I had always heard of the term animism. Throughout my years learning about my own culture and comparing it with other indigenous traditions across the Himalayas, this word kept appearing in books, articles, and lectures. Scholars and culture enthusiasts used it freely. Some found it fascinating while others dismissed it as archaic. Yet I could not help but wonder, if this word truly captures the essence of our belief system? And if it does, is it really irrelevant?

The term animism was first coined in 1720 by the German doctor G. E. Stahl to describe a medical idea that the soul directed the processes of the body. Over a century later, the anthropologist Edward Burnett Tylor reimagined the term in a broader cultural frame, describing it as the essence of all religions. Tylor viewed animism as the earliest human attempt to make sense of the world, a tentative, imperfect science, an effort to explain life, the difference between the living and the non-living, the human and the divine.

In modern parlance, however, the definition of animism has evolved. As research has deepened, scholars now describe it as the belief that within ordinary, visible, tangible bodies there exists an invisible, intangible being: the soul or spirit. Each culture has its own distinctive animistic beings and its own elaboration of what the soul is and how it interacts with the world. This perspective moves beyond Tylor’s simplistic definition of animism.

In the Himalayas, this definition is remarkably appropriate. Among cultures rooted in Shamanism, people believe in embodied spirits inhabiting natural landscapes, guardian spirits that watch over human settlements, and invisible divine forces described in mythology. Himalayan animism is deeply woven into the way these communities perceive the world. However, when compared with the philosophy of organized religions, their theological scriptures, melodic hymns, and grand rituals, animism can seem, at first glance, archaic. A larger, more persistent question then emerges. Is animism really primitive?

Let us first understand the word ‘primitive’. From an etymological standpoint, the word primitive comes from the Latin primus, meaning “early” or “first.” Over time, however, its meaning became derogatory. By the nineteenth century, it had acquired a hierarchical meaning, used to describe societies that European scholars believed existed at an earlier stage of human development. This language gradually shaped how indigenous belief systems, including animism, were perceived, as remnants of a less rational and evolved humanity.

Although modern scholars no longer equate primitive with inferiority, the term still lingers in subtle ways. Many tribal or indigenous societies continue to be labeled as primitive, and this notion often becomes one of the criteria for defining a “tribe.” In fact, the very word tribe itself can carry connotations of being regressive. This reveals how deeply these colonial hierarchies of thought persist in modern discourse. The word primitive, thoroughly colonial in its making, continues to carry the popular undertone of being “not modern.” In light of this prevailing understanding of the word, it becomes worthwhile to examine whether animism can truly be called primitive.

If we view animism merely as a shaman shaking to the beat of a ritual drum, we do the term a grave disservice. At its core, Animism is a worldview. It is a way of seeing existence as an indivisible whole. It does not split life into subjects and objects, and understands the world through relationships. Every form of being participates in a network of connection and reciprocity. This perspective finds prominence across the Himalayan region. The Kirati Khambu honor Honkumaang, the river spirit, and Thampungmang, the forest guardian. The Jirel recognize Phu, the mountain spirit, and Nagu, the river spirit. The Magar people respect Bhume, the earth spirit, and Masto, protective ancestral spirits. The Gurung pay homage to their ancestral mother, and Ghyang, the nature spirits. Across this Himalayan worldview, countless other spirits inhabit rivers, forests, and peaks, reminding us that the natural world is inseparable from human life, and that our existence is merely a small part of the expansive whole.

This is what anthropologists Nurit Bird-David and Tim Ingold describe as a relational epistemology. It is a way of knowing that arises through participation. Bird-David explores this idea in her influential essay “Animism Revisited: Personhood, Environment, and Relational Epistemology”, while Ingold expands on it in his book The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill (2000). Both argue that animism is not a primitive misunderstanding of the world, but a sophisticated philosophy of relationship. It is a way of being that recognizes the self only through its connection to others, human and non-human alike.

This concept of relational epistemology represents a deeply sophisticated understanding of how knowledge is born. In the animistic worldview, knowledge arises from participation and relationship. A shaman or the tribes learn from nature by listening or engaging with its flow and entering into dialogue with its spirits. This kind of knowing demands attentiveness and reciprocity. Today, different domains, such as, ecology, phenomenology, and environmental philosophy are being developed through this very concept.  Relational epistemology recognizes that humans are not separate from their surroundings and all sentient beings are a part of a living continuum. It is an alternative view, one that seeks harmony rather than domination.

Animism invites us to see that consciousness and agency as not confined to humans alone. In this worldview, mountains, rivers, forests, and animals are living presences, each capable of acting, responding, and shaping the world around them. A river can protect or punish, a forest can guide or withhold, and a mountain can command attention and respect. This is far from superstition, as it resonates with contemporary ecological and philosophical insights. Thinkers like Bruno Latour (Reassembling the Social, 2005) and Philippe Descola (Beyond Nature and Culture, 2013) describe this as distributed agency. The ability to act, influence, and sustain the environment is shared across humans and non-humans alike. Animism, in this sense, presents a subtle and sophisticated ontology and it dissolves the rigid boundaries between subject and object, to see life as an interconnected web of beings.

Furthermore, animism offers a sophisticated metaphysics of life and death. In this worldview, death is simply a transformation as the spirit endures, taking on new forms within the world. This perspective requires a subtle understanding of continuity, evolution, embodiment, and, in some sense, spirituality. Even though it does not dwell on theological speculations or scientific notions of nothingness, it offers a distinct way of knowing, combining spiritual and ecological truths into a cohesive understanding of life. Life and death are part of an ongoing cycle, a dynamic interplay in which humans, animals, plants, and even the landscapes themselves participate, each contributing to the evolution and continuity of being.

Animistic thought is also based in careful observation of the patterns and cycles in the natural world. It constitutes an empirical system, determined by active participation and attentive engagement. Cultivated over generations, indigenous ecological knowledge, has often proven more sustainable and resilient than industrial scientific practices. In this sense, animism develops alongside science, forming a distinct epistemology grounded in experience and relationships with the world. Its sophistication emerges from participation, and a deep understanding of life’s patterns and flows.

Thus, would it be fair to call animism primitive? In the Himalayas, we are not immune to Western thought and ideology. Subtle colonial lenses still shape the way we interpret the world, and the comforts we enjoy are often the fruit of Western science and innovation. Yet to dismiss animism as primitive is to misunderstand its depth. Animism is neither a relic of the past nor an exclusively Eastern concept, just as modernity is not purely Western. Both are frameworks for engaging with the world, equally capable of revealing truths.

Overall, animism is about perception. It helps us see the world as a dynamic network of relationships. It teaches harmony and reciprocity, compatible with scientific understanding. Even if we set aside personified spirits prevalent in indigenous tribal beliefs, animism reminds us that nature is alive and intelligent. Its spirits embody transformation, balance, the power to nurture, challenge, and forgive. In recognizing this, we move beyond ourselves as the center of the universe, acknowledging that everything around us carries essence. Whether we call it spirit, soul, energy, consciousness, or something else is a matter of personal reflection.

Many years ago, when my grandfather passed away, the ancestral house in Ghaiyabari, near Kurseong, filled with quiet sorrow. People gathered from nearby villages, women sat close together, weeping in hushed tones, while the men spoke softly of his life, his integrity, and his small but steady kindnesses. The rites were performed in the old way, with rice grains, and ritual speeches that had passed unchanged through generations. When it was time, we carried his body to the edge of the nearby forest, a sacred patch of land that belonged to our family, where my grandmother and uncle had also been buried.

The Khambu Rai people have always practiced burials, though I recall a few exceptions, cases where individuals had embraced the Hindu way of life, and were cremated according to it’s customs. But my grandfather, a devout Kirati Khambu to his final breath, would have chosen no other path but a proper burial, rooted in our traditions. I had never visited that part of our land before. It lay deep within the property, dense with undergrowth, past the cardamom fields, across a narrow stream and a stretch of muddy terrain, where weeds grew wild. Among Rai families in the hills, there are no designated cemeteries. The dead are returned to the very soil they once tilled and walked and spoke to. Perhaps that is where the soul feels most at home.

When the rituals ended, five full days of chants, offerings, and sleepless vigils, a concrete tombstone was raised over his resting place, his name and age etched neatly upon it. At the time, it felt ordinary, almost expected. Yet over the years, I have found myself questioning whether this act truly belonged to our way of life. Traditions may shift with generations, but philosophies endure. And so I am left to wonder if, within the Khambu understanding of the world, the idea of claiming a fixed space upon the earth was ever truly ours.

In recent years, I have noticed how tombstones have quietly become the norm among the Rai people. Without much reflection, many have begun to mark burial sites with concrete or marble slabs, what we call Kapur, as if permanence could grant dignity to the dead. These graves, framed in cement or adorned with polished tiles, have become familiar across the hills. Yet, I often wonder whether this practice actually belongs to our lineage. Even in Nepal, especially in the Jhapa and Morang regions, where British rule never reached, similar tombstones have appeared. To me, these feel like later additions, the quiet inheritance of Christian or colonial influence, rather than a continuation of our ancestral ways.

In truth, a Khambu Rai grave is never meant to defy the seasons or the rain. It is a quiet affair, built to return gently to the earth rather than stand against it. A simple layer of clay is spread over the burial mound. The Khaling Rai dig a pit and cover it with bamboo lattice and straw to make a tomb-house known as Salamkam. While building this tomb-house, the side near the feet of the deceased is made slightly lower, and the side near the head a little higher, so that even in death, the body seems to rest in a natural slope of the land. Upon this chamber, the deceased’s personal items are placed, his walking stick, bamboo basket (doko), and other items.

Among the Kulung Rai people, if a person passes before the age of fifteen, a white mourning cloth, is tied in the names of two female relatives. For those older, four names are invoked, and the cloth remains above the grave for three months, bound between pairs of bamboo poles that sway softly with the breeze. This piece of fabric carries the weight of remembrance. The Khaling Rai grave-house is left standing, but the Kulung, after a year, dismantle it and mark the site with simple stones. This task is performed by two men known as Khamphochim, those believed to be untouched by spirits. When death comes by misfortune, the Chihan Ghar is taken down that very day, a humble gesture to restore balance between the seen and unseen worlds. Nowhere in these rituals lies the intent to immortalize the dead through monuments of stone. The Khambu grave, like the body it holds, must yield to rain and time, returning to soil, merging with the earth, and becoming life once more.

Among the Thulung Kirat Rai, burial is a deeply sacred, highly structured practice, guided by the type of death and the wisdom of the Shaman and the elders. Temporary structures, bamboo markers, and ritual objects are placed around the grave, and prayers are recited for the well-being of both the living and the departed. Even when children die or deaths occur unnaturally, the practices adapt, guiding the spirit without permanent monuments. In all of these customs, there is no notion of raising a tombstone or creating a permanent marker; the rituals emphasize spiritual guidance and ancestral connection rather than concrete memorials.

Why, then, have we come to set cold stones above our dead? If the Khambu Rai people are meant to live by the way of Sumnima (the divine earth-mother spirit), why seek permanence in marble or concrete, when our philosophy calls for harmony with the ever-turning cycles of nature? In life, we partake of the earth’s generosity, drawing nourishment from its fields and forests. In death, we are meant to give it back, to dissolve quietly into the soil that sustained us.

Reverence in Khambu Rai culture is expressed through the Samkhalung, the sacred hearthstone, where our forebears’ spirits linger, quietly watching over the living and guiding the household with gentle wisdom. In contrast, tombstones are not part of this tradition; they mark a space, but they do not nurture the ongoing cycle of life. Would it not be more in keeping with our worldview to plant a tree above the burial mound, a living sentinel that grows, blossoms, and bears fruit? Through its roots, it nourishes the soil, drawing life from the same earth that once cradled the deceased, and in turn sustains new life. In this way, even in death, we maintain our dialogue with the earth, giving back more than we take.

In Khambu philosophical understanding, death is neither a final ending nor a reason for sorrow alone. It is a return, a transformation, a rejoining of the eternal cycle that binds all living beings. To mourn by erecting stones is to misread the philosophy we inherit. As Kirati Khambus, our reverence is expressed through life itself: by planting, by nurturing, by letting the earth bear witness and remember. In this way, the cycle continues, and the memory of those who have passed becomes inseparable from the living world they once walked.

I know that my vision may not dissolve the colonial mindset we have inherited for decades. People will continue building tombstones, just as they always have. Yet I am certain, somewhere, someone will be touched by the notion of staying true to our worldview, even as traditions evolve. If my grandfather, who lived and breathed the Khambu way, were to look upon my perspective, I believe he would have agreed. And in that quiet approval, perhaps the cycle of life and memory will find its truest expression, not in a tombstone, but in the living earth itself.

Back in 2014, when I first offered my time to an organization dedicated to preserving the cultural traditions of the Kirati Khambu Rai in Darjeeling, I stepped into a world I had always carried with me, yet scarcely understood. I knew the names of our ancestors, the patterns of our migrations, the outline of our history, but not the cadence of the traditions that bound spirit to soil. I could fumble through Chamling sentences and recognize the offerings of Samkhalung during Chhowa. But the deeper aspects of my culture, the meanings behind the Mundhum, the sacred logic of the rituals, the worldview etched in symbolic actions and inherited ways of life, remained elusive.

For years I had lived comfortably within the architecture of modern life, working in a firm that developed web applications, surrounded by the glowing screens of another world. I wore Western clothes, watched American shows, thought in English, but never once doubted the fact that I was Kirati. It was a knowledge I did not question, though I rarely turned toward it. It was only through years of listening, recording, and slowly learning to see as my elders see that something shifted. The distant became intimate. The inherited became deliberate. Sure, I had always identified as Kirati Khambu, but had I truly understood what that meant? Had I, even then, possessed ethnic consciousness?

Ethnic consciousness is the lived awareness of belonging to a distinct cultural group, marked by inherited identity and a reflective understanding of its meaning, boundaries, and significance in relation to the wider world. As Fredrik Barth observed in his influential introduction to Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference (1969), what defines an ethnic group is not the cultural content itself but the boundaries that are maintained between groups. This kind of self-awareness does not always emerge organically. It often surfaces in moments of tension, contact or marginalization. It is when a community begins to recognize its own patterns, beliefs and ways of life as markers of identity rather than just inherited customs that culture becomes conscious. This shift from living culture to self-aware identity is subtle but transformative. It turns tradition into a basis for collective strength, advocacy and survival in a world that demands clear definitions.

Here, it is crucial to understand what ethnicity truly means. It should not be mistaken for far-right notions of ethnicism, tribalism, or racial superiority. Ethnicity is a lived experience of belonging to a people defined by their unique customs, languages, and ways of relating to the world. It is the emotional and cultural attachment to traditions passed down and practiced daily. For elders and cultural stewards, the quiet erosion of this inheritance is a deep and silent wound. For the young, drawn by the pull of cities and the promise of new opportunities, such detachment may feel like freedom. Yet every language forgotten, every rite left unperformed, risks severing a vital thread in the vast tapestry of human possibility.

Ethnic consciousness often intensifies when a culture is under threat. This is a familiar pattern among indigenous peoples worldwide. As John and Jean Comaroff explain in Ethnicity, Inc., communities frequently turn to their ethnic identity as a means of reclaiming visibility and asserting agency when faced with marginalization or cultural loss. In the Darjeeling region and its surroundings, this is evident among communities near Bagdogra and Salugada. There, Kirati organizations and other tribal groups in the Duars have been actively engaged in reviving their ancestral traditions, organizing large annual festivals, and renewing their focus on language and cultural preservation with growing success.

In my experience, exclusion often plants the first seed of ethnic consciousness. When communities are overlooked by institutions, denied access to basic facilities, or left out of larger conversations, something shifts. People begin to turn inward, for survival, and to remember. Slowly, this inward turn can grow into a movement. I’ve seen it happen, where neglected languages are spoken again with care, where long-forgotten festivals are revived. These acts are quiet affirmations. Through every ritual performed, through every endangered word uttered, there’s a message being sent: We are still here.

But exclusion isn’t the only path to awareness. Sometimes it begins in far gentler ways. I’ve watched people become conscious of their roots simply by being part of a cultural organization. In spaces where shared memory is honored, a kind of camaraderie forms that nudges people to look deeper into themselves. Some join out of curiosity, others because they carry a pride in ancient ancestry. And then there are those who seem unsure at first. They may not know the rites, may not speak the language fluently, but carry a quiet, generational awareness. Over time, with every story shared, every ritual observed, they begin to see more clearly. Their journey inward doesn’t come all at once, but gradually, as they begin to understand that their identity has always been there, waiting, just beneath the surface.

At the same time, migration, urbanization, and tourism have created new conditions for reflection. When individuals leave their ancestral lands for cities or foreign countries, they often find themselves re-evaluating what it means to belong. Culture, once taken for granted, becomes a thread of memory and longing. Interestingly, tourism plays a dual role in this process. While it sometimes risks flattening culture into spectacle, it also pushes communities to examine and articulate their traditions with renewed clarity. And perhaps most crucially, cultural transmission, serves as the foundation of ethnic awareness.

Ethnicity today is often spoken of as if it were fixed and self-evident, but as scholars like Jean and John Comaroff argue, it is anything but static. Rather than a single, solid identity, ethnicity is better understood as a living process. It is a set of shared signs, languages, customs, and sentiments through which people come to recognize themselves and one another. Its meaning changes depending on history, politics, and experience.

Among the Kirati communities of the Himalayas, for instance, ethnicity is attached to oral traditions, agricultural rituals, sacred landscapes, and kinship patterns but it is also shaped by the pressures and incentives of the modern state. With the promise of recognition, representation, or access to Scheduled Tribe benefits, some individuals begin to express their ethnic identity more visibly in public, even if those same traditions are fading at home. In such cases, ethnic performance may appear strategic, but it still reflects the larger reality that identity is now being negotiated in a world where visibility matters. As modernization and state narratives press in, this once quiet identity must become conscious and, at times, even performative.

But is this really ethnic consciousness? If identity is displayed only for political recognition or material gain, can it still be called awareness in the deeper sense? This question lingers in many corners of our community, and I’ve often found myself asking it quietly when I see festival costumes worn like uniforms, or rituals performed without memory. When culture is practiced only in the open, but forgotten at home, it risks becoming a performance for the gaze of others, whether governments, researchers, or tourists.

And yet, even strategic displays can carry the seeds of something more meaningful at least among some individuals. Sometimes, performance precedes belief. A young person who joins a festival ritual out of obligation may still be moved by something glorious within it. A checkbox on a form may lead someone to ask, “What does this actually mean?”. While wearing a traditional attire, one might feel a sense of pride. Therefore, while ethnic consciousness may begin in the political, but for it to truly take root, it must become personal. Something to be experienced, remembered, lived, and slowly carried inward.

Over the years, I’ve met many such individuals who first wore their identity for convenience or recognition, but later found themselves asking profound questions. What begins as a borrowed ritual or an attendance can easily turn into an inward journey. Some start picking up books on culture and history, flipping through old photographs, or listening to the elders they once ignored. I’ve also seen people who barely spoke their mother tongue begin to search for its words again. In time, the costume becomes a memory, and the memory becomes meaning. Ethnic consciousness is not always inherited in full. Sometimes it is rediscovered, piece by piece, story by story, until what was once external becomes internal.

So, did I truly have ethnic consciousness back then, when I first began volunteering in 2014? Perhaps not in its full form. I had fragments, memories, names, rituals heard in passing, a sense of belonging that was more intuitive than articulated. What I carried might be better described as latent awareness, a quiet certainty that I was part of something older, though I hadn’t yet turned to face it fully. Over the years, through listening, reading, asking, and sometimes simply being present, that awareness grew. It matured into something more deliberate, and reflective.

But this consciousness has not come without its complications. At times, it has slowed me down and led me to question the paths I might have taken more easily if I had chosen to forget. At other times, it has grounded me. In a world that urges constant reinvention, it offers continuity. In the noise of modern life, it gives coherence. I live fully in the modern world. I embrace technology, learning, and new ways of seeing. I value inquiry, skepticism, and the pursuit of truth. These shape my thinking. My identity as a Khambu moves alongside these values. I live with both. I think with both. I carry both. This awareness has brought clarity to my perspectives. It has shown me that identity forms through engagement, memory, and lived experience. And that to move meaningfully in this world, one must first know where their feet are standing.

The inhabitants of the grand Himalayan belt, from the highlands of Ladakh in the west to the narrow valleys of Arunachal Pradesh to the east, and squeezed between the great Tibetan plateau to the north and the vast Gangetic plains to the south, have enjoyed a true democratic nature of religious harmony for hundreds of years, if not thousands. The people of the Himalayas have always chosen to follow religious beliefs that have suited them, individually or socially. Even today, in this belt, name a belief and you will find someone following it. Influences from different belief systems seem to thrive greatly amongst the ever accommodating, simple, and God-fearing people from the abode of the snow.

However, it wasn’t always so; at least not in the case of Shamanism and Vajrayana Buddhism in Tibet. From the mythical legend of the journey of Ngathi Tsanpo, a Kaurava prince from the epic of Mahabharat, who fled north, after the Kurukshetra war, and founded Yarlung Dynasty as the first King of Tibet, to the inception of Vajrayana in the 7th Century AD, and to the present time of the 14th Dalai Lama, Tibet has lived through the period of a radical shift from its occultic Shamanistic faith of Bon, to an institutionalized religious system of different schools of Tibetan Buddhism and ecclesiastical philosophy today.

From the Totemism of Africa, Tengrism of Mongolia, Bon of Tibet, Animism of the Himalayas; different names with similar practices can be found in the widespread beliefs among the people of these lands, who were afraid of and prayed to the various manifestations of the forces of nature, the living and the dead alike.

In recent memory, from the written scriptures of Vajrayana tantras, these beliefs began to slowly wane in the Tibet-Himalayan region after the arrival of a great tantric guru from the western Himalayas; the one who is revered today as Guru Rinpoche, the Precious Master. Although the Vajrayana tantras originated in India around the 5th Century AD, the principal Lotsawas (translators of Buddhist texts) from Tibet, like the great Sambhota, Janasutra, Vairotsana, Yudra Nyingpo, Rinchen Zangpo, and Marpa among many in between 7th to 12th Century AD, contributed greatly to give the form and structure of the traditionally oral method of teaching.

In Christianity, there is the transition from the Old Testament, where the Book of Leviticus talks greatly of sacrificial rituals and festivals to the New Testament, where Lord Jesus Christ ends these traditions with his ultimate sacrifice for the sins of mankind. In Buddhism, there is actually an interesting antithesis in its narrative vis-à-vis Christianity. While the Tripitaka chronicles the life and philosophy of Lord Buddha who, himself lived and preached the life of middle path and compassion, in an analogous way like Lord Jesus Christ did with righteousness and love, in the New Testament; the later chronicled tantric texts of the Vajrayana Buddhism, like the Kriya Tantra, Dzongchen Tantra, Mahayoga Tantra, and so on are replete with symbolic sacrificial rituals, derived from Bon, which are reminiscent of the Old Testament.

How and why did this transformation occur has, in theory, much to do with the ubiquitous practice of shamanic tradition of Bon in Tibet. One of the most fascinating legends of this transition can be found in the account of the life of Jetsun Milarepa, who having mastered sorcery based on Bon practices, later regretted and went through a rigorous atonement to get accepted as a student of Marpa, and finally becoming a great lineage holder of Tibetan Buddhism himself.

Although Bon predates Buddhism, they have both co-existed in a paradoxical way by their contradictory beliefs but converging in ritualistic practices. An interesting example to illustrate the case is the usage of offering the Torma to the protector deities. Incidentally, the Torma offering is a pacifistic Buddhist version of the bloody animal sacrifices of the erstwhile Bon tradition. Today, even the Bon of the modern environment has taken a non-violent approach to appeasing its deities. The Yungdrung Kundraling Bon Monastery in South Sikkim, one of the seventeen existing Bon monasteries in the Himalayan belt, can be mistaken for a Buddhist monastery. Only the keen eyes and subject experts can spot the differences.

Another convergence in practice is the usage of Phurba (Vajrakilaya) or the ritual dagger, which is widely accepted as the object popularized by Guru Rinpoche, but at the same time has a history in Bon rituals preceding the Vajrayana tradition.

Although not commonly heard in the popular retelling of the spiritual history of the Himalayas, the mythical founder of Bon, Tonpa Shenrab, today, draws similar retelling of his birth and life, in the same vein as the lives of Guru Rinpoche and Shakyamuni Buddha. Like I said, for the ever-accommodating and simple people of the Himalayas, faith is not a subject to challenge. Hence, Tonpa Shenrab, co-exists today alongside Guru Padmasambhva & Buddha.

One of the most important factors in keeping with the harmony of beliefs in the Himalayas is the acceptance that God is beyond human understanding. The people of the mountains don’t try to question the existence of Gods, and their designs on humans. Both the Bon and the Buddhist believe in life after death. Both believe in the celestial universe, deities, sentient beings, and the sum of their appeasement.  Both inherently believe in karma and the principle of cause and effect.

This synergy of beliefs can be a great lesson for the world today. When there is a chronicled schism within some major religions due to their beliefs, here are Bon and Buddhism, with differences in metaphysics, yet united in people and practices. This is the symbiosis that the world needs in modern times.

High in the mist-veiled cliffs of central Nepal, where the sky breaks open above rhododendron forests and ancient stone villages cling to the earth, the Gurung people have, for generations, practiced a tradition as audacious as it is sacred: the harvesting of mad honey. In recent years, this rite has found its way into the global spotlight—through viral videos and the curious chatter of podcasts, but the gaze of the outside world often settles on the spectacle: men dangling on handmade ladders hundreds of feet above the forest floor, braving swarms of Himalayan giant bees for the intoxicating nectar that lies hidden in the hive.

This holy ceremony is traditionally conducted by an elder who calls forth the cliffs’ guardian spirits and maintains peace between the bees and hunters. This spiritual groundwork reflects the Gurung community’s deep-seated belief in the interdependence of all living beings. The elder’s remarkable immunity to bee stings is often cited as proof of this sacred bond—not a miracle, but a testament to a life lived in balance and reverence for the natural world.

In a prosperous year, nature bestows its gifts in abundance. Honey drapes the boulders in golden cascades, and armed with little more than ropes and woven baskets, the Gurung people set out in small bands, sometimes with extended families who, at times, unite in larger gatherings to celebrate the season’s wealth. Yet these journeys are never random. Each path follows the contours of ancestral land, well-trodden and steeped in memory. Every stretch of terrain and its bounty are entrusted to guardian spirits. Whether the harvest is wild fruit, the yield of cultivated fields, or the revered honey, the most coveted nectar of all, it is gathered under an unspoken covenant between the land and its keepers.

Parallel practices emerge in Sikkim and Darjeeling, where accounts tell of humans forging pacts with animals and insects. For instance, elders recount rituals where jungle-goers who prayed to forest spirits or communicated with ants and spiders were spared from leech and insect attacks. These accounts may seem otherworldly in the modern era, yet they highlight an eco-spiritual ethos where humans coexist with other sentient beings in a web of mutual respect and responsibility.

Of course, no instrument of science can measure this covenant, no microscope can reveal the threads that bind bee and man, cliff and spirit. And yet, one glimpses a worldview carved from centuries of coexistence. It is simply a belief in reciprocity. The natural world, in this Himalayan imagination, is not a warehouse of resources but a parliament of beings, each with its own agency, its own right to exist. What science may call superstition, the Himalayan worldview might understand as memory—a pact, renewed in each season, that all who dwell upon this fragile Earth are bound by the same breath.

Central to this worldview is the concept of eco-spirituality, a belief system that intertwines environmental consciousness with spiritual practice, advocating for a deep, respectful relationship with the natural world. In the Himalayas, this reverence for nature has been at the heart of shamanic traditions for centuries, where sacred rituals, ancestral wisdom, and an intimate connection to the land form the foundation of spiritual life.

What all of this means is that at the core of both eco-spirituality and Himalayan shamanism lies the belief that nature is sacred. The land is not merely soil and stone but a sentient force, pulsating with spiritual vitality, where every being is kin, bound by the same ancestral essence. We are, in the truest sense, woven from the same primordial thread. Shamans, infused with divine energy, serve as the bridge between humanity and the unseen world, channeling rituals that pay homage to the forces sculpting existence itself.

By this very nature, all humans, regardless of culture, share an intrinsic mental perception or a universal shamanic consciousness. Whether this latent faculty is woven seamlessly into daily life, as it was for the ancients, or accessed through the labyrinth of memory embedded in tradition, depends solely on one’s awareness, orientation, and the depth of their interconnected understanding.

In the West, voices like Henry David Thoreau stood as early sentinels of a philosophy that saw nature not as backdrop but as teacher, sanctuary, and moral compass. His retreat to Walden Pond was not an escape but a deliberate act of communion—a spiritual experiment rooted in simplicity and solitude. In many ways, Thoreau’s vision echoes the animistic ethos of Himalayan communities. Thoreau was not alone. John Muir, wandering the Sierras with his pockets full of biscuits, wrote of the wilderness as a cathedral—an unbuilt temple where God might be encountered not in script but in the curve of a river or the ancient patience of a glacier.

In the Himalayas, many shamanic rituals are aligned with the rhythms of the Earth. Shamans often conduct ceremonies that correspond to the seasons—marking the winter solstice, the spring equinox, and the harvest period—celebrating the cycles of nature and ensuring that the human community stays in harmony with the environment. These rituals are seen as a way of thanking the Earth for its abundance and asking for blessings for the upcoming season.  Eco-spirituality, too, places great importance on the cycles of nature and the spiritual significance of the seasons. Many eco-spiritual practices involve seasonal rituals that honor the Earth’s gifts, such as planting trees during the spring equinox or celebrating the harvest in the fall. These practices serve as a reminder that we are part of a larger cycle of life, death, and renewal, and that our actions must respect and nurture the Earth’s natural cycles.

Eco-spirituality draws heavily from this traditional knowledge, emphasizing the need to learn from indigenous practices and honor the wisdom of our ancestors. By reconnecting with the land and learning from the deep ecological understanding embedded in shamanic traditions, eco-spirituality encourages a return to more sustainable ways of living—rooted in respect for the Earth.

In the modern era, the teachings of both Himalayan shamanism and eco-spirituality have never been more relevant. As we face unprecedented environmental challenges, the spiritual lessons of interconnectedness, balance, and healing offer much-needed guidance. Young people today, in particular, are turning to eco-spirituality as a way to reconnect with nature in an increasingly disconnected world. Practices such as forest bathing, nature meditation, and eco-activism offer pathways to spiritual fulfillment while also contributing to the well-being of the planet.

In my work with Kirati Khambu Rai cultural organizations and through engaging with other groups such as the Tamangs, Magars, and Gurungs, I’ve frequently encountered a telling phrase in Nepali that culture enthusiasts often repeat: “Bhai, khas ma chai hamro parampara/ritithiti/bhesbhusa yesto rahecha ni,” which translates to, “Brother, originally our customs/rituals/traditional attire were like this.”

A friend of mine, Ashish, who advocates for embracing modern cultural movements, once remarked with a touch of scepticism, “If we’re talking about the original traditional attire of every culture, it would be leaves and animal skins.” Though his comment was made with a playful intent to provoke someone like me, it holds an undeniable element of truth.

Today, when indigenous Himalayan communities gather to celebrate their festivals in open fields, they assert their identity through distinct ethnic symbols. These include traditional attire, often woven in fabrics whose style, colour, and patterns signify their ‘clan’ or identity. Interestingly, while these elements are ascribed great antiquity, there is little evidence to support their age-old origins. In fact, much of this “traditional” apparatus is either modern or influenced by later cultural developments. For instance, most Himalayan tribes have upper garments for men, yet their lower attire is often the Daura Suruwal—an outfit widely acknowledged as non-indigenous to the tribes of the Himalayas. Adding to this, many men wearing traditional upper garments opt to pair them with jeans. Attires change, and so does culture, reflecting the uncertainty of both tradition and identity.

Thus, it can be said that culture is not a static construct but a dynamic, ever-evolving force influenced by history, environment, and human interaction. This fluidity is particularly evident in Himalayan societies, where traditions have been shaped by the flow of time, external influences, organized religions, and the shifting needs of communities. From a sociological perspective, it becomes clear that while some traditions fade with time, others adapt, endure, and evolve reflecting the resilience and creativity of human societies. Yet, one might contend that even as culture evolves, it must be preserved to uphold a robust cultural identity. Without this, what remains of its essence?

Here, it is crucial to recognize the distinction between preserving culture and clinging uncritically to archaic traditions. The former fosters a unique identity, