Nippur in the tale.
The myth tells how in the beginning there was nothing but Apsu, the sweet waters underground, and Tiamat, the sea, mingling their waters together. In these waters the first gods came into being, and generation followed generation. The gods represented energy and activity and thus differed markedly from Apsu and Tiamat, who stood for rest and inertia. True to their nature, the gods gathered to dance, and in so doing, surging back and forth, they disturbed the insides of Tiamat. Finally, Apsu’s patience was at an end, and he thought of doing away with the gods, but Tiamat, as a true mother, demurred at destroying her own offspring. Apsu, however, did not swerve from his decision, and he was encouraged in this by his page Mummu, “the original (watery) form.” When the youngest of the gods, the clever Ea (Sumerian: Enki), heard about the planned attack he forestalled it by means of a powerful spell with which he poured slumber on Apsu, killed him, and built his temple over him. He seized Mummu and held him captive by a nose rope.
In the temple thus built the hero of the myth, Marduk, was born. From the first he was the darling of his grandfather, the god of heaven, Anu, who engendered the four winds for him to play with. As they blew and churned up waves, the disturbing of Tiamat—and of a faction of the gods who shared her desire for rest—became more and more unbearable. At last these gods succeeded in rousing her to resistance, and she created a mighty army with a spearhead of monsters to destroy the gods. She placed her consort Kingu (“Task[?]”) at the head of it and gave him absolute powers.
When news of these developments reached the gods there was consternation. Ea was sent to make Tiamat desist, and then Anu, but to no avail. Finally Anshar, god of the horizon and king of the gods, thought of young Marduk. Marduk proved willing to fight Tiamat but demanded absolute authority. Accordingly, a messenger was sent to the oldest of the gods, Lahmu and Lahamu (“Silt[?]”), to call the gods to assembly. In the assembly the gods conferred absolute authority on Marduk, tested it by seeing whether his word of command alone could destroy a constellation and then again make it whole, hailed him king, and set him on the road of “security and obedience,” a formula of allegiance that based his power and authority on the pressing need for protection of the moment.
In the ensuing encounter with Tiamat’s forces Kingu and his army lost heart when they saw Marduk. Only Tiamat stood her ground, seeking first to throw him off his guard by flattery about his quick rise to leadership, but Marduk angrily denounced her and the older generation: “The sons [had to] withdraw [for] the fathers were acting treacherously, and [now] you, who gave birth to them, bear malice to the offspring.” At this Tiamat, furious, attacked, but Marduk loosed the winds against her, pierced her heart with an arrow, and killed her. Kingu and the gods who had sided with her he took captive.
Having thus won a lasting victory for his suzerain, King Anshar, Marduk gave thought to what he might do further. Cleaving the carcass of Tiamat, he raised half of her to form heaven, ordered the constellations, the calendar, the movements of Sun and Moon, and, keeping control of atmospheric phenomena for himself, made the Earth out of the other half of her, arranging its mountains and rivers. Having organized the various administrative tasks, he put their supervision in Ea’s hands; to Anu he gave the tablets of fate he had taken from Kingu. His prisoners he paraded in triumphal procession before his fathers, and as a monument to his victory he set up images of Tiamat’s monsters at the gate of his parental home. The gods were overjoyed to see him; Anshar rushed toward him and Marduk formally announced to him the state of security he had achieved. He then bathed, dressed, and seated himself on his throne, with the spear Security and Obedience, named from his mandate, at his side. By now, however, the situation had subtly altered. The old fear and urgent need for protection was gone, but in its stead had come a promise held out by Marduk’s organizational powers; so when the gods reaffirmed their allegiance to him as king they used a new formula: “benefits and obedience.” From then on Marduk would take care of their sanctuaries and they, in turn, would obey him.
Marduk then announced his intention of building a city for himself, Babylon, with room for the gods when they come there for assembly. His fathers suggested that they move to Babylon themselves to be with him and help in the administration of the world he had created. Next, he pardoned the gods who had sided with Tiamat and had been captured, charging them with the building tasks. Grateful for their lives, they prostrated themselves before him, hailed him as king, and promised to do the building.
Pleased with their willingness, Marduk magnanimously wanted to relieve them even from this chore and planned to create humans to do the toil for them. At the advice of his father Ea, he then had them indict Kingu as instigator of the rebellion. Kingu was duly sentenced and executed, and from his blood Ea created humankind. Then Marduk divided the gods into a celestial and a terrestrial group, assigned them their tasks in the cosmos, and allotted them their stipends. Thus freed from all burdens, the gods wanted to show their gratitude to Marduk, and as a token they took, of their own free will, for one last time, spade in hand to build Babylon and Marduk’s temple, Esagila. In the new temple the gods then assembled and distributed the celestial and terrestrial offices. The “great gods” went into session and permanently appointed the “seven gods of destinies,” or better “of the decrees,” who would formulate in final form the decrees enacted by the assembly. Marduk then presented his weapons, and Anu adopted the bow as his daughter and gave it a seat among the gods. Lastly, Marduk was enthroned, and after the gods had prostrated themselves before him they bound themselves by oath—touching their throats with oil and water—and formally gave him kingship, appointing him permanently lord of the gods of heaven and earth. After this they solemnly listed his 50 names expressive of his power and achievements. The myth ends with a plea that it be handed on from father to son and told to future rulers, that they may heed Marduk: it is the song of Marduk who bound Tiamat and assumed the kingship.
The motifs from which this myth is built are in large measure known from elsewhere. The initial generation of the gods is a variant form of the genealogy of Anu in the great god list An: Anum. The threat to annihilate the disturbers of sleep are known from the Atrahasis and the Sumerian Flood traditions. The battle of Marduk with Tiamat seems to stem from western myths of a battle between the thunder god and the sea. The organization of the universe after victory recalls the organization of conquered territory in Lugal-e. The killing of a rebel god to create the human race to take over the gods’ toil is found in the Atrahasis myth and—without the rebel aspect—in a bilingual creation myth found in Ashur. New and original, however, is the way in which they have all been grouped and made dependent on the figure of the young king. The political form of the monarchy is seen as embracing the universe; it was the prowess of a young king that overcame the forces of inertia; it was his organizational genius that created and organized all; and it is he who—like his counterpart on earth, the human king—grants benefits in return for obedience.
The high value set on the monarchy as a guarantor of security and order in the Enuma elish can hardly have seemed obvious in Babylonia in the first troubled years of Assyrian rule. From this period (c. 700 bce) comes a myth usually called the Erra Epic, which reads almost like a polemic against Enuma elish. It tells how the god of affray and indiscriminate slaughter, Erra, persuaded Marduk to turn over the rule of the world to him while Marduk was having his royal insignia cleaned, and how Erra, true to his nature, used his powers to institute indiscriminate rioting and slaughter. Royal power here stands no longer for security and order but for the opposite: license to kill and destroy.
Two other Akkadian myths may be mentioned—both probably dating from the middle of the 2nd millennium bce—the myth of the “Dynasty of Dunnum” and the myth of “Nergal and Ereshkigal.” The first of these tells of succeeding divine generations ruling in Dunnum, the son usually killing his father and marrying, sometimes his mother, sometimes his sister, until—according to a reconstruction of the broken text—more acceptable mores came into vogue with the last generation of gods, Enlil and Ninurta. This myth underlies the Greek poet Hesiod’s Theogony. The myth of Nergal and Ereshkigal relates the unorthodox way in which the god Nergal became the husband of Ereshkigal and king of the netherworld.
The quick rise of Sargon, the founder of the dynasty of Akkad (c. 2334–c. 2154 bce), from obscurity to fame and his victory over Lugalzagesi of Uruk form the theme of several epic tales. The sudden eclipse of the Akkadian empire long after Naram-Sin, which was wrongly attributed to that ruler’s presumed pride and the gods’ retaliation, is the theme of “The Fall of Akkad.” Akkadian epic tradition continues and gives focus to the Sumerian tales of Gilgamesh.
The Akkadian Epic of Gilgamesh seems to have been composed in Old Babylonian times but was reworked by a certain Sin-leqe-unnini later in the 1st millennium bce. It tells how Gilgamesh, the young ruler of Uruk, drives his subjects so hard that they appeal to the gods for relief. The gods create a wild man, Enkidu, who at first lives with the animals in the desert but is lured away from them and becomes Gilgamesh’s friend. Together they vanquish the terrifying Huwawa, set by Enlil to guard the cedar forest in the west, and, when on their return the goddess of Uruk, Ishtar, falls in love with Gilgamesh, is jilted by him, and sends the dread “bull of heaven” to kill him, he and Enkidu manage to kill the bull. At this point, however, their fortunes change. Enlil, angered at the killing of Huwawa, causes Enkidu to fall ill and die, and Gilgamesh, inconsolable at the death of his friend and terrified at the realization that he himself must someday die, sets out to find eternal life.
After many adventures he reaches his ancestor Utnapishtim, to whom the gods have granted eternal life, but his case proves to be a unique one and so of no help to Gilgamesh. Utnapishtim was rewarded for having saved human and animal life at the time of the great Flood. Eventually, just as Gilgamesh is ready to return home, he is told about a plant that rejuvenates and transforms old people into children. Gilgamesh finds it and begins his return journey. But, as the day is warm, when he passes an inviting pool he leaves his clothes and the plant on the shore and goes in for a swim. A serpent smells the plant, comes out of its hole, and eats it. Thus Gilgamesh’s quest comes to naught. Eternal life is beyond human grasp. The Gilgamesh epic is perhaps the most moving work in ancient Mesopotamian literature, with its sharp contrast of values: the warrior’s disdain of death and danger, which informs the early parts of the epic, and the haunting fear that drives Gilgamesh in the later parts.
Other Akkadian epics that deserve to be mentioned are the Etana Epic, which tells how Etana, the first king, was carried up to heaven on the back of an eagle to obtain the plant of birth so that his son could be born. Also important are the epic tales about Sargon of Akkad, one of which, the birth legend, tells of his abandonment in a casket on the river by his mother—much as the Bible tells that Moses was abandoned—and his discovery by an orchardman, who raised him as his son. Another Sargon tale is “The King of Battle,” which tells about conquests in Asia Minor to protect foreign trade. Naram-Sin is the central figure in another tale dealing with that king’s pride and also relating the destructive invasions by barbarous foes. A late flowering of primary epic is the Assyrian Epic of Tukulti-Ninurta (reigned 1243–1207 bce), which deals with that king’s wars with Babylonia.