Mongolia Wilderness and Spirit

Exploring Mongolia: Where the Sky is a Deity

“Their ancestors lived in the same way for a thousand years, feeling the change of the seasons like moods and moving with them. Their knowledge of this land is ancient, the wind is their breath, the earth is their bed, and the dust of the steppe runs in their blood.” – Ian D. Robinson

In The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami, an old soldier named Lieutenant Mamiya recounts his harrowing experiences in Mongolia during the wartime years of the 1930s. While on a covert mission behind enemy lines, his unit is captured by Mongolian and Russian forces. Forced to witness the brutal skinned alive of a comrade, Mamiya is then thrown into the depths of a dry well and left to die.

The vivid imagery of Mamiya’s story stirred something deep within me. I longed to see Mongolia with my own eyes—to walk the land where such stories, both tragic and mythic, were born. I felt a growing fascination with Genghis Khan, the thirteenth-century conqueror who revered the sky as a living deity and proclaimed it the ultimate source of power as he forged the world’s largest empire. I yearned to experience the lingering spirit of his reign, to trace the echoes of a civilization shaped by wind, sky, and open steppe.

Ger Dwellers of Ulan Bator: Surviving the Cold in a City of Smoke

For centuries, Mongolian nomads have lived in Gers—felt-covered, tent-like structures designed to endure the extremes of the steppe. Yet in recent decades, the promise of better education and job opportunities has drawn hundreds of thousands to the capital. Today, Ulan Bator is home to nearly half of Mongolia’s population, with 1.3 million residents. Among them, Ger dwellers make up a significant portion, drawn by both affordability and cultural familiarity.

However, life in the city comes with new challenges. Many Ger districts lack access to central heating, leaving residents to face the brutal winter temperatures—averaging as low as 41.3 degrees Fahrenheit below zero in January—armed only with coal-fired stoves. The cold stretches well into April, and with each passing winter, the burning of coal clouds the sky with thick smoke.

Despite its name, which translates to “Red Hero” in Mongolian, Ulan Bator has earned a grimmer nickname among locals: “Smoky Hero.” The pervasive smog poses a growing threat to public health, a heavy price for the dream of urban opportunity.

From Yurts to High-Rises: Ulan Bator’s Rapid Transformation

Ulan Bator, the capital of Mongolia, is a city in transition. Yet it bears little resemblance to the typical old Asian urban centers often romanticized in literature and film. There are no winding alleyways, no bustling markets perfumed with spice and incense, no ancient temples tucked into crowded corners. Instead, Ulan Bator unfolds as a Soviet-style city, spread wide and austere, its skyline often veiled in a thick cloud of dust—a byproduct of rapid industrialization and unchecked urban growth.

One of the greatest challenges facing the city is its air quality. Coal-fired power plants, the primary source of electricity, release heavy plumes of smoke into the atmosphere. Meanwhile, a surge in motor vehicle traffic has worsened the situation, filling the streets with exhaust and congestion. Together, these forces have propelled Ulan Bator into the ranks of the world’s most polluted cities—a stark contrast to the open, windswept steppe that once defined Mongolian life.

The Winter Palace: Buddhism’s Revival After Suppression

The Winter Palace once served as the residence of the final Bogd Khan, a revered Buddhist leader and influential political figure, ranked third in spiritual authority after the Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama.

While I found my visit to be a sensory delight—captivated by the palace’s vivid display of colors and intricate artistry—for the Mongolian people, it holds a deeper meaning. The Winter Palace stands as a symbol of a rekindled spiritual heritage and hard-won freedom, both of which were brutally suppressed during the communist regime from 1921 to 1990.

During those decades of repression, Mongolia’s religious communities suffered greatly. Monasteries were destroyed, sacred traditions were outlawed, and countless monks were either executed or imprisoned, leaving deep scars across generations.

Yet since Mongolia’s liberation in 1990, Buddhism has experienced a remarkable resurgence. Monasteries have been rebuilt, spiritual practices revived, and the once-silenced heart of Mongolian identity beats loudly once again.

From Flock to Fashion: Mongolia’s Cashmere Economy

Mongolia is renowned for its exceptional natural resources, from vast reserves of copper and gold to one of its most coveted exports: cashmere. Despite a population of only three million, the country is home to over 50 million livestock, half of which are goats. These goats produce some of the world’s finest wool, the raw material for the luxurious fabric known as cashmere.

Among the few companies that have mastered the art of transforming raw fibers into high-quality products is the Gobi Corporation—one of only five leading firms globally specializing in the processing of camel wool and cashmere.

During my visit, I had the opportunity to tour Gobi’s facilities and engage in conversation with their marketing managers. I was energized by the scale of their operations and the vast business potential that cashmere represents. Still, as with any opportunity, careful research and a deeper understanding of the market are essential before taking the next step.

👉 If you’re interested in seeing more about the cashmere process, you can watch a short video introduction here.

Baga Gazriin Chuluu: A Granite Sanctuary in the Semi-Desert

Located approximately 160m (255km) from Ulan Bator, Baga Gazriin Chuluu is a breathtaking natural wonder. The vibrant greenery that surrounds the area creates a stunning panorama of silver, blue, purple, and beige hues. While en route to this site, we were treated to a rare and magnificent sight – a massive herd of over 2,000 gazelles crossing the road.

Baga Gazriin Chuluu is a sacred granite rock formation situated in the semi-desert steppes, a unique landscape that is characteristic of Mongolia. The steppes are vast, grass-covered plains with a gentle slope that create a picturesque setting. Our tent campsite was strategically positioned, offering spectacular views of the incredible rock formations, including the majestic Chuluun Sum, a Rock Temple that was built to honor the area’s spiritual significance.

Nomads, Silence, and Unexpected Comforts

Touring Mongolia is as much a test of endurance as it is an adventure. Outside of Ulan Bator, public transportation is scarce, and accommodations are few and far between. Most of the terrain remains rugged and unpaved, with vast stretches where human habitation is nowhere in sight.

To navigate these challenges, I joined forces with an experienced English guide named Jess, who runs a tour company alongside her local driver, Turuu. Our small group consisted of four travelers: a Swiss couple, a Canadian woman, and myself. We traveled in a sturdy Russian UAZ/Furgon, built to withstand the demands of the Mongolian wilderness.

Over the course of 23 days, we journeyed together, relying on Jess and Turuu’s deep knowledge of the land. Along the way, we found comfort in simple but welcoming accommodations—tents pitched beneath endless skies, traditional Gers nestled in the open steppe, and the occasional small hotel. Each day ended with hearty, nourishing meals, a welcome reward after long hours on the road.

Mongolia’s Nomadic Traditions: Life Beyond Borders

Mongolia, a land of staggering expanse, stretches across an area nearly half the size of Europe, bordered by the two great powers of China and Russia. While nearly half of its three million citizens live in and around the capital, Ulan Bator, the rest continue a way of life shaped by centuries of tradition.

Across the open steppes and rugged landscapes, nomadic families live in Gers—circular felt dwellings that have sheltered Mongolians since the time of Genghis Khan. In these enduring homes, life follows the rhythms of the land, much as it has for generations.

In Mongolia, the sky stretches without end, and the land itself seems to breathe with the memory of ancient riders.

Frontier Towns and the Spirit of the Wild South

Located in the North Gobi region, Mandalgov is a small frontier town that echoes the rugged character of many places we had already encountered, including the capital, Ulan Bator.

These towns share a distinct “wild west” spirit—dusty, open, and raw—evoking images of a land still carving its identity between tradition and change. Here, the frontier is not a relic of the past but a living, breathing presence, stitched into the vast, untamed landscape of Mongolia.

The Gobi Oasis: A Family’s Mission to Reforest the Desert

The Gobi Oasis Tree Planting Project is a family-run conservation site dedicated to restoring the fragile ecosystem of the Gobi Desert. During my visit, I had the opportunity to plant a tree, a simple act that connected me directly to the ongoing effort to manage carbon emissions in one of the world’s most extreme environments.

Although the contribution of a single young tree may seem small, each one has the potential to absorb up to 26 pounds of CO₂ per year. It is a modest but meaningful step—one that underscores how even small actions, multiplied over time, can contribute to the fight against climate change.

Planting that tree under the endless sky of the Gobi, I felt the quiet power of small beginnings.

Tsagaan Suvraga: Mongolia’s Painted Cliffs

Tsagaan Suvraga, known as the White Stupa, is a striking limestone formation that rises dramatically from the surrounding desert, its layered cliffs painted in stunning shades of white, pink, and ochre.

Standing before it, I was overwhelmed by a sense of pure joy and awe—a visceral reminder of nature’s ability to stir the spirit with its silent, timeless beauty.

In that moment, the desert felt less like an expanse of emptiness and more like a sacred canvas, painted by time itself.

👉 You can read more about my experiences and reflections on desert landscapes in my essay, Journeys in the Desert.

Journey to the Endless Horizons of the Gobi Desert

“The desert is so huge and the horizon so distant that it makes a person feel small, as if he should remain silent.” — The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

Venturing 75 miles (120 kilometers) south toward Tsagaan Suvraga, one is met with an endless, uninterrupted horizon—a powerful illustration of the Gobi’s vast and untamed landscape. This region is defined by its stark, unforgiving terrain: an expanse of emptiness and silence that offers the ultimate escape from modernity.

In the early morning light, the sun rises slowly over the desert as camels gather for their daily drink of water. A camel’s firm, tall hump is a sign of good health, while a drooping hump signals the need for food and water—a silent language of survival written across their bodies.

Life in the Gobi demands resilience. Here, survival is not taken for granted but earned daily through grit, adaptation, and an unbreakable bond with the land.

Riding Rugged: Off-Road in a UAZ Furgon

We are cruising across the rough Mongolian terrain in a Russian UAZ Furgon, built by the Ulyanovsky Automobile Zavod and renowned for its reliability and formidable 4×4 off-road capabilities, thanks to its high wheelbase and rugged design.

Our particular UAZ has been notably upgraded, featuring a Hyundai engine in place of the standard UAZ model—providing greater power and efficiency. Inside, the vehicle offers abundant storage, a practical and comfortable layout with both forward- and backward-facing seats, and an interior that evokes the warm, spiritual atmosphere of a Buddhist temple—almost complete with imaginary prayer wheels spinning in rhythm with the road.

Adding to its charm and functionality, the Furgon is outfitted with thoughtful amenities: a simple mobile kitchen, a sunshade for resting during midday halts, a small traveling library, and a 220V inverter/charger to keep essentials powered even in the most remote stretches of the desert.

Rolling across the endless steppe, the Furgon moved not just through space, but through silence and sky, carrying us deeper into the heart of Mongolia.

Is This the Ultimate Road Trip?

Undoubtedly, touring Mongolia is the ultimate “road trip” in every sense of the word. Some days, we drive for up to 10 hours across unpaved tracks; on others, we park at a site to rest and absorb the landscape.

Spending long hours on rough roads can be physically demanding, but it also creates a rare opportunity to fully immerse myself in the rhythm of the country—its culture, its people, and its untamed beauty. Traveling across Mongolia’s vast, open landscapes is less about reaching a destination and more about experiencing the raw power of nature itself.

By moving through these remote regions, I am able to witness the local way of life without intrusion, simply observing as a quiet guest of the land. This form of travel offers something increasingly rare: the chance to disconnect from the modern world, to let each day unfold without hurry, and to find space for reflection, wonder, and a fresh perspective.

In Mongolia, the journey itself becomes the destination—a place where the soul can stretch as wide as the horizon.

Where Mountains Meet Sand: Gurvan Saikhan National Park

We embarked on a 150-mile (240-kilometer) journey to Gobi Gurvan Saikhan National Park, where jagged mountains rise unexpectedly from the vast desert plains.

Formed by the same tectonic forces that created the mighty Himalayas, this dramatic landscape stands as a testament to the raw power that continues to shape the Earth. Here, the boundaries between desert and mountain blur, revealing a world where extremes coexist in stark, breathtaking beauty.

Khongoryn Els: Climbing the Singing Dunes

We embarked on a 44-mile (70-kilometer) drive along the base of Khongoryn Els, where towering sand dunes rise with an almost sculptural grandeur. Known as the Singing Dunes, these majestic formations earn their name from the melodic sound the shifting sands create when stirred by the wind—a low, resonant hum that seems to breathe with the desert itself.

Climbing to the top of the tallest dune, nearly 300 meters high, was both exhilarating and exhausting, leaving me covered head to toe in fine, warm sand. Yet the view from the summit—a sea of gold stretching endlessly under the open sky—was worth every step.

Our final night in the Gobi was spent in the warm company of a local host family, sharing songs, stories, and drinks late into the night—a fitting farewell to the spirit of the desert.

Under the vast Gobi sky, sharing songs and laughter with our hosts, I realized that true hospitality, like the desert itself, leaves its mark quietly and deeply.

Long Drive to Arvaikheer: A Landscape Unfolding

The 200-mile (320-kilometer) drive from the South Gobi to Arvaikheer in central Mongolia stretched across ten hours of ever-changing, breathtaking scenery. As the miles rolled by, I found myself reflecting on the old adage: It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.

Upon arriving in Arvaikheer, the vibrant energy of the local market immediately pulled me in. The colorful stalls, the rhythmic sounds of bargaining, and the raw, unapologetic scenes of meat butchering created a feast for the senses—an unfiltered glimpse into daily Mongolian life that left me both awed and humbled.

In the vibrant chaos of Arvaikheer’s market, I realized that Mongolia’s spirit reveals itself not only in its endless landscapes, but in the pulse of everyday life.

Echoes of Empire: The Soviet Legacy in Mongolia

Mongolia was the Soviet Union’s first satellite state—a geopolitical testing ground where many of the economic and administrative models later applied across Eastern Europe were first implemented.

Even today, traces of Soviet influence remain visible—not only in the architecture and infrastructure, but also in elements of the country’s governing style and institutional mindset.

I felt this legacy most strongly in the heart of Ulan Bator, where the gray, utilitarian buildings and wide, empty boulevards echoed the aesthetics of Eastern Bloc capitals. One afternoon, I stood before an old, crumbling concrete apartment block—its structure functional but soulless, its walls etched with decades of wear. It felt like a leftover from a script no longer being performed, a quiet monument to a system that once promised order but often delivered erasure.

That moment reminded me how history doesn’t always fade—it lingers in form, in atmosphere, and in the quiet way people lower their voices when speaking of the past.

Khogno Khan Nature Reserve: Hiking After the Storm

“The steppe has one other unchanging characteristic: day and night, summer and winter, in foul weather or fine weather, it speaks of freedom. If someone has lost his freedom, the steppe will remind him of it.” — Vasily Grossman

As we continued our journey northward, the landscape shifted dramatically. The vast blue skies of the southern plains darkened into a ceiling of heavy, foreboding clouds. Soon, a powerful rainstorm engulfed us, transforming the road into a blur of water and wind. And yet, even through the downpour, the surrounding steppe radiated a kind of majesty—an austere beauty that only deepened beneath the weight of silence and storm.

When we finally arrived at Khogno Khan Nature Reserve, the rain had softened into a quiet mist. I set out on a solitary hike along the dunes, their gently dampened contours now glistening under a slate-gray sky. With no destination in mind, I wandered—drawn forward by the sheer stillness, the sense of timelessness that clung to the wind-sculpted hills.

It was an unforgettable experience. In that boundless, weather-washed expanse, I felt a quiet freedom settle in—a freedom not granted, but remembered.

The Del: Mongolia’s Iconic Garment

The Del is more than just traditional clothing—it’s a symbol of Mongolia’s adaptability, identity, and cultural continuity. Worn for centuries across the steppes, this robe-like garment is remarkably functional: it shields against the elements during the day, serving as both windbreaker and raincoat, and transforms into a warm blanket at night.

Beyond its practicality, the Del is also a visual expression of Mongolia’s rich ethnic diversity. Its colors, patterns, and tailoring often reflect the wearer’s region, status, or tribe, making it not just attire, but a wearable story. Whether in a remote nomadic camp or at a city festival, the Del remains a timeless emblem of tradition woven into everyday life.

Why Did the Mongol Empire Collapse?

“With Heaven’s aid I have conquered for you a huge empire. But my life was too short to achieve the conquest of the world. That task is left for you.” — Genghis Khan

The fall of the Mongol Empire was not the result of a single failure, but rather a convergence of internal weaknesses and external pressures that gradually eroded its cohesion and power.

One of the most significant challenges was the sheer scale of the empire. Stretching from China to Eastern Europe, the Mongol Empire was the largest contiguous land empire in history. Yet its vastness became a liability. As the territory expanded, centralized governance grew increasingly difficult. Local rulers, once loyal to the Great Khan, began to act independently, fragmenting authority and weakening unity.

Another contributing factor was the overextension of military resources. The Mongol army, though formidable, was in a near-constant state of warfare. This relentless campaigning strained manpower and logistics, making it difficult to sustain the momentum that had once powered their conquests.

Perhaps most destabilizing were the internal power struggles and succession disputes that erupted after Genghis Khan’s death. Rivalries among his descendants led to civil wars and competing khanates, fracturing the once-unified empire into autonomous regions with diverging interests.

Finally, external pressures played a decisive role. In China, the rising power of the Ming Dynasty eventually overthrew the Mongol-led Yuan Dynasty in 1368. Similar resistance and resurgence of local powers occurred throughout the empire’s former territories.

In the end, the Mongol Empire collapsed under the weight of its own size, internal disunity, and the resurgence of regional powers. What had once been an unstoppable force fragmented into fading legacies—reminders of an era when horseback warriors ruled the horizon.

A Feast of Fat and Bone: The Mongolian Diet

The Mongolian diet is unapologetically centered around meat. Fatty cuts are not just preferred—they’re essential for survival in Mongolia’s frigid winters. Nearly every dish includes meat in some form. You might think you’ve ordered pancakes, only to find broiled mutton tucked inside. For carnivores, it’s heaven. For me—not exactly my thing, but no complaints.

Milk, too, is abundant and surprisingly varied. It comes from horses, camels, yaks, goats, cows, and sheep, each with its own distinct flavor. Much of it is stored in leather sacks to ferment, eventually producing a mildly alcoholic drink with an alcohol content of about 3–5%.

Two of the most popular menu items are Buuz and Khuushuur. Buuz are steamed dumplings stuffed with mutton and occasionally flecked with onion or garlic. Khuushuur, on the other hand, are deep-fried mutton pancakes—crispy, oily, and heavy in the best way. A smaller version of Buuz, known as Bansh, is often served floating in milk tea, adding warmth to an already hearty dish.

In the countryside, meals inside a Ger are even more elemental. Traditional dishes like boiled mutton (Makh) are served without plates or utensils. You simply gather around a communal pot and dig in—picking your way through a bucket of bones until a good slab of meat catches your eye. No forks required—just your fingers and a well-wielded buck knife to slice off generous chunks. Leaving scraps is frowned upon; Mongolians pride themselves on picking a bone clean.

I remember one meal clearly: the steam rising in soft spirals from the battered aluminum pot, the rich smell of fat and bone filling the space, the quiet concentration of everyone leaning in, sleeves rolled up, hands slick with grease. Outside, the wind howled across the steppe. Inside, we sat in shared silence, bound together not by words but by meat, tradition, and the cold we were holding at bay.

Mealtime is often punctuated by a round of vodka, accompanied by a small ritual to honor the sky gods and the four cardinal directions. There’s no single way to perform it, but it typically involves dipping your left ring finger into the vodka, flicking droplets skyward in four directions, and then wiping your finger across your forehead. This custom dates back centuries, when silver rings were believed to detect poison—if the metal changed color after contact with the vodka, it might be best to pass on the toast.

In a culture shaped by exposure and endurance, food is more than sustenance—it’s a testament to survival, to generosity, and to the quiet pride of a people who live in harmony with their land.

Eating Like a Mongol: Nutrition, Beliefs, and Contradictions

The Great White Lake is a mesmerizing destination, a mirror of sky and stone at the heart of central Mongolia. Its alpine waters are surrounded by volcanic craters, jagged peaks, meandering rivers, and rolling hills painted in every shade of green.

Our hosts, Batbold and Jargaa, welcomed us with warmth and generosity. That evening, we sat cross-legged in their Ger and were treated to a classic Mongolian feast: Makh—tender chunks of boiled sheep, bones and all, served alongside soft potatoes. The meat was fatty, primal, and steaming, laid out in a communal pot from which we each selected our cuts with bare hands.

Mongolian cuisine is rooted in survival, not indulgence. Meals are hearty, utilitarian, and often bland—centered around boiled mutton, fat, and organ meats. In recent years, the incorporation of wheat, rice, and potatoes has added modest variety. Still, for many rural families, the traditional nomadic diet remains deeply carnivorous, shaped by the harsh climate and limited growing season.

That said, what Mongolian meat lacks in spice, it makes up for in purity. The livestock is entirely grass-fed, free of antibiotics, hormones, or industrial feed. With little industry outside Ulan Bator, the air, water, and soil remain largely unpolluted. In this sense, Mongolia offers some of the cleanest animal protein available on the planet.

But is it healthy?

Not long before this trip, I had adopted a mostly vegan diet—my decision influenced by documentaries like Forks Over Knives and What the Health, which argue that many modern diseases—cardiovascular, diabetic, and even some cancers—are linked to the consumption of animal products and processed foods. Their solution is clear: if we want health, we should choose plants.

And yet, here in Mongolia, I found myself re-examining that conclusion.

A simple comparison struck me: Mongolian life expectancy is higher than that of Laos, a developing country with a primarily rice- and vegetable-based diet. This doesn’t prove anything definitive, but it does suggest that animal-based nutrition alone may not be the primary culprit behind modern chronic illness—especially in its unprocessed, ancestral form.

As I sat with these thoughts, Jargaa handed me a warm, wet rag to wipe the grease from my fingers. We had eaten with our hands, as is customary, and I had washed down the meal with a bowl of Airag—fermented mare’s milk, tangy and effervescent, with about 2–3% alcohol. In Mongolia, even the booze is derived from beasts.

I’m not a big fan of mutton, and I still intend to follow my version of a plant-forward diet. But that night, under the low light of the Ger, with sheep fat on my fingers and mare’s milk on my breath, I couldn’t help but wonder: perhaps it’s not the animal foods alone that trouble the modern world, but the way we’ve stripped them of context—industrialized, processed, and severed from any relationship with the land.

To Lake Khovsgol on Horseback: A Traveler’s Dream

Today, I met Tal, an Israeli traveler with a wild glint in his eye and the quiet determination of someone on the edge of something extraordinary. His plan? To buy two horses and ride them across 280 miles (450 kilometers) of Mongolian wilderness, all the way to the remote, pristine shores of Lake Khovsgol.

There was something raw and deeply admirable in his vision—no guides, no support vehicles, just a man, his horses, and the open steppe. In a world that so often craves comfort and certainty, Tal’s journey felt like a throwback to an older kind of bravery—the kind that tests not only your body, but your solitude, your instincts, and your willingness to trust the land.

It’s an audacious plan, yes—but more than that, it demands a rare kind of courage. The kind that whispers: go anyway.

Where Desert Meets Taiga: The Beauty of Arkhangai

The Arkhangai region is a remarkable oasis nestled in the heart of Mongolia, where two extreme worlds converge. It serves as a natural bridge between the arid heat of the Gobi Desert to the south and the icy stretch of the Siberian taiga to the north. Here, the landscape is a breathtaking blend of contrasts—rocky mountains give way to rolling grasslands, while pockets of tranquil forest offer shelter from the wind-swept steppe.

This region offers more than just scenic beauty—it provides a living window into Mongolia’s enduring nomadic culture. The herders of Arkhangai still live in harmony with the land, moving with the seasons and tending to their livestock as their ancestors did for centuries. Visitors are often welcomed into their gers, offered a bowl of airag (fermented mare’s milk), and invited to share stories by the fire. These moments—humble, genuine, and steeped in tradition—offer a rare and intimate glimpse into a way of life that continues to thrive in quiet defiance of time.

Kharkhorum: Mongolia’s Sacred Capital Reborn

Kharkhorum, located in central Mongolia, was once the beating heart of a vast empire. Founded by Ogodei Khan, the second Great Khan and son of Genghis Khan, it served as the capital of the Mongol Empire during its height in the 13th century. More than just a political center, Kharkhorum was a hub of trade and diplomacy, connecting China, Russia, and Europe through the Silk Road’s arteries.

Among its most sacred landmarks is the Erdene Zuu Monastery, the oldest surviving Buddhist monastery in Mongolia. Built in the 16th century on the ruins of the ancient capital, it is surrounded by a massive wall adorned with 108 stupas—a symbolic reference to the 108 beads of a Buddhist mala, used in meditation and prayer. For centuries, this monastery served as a place of pilgrimage, reverence, and learning—an anchor of spiritual life for Mongolians.

However, the communist era brought devastating changes. In an effort to sever the deep connection between spirituality and everyday life, monasteries were closed, many destroyed, and thousands of monks were imprisoned or killed. What remained was a cultural and spiritual void, a silence where chants once echoed.

In recent decades, Mongolia has witnessed a quiet revival. Efforts to restore the monasteries have taken root, and the spiritual essence of Kharkhorum has begun to re-emerge. Erdene Zuu stands once again, not just as a monument to resilience, but as a living testament to the endurance of faith and identity. Now recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, it draws both pilgrims and travelers—those seeking history, and those seeking something more ineffable: presence, peace, and connection.

To walk among the stupas, in the shadow of mountains and centuries, is to feel the pulse of Mongolia’s sacred heart still beating.

Remembering my Father: Reflections on Life, Legacy, and Interconnectedness

On this day—the 9th of Av, Tisha b’Av—I pause to remember my father, who passed away seven years ago. It is a day of mourning in Jewish tradition, layered with historical sorrow and collective memory. For me, it is also deeply personal—a time to honor the life he lived, the values he passed on, and the quiet ways his presence still lingers.

As I reflect on his legacy, I’m reminded of how intricately we are all connected—from his generation to mine, and now to my son’s. We are not isolated threads, but part of a larger, interwoven tapestry—carrying forward the stories, strengths, and struggles of those who came before us.

Life moves in cycles, not straight lines. Grief and gratitude, loss and love, endings and beginnings—they circle through us, shaping who we become. In remembering my father, I feel not only the weight of absence, but also the continuity of spirit.

We are never alone in our journey. We walk it with those who shaped us, and those we now help shape.

May his memory be a blessing, guiding me through the cycles of life with love and wisdom.

The World in a Pattern: Lichen as Nature’s Abstract

Lichen is a remarkable organism—a symbiotic fusion of fungus and algae—that can grow on nearly any outdoor surface, given the right environmental conditions. It tends to thrive in places where moisture is abundant, light is filtered or low, and the air remains clean and unpolluted.

To me, lichen is more than a biological curiosity. Its organic patterns, subtle color shifts, and textured layers evoke the feel of abstract paintings—compositions shaped not by brushstrokes, but by time, wind, and water. There’s something quietly awe-inspiring about the way it transforms stone, bark, or bone into living canvases.

During my journey through Mongolia, I found myself repeatedly drawn to these natural markings. I documented countless surfaces adorned with lichen, each one offering its own silent story—complex, intricate, and impossible to replicate by human hands.

Terror as Tactic: The Brutality of the Mongol Army

During the Mongol invasions, one of their most feared and effective tactics was chillingly simple: surrender and be spared—or resist and face annihilation. While often described with the term “decimation,” the word barely scratches the surface of the horrors that followed defiance. Entire cities that resisted Mongol rule were subjected to mass slaughter, rape, and enslavement—erased not just from maps, but from memory.

The Mongols understood the strategic power of terror. News of their brutality was deliberately spread, not hidden. In doing so, they harnessed one of the earliest and most devastating tools of psychological warfare. The mere approach of a Mongol army could cause cities to capitulate without a fight—proof that fear itself had become a weapon.

From Fear to Resilience: The Spiritual Reclamation of Mongolia

And yet, despite this legacy of conquest and fear, Mongolia today tells a very different story. The land once ruled by an empire built on terror now breathes a quiet resilience. In place of war cries, you hear the wind across the steppe, the soft bells of grazing animals, and the murmured prayers of monks rebuilding what was once destroyed.

Mongolians have not forgotten their past, but neither are they bound by it. The scars of history have given way to a renewed embrace of tradition—of spiritual practices, nomadic wisdom, and cultural pride. In monasteries like Erdene Zuu and in humble Gers across the countryside, the rhythm of daily life beats in tune with something far older and more enduring than empire.

Building a Ger: Ritual, Design, and Meaning

Mongolians are known for their exceptional hospitality, beautifully captured in a popular saying:

“Happy is the one whom guests frequent. Joyful is the one at whose door guests’ horses are always tethered.”

Rooted in a nomadic lifestyle, Mongolian families rarely stay in one location for long. Their homes—gers, also known as yurts—reflect this mobility. Ingeniously designed to be easily assembled, disassembled, and transported, the ger is not just a shelter, but a cultural symbol of adaptability, community, and harmony with the land.

While setting up a ger can be quick and efficient, it remains a communal act. Traditionally, the entire family takes part, and even passersby are expected to lend a helping hand—a gesture that reinforces the deep social bonds among nomadic herders. During our journey, we were invited to help a group of herders construct a temporary ger as they moved between their summer and autumn grazing grounds. The experience was both physically grounding and emotionally humbling—a small role in a much older rhythm of life.

The ger’s compact, circular structure fosters close family ties and has remained largely unchanged for over 2,500 years. Even Marco Polo noted their widespread use during his time in the Mongol Empire. Genghis Khan’s own ger was said to be mounted on a massive wheeled cart, pulled by twenty-two oxen—an emblem of both power and mobility.

The word ger simply means “home,” and its construction carries great care and cultural meaning. One must never build a ger atop the foundation of an abandoned one, as doing so is considered inauspicious. The entrance always faces southeast, toward the rising sun—symbolizing light, warmth, and orientation. This placement not only aligns with spiritual beliefs but also serves a practical function, helping the family track time and harness morning light.

At the center of every ger is the stove, both literally and symbolically—the hearth around which life revolves. Upon entering, it is customary to move clockwise around the stove, honoring a tradition that reflects the Mongolian reverence for order, nature, and ancestral balance.

The Bloody White Baron: Mongolia’s Unspoken Chapter

I first learned about Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg through James Palmer’s extraordinary book, The Bloody White Baron: The Russian Nobleman Who Became the Last Khan of Mongolia. Until then, I had never heard his name. Yet within the chaotic pages of early 20th-century history, few figures stand out as more brutal, delusional, or darkly mythic.

Ungern-Sternberg was a fanatical White Russian aristocrat—deeply antisemitic, obsessed with Eastern mysticism, and consumed by a violent hatred of communism. In 1920, with a ragtag force of Siberians, Japanese, native Mongolians, and fellow White émigrés, he stormed into Mongolia and seized control. For a brief and terrifying period, he ruled with unhinged ferocity—torturing, executing, and terrorizing friend and foe alike. At the height of his madness, he envisioned raising a horse-borne army to march back into Soviet Russia and reclaim a czarist empire from the communists.

Given the bizarre and blood-soaked nature of his saga, I was surprised to find no mention of him in the exhibits at the Mongolian National History Museum. Nor did I hear his name in conversation with locals. It struck me as odd—this ghost of history, who once declared himself the reincarnation of Genghis Khan, had vanished from the collective memory of the nation he briefly ruled.

Palmer captures the scope of Ungern-Sternberg’s deranged vision with chilling clarity: “He dreamed of a return to an age of khans and emperors, of warriors who feared nothing but the gods, and of cleansing the world through fire and blood.”

Perhaps it is because his reign was not only cruel but deeply shameful—an episode of foreign domination and chaos that stands in stark contrast to the pride Mongolians take in their cultural resilience. Ungern-Sternberg may have wielded power in Mongolia, but he was never truly of it. His story feels less like part of Mongolia’s past than an intrusion upon it—one best left buried beneath the steppe.

Landscapes of Freedom: Under the Eternal Blue Sky

Mongolia is often called the Land of the Eternal Blue Sky—a name born from its rare and striking climate. With over 250 days of sunshine each year, the sky above the steppe appears boundless, a brilliant blue dome that seems to stretch beyond the edge of the earth.

This vastness is more than a visual experience—it’s a feeling. The open landscapes of Mongolia, with their grassy steppes, gentle hills, and towering mountain ranges, provide a backdrop of sublime stillness and space. Beneath this endless sky, one feels both small and profoundly free.

For the Mongolian people, the eternal blue sky is more than weather—it is spirit. It symbolizes freedom, independence, and an intimate connection to the natural and sacred forces that shape their nomadic way of life. The sky is not something above—it is something within, guiding movement, shaping ritual, and offering quiet assurance that there is always space to breathe, roam, and belong.

Lake Hovsgol: A Jewel of the Siberian Taiga

“From the air Mongolia looks like God’s preliminary sketch for earth, not so much a country as the ingredients out of which countries are made: grass, rock, water, and wind.” — Stanley Stewart

Lake Hovsgol, nestled in northern Mongolia along the Russian border, is one of the most pristine and awe-inspiring bodies of water in Central Asia. Often called the “younger sister” of Lake Baikal, this majestic lake is part of the southern reaches of the vast Siberian Taiga. Its waters are astonishingly clear—so transparent you can see deep into its blue-green soul.

Holding an estimated 1–2% of the world’s freshwater supply, Lake Hovsgol is not only a national treasure, but a global one. Surrounded by dense coniferous forests, alpine meadows, and snow-capped peaks, the lake feels sacred—timeless and untouched.

The air is crisp. The silence profound. And when the wind brushes across the surface of the lake, it’s easy to believe you are standing not just in a remote corner of the earth, but in the early sketch of creation itself.

Women of Mongolia: Strength, Leadership, and Legacy

Mongolian women have long held a unique and powerful place within their society. In traditional Mongol culture, when men rode off to war, women assumed their roles—managing livestock, maintaining the household economy, and at times even defending their communities. They were skilled in animal husbandry, hunting, and survival, creating a practical equality that was rooted in necessity and resilience rather than ideology.

Unlike many other traditional Asian societies, Mongolian culture historically placed greater value on fertility than on female purity. This distinction fostered a different kind of social freedom for women—one tied to strength, continuity, and contribution to the nomadic way of life.

Today, this legacy continues in striking ways. Modern Mongolian women are not only seen as equals; in many cases, they lead. In rural areas, while men are often away herding livestock, trading in markets, or handling repairs, women tend to remain closer to the home—and as a result, attend school for longer periods. This has created a remarkable educational gap: nearly 80% of Mongolia’s university students are women.

In Ulan Bator, the capital, this translates into real influence. Women hold an estimated 70% of skilled jobs, particularly in fields such as education, healthcare, law, and finance. Their presence is not only visible—it’s shaping the future of Mongolian society.

Tengerism and Shamanism: Ancient Beliefs in Modern Mongolia

I didn’t witness any Shamanic rituals directly during my time in Mongolia—except for one unforgettable night. It was the full moon, and the silence of the steppe was broken by a rhythmic drumming that echoed across the valley like a heartbeat from another world. Later, I learned that the sound had come from a nearby Shamanic ceremony.

Shamanism, practiced across northern Asia and parts of Europe, is rooted in a belief in an unseen world—one inhabited by gods, spirits, demons, and ancestors, accessible only through the mediation of shamans. In Mongolia, this spiritual tradition is deeply tied to Tengerism, the ancient indigenous religion that once guided the Mongol Empire under Chinggis Khan.

Tengerism teaches reverence for the Eternal Blue Sky (Tengri), gratitude to the gods, and a moral responsibility to live in balance with nature. Though it was suppressed for centuries—first by Buddhism and later under communist rule—this ancient faith is quietly resurging as Mongolians reconnect with their ancestral beliefs and the spirits of the land.

One aspect of Mongolian Shamanism that continues to intrigue me is its approach to natural healing. Healing is not simply the administration of herbs or chants. In the Shamanic worldview, illness is often seen as the result of supernatural intrusion or natural imbalance—a disharmony in the energy field of the individual or their environment.

The shaman, acting as an intermediary between the human and spirit worlds, calls upon helping spirits to uncover the source of this disharmony. These spirits not only guide the diagnosis and treatment, but also protect the shaman during their trance-induced journeys. The power and effectiveness of a shaman are believed to be directly linked to the strength of the spirits who dwell within or accompany them.

There is something deeply humbling about this belief—that healing requires more than medicine or knowledge. It requires communion, trust, and alignment with something far older, and far less visible, than science can explain.

Conclusion

To travel across Mongolia is to be reminded of what endures—sky, stone, silence, and the quiet strength of people rooted in the land. It is not a place that offers easy answers, but one that invites you to listen differently—to hoofbeats, to wind, to memory.

And somewhere between the steppes and the stars, you begin to sense that freedom is not always found in movement, but in belonging—to the earth, to each other, to something vast and unseen.

July – August 2014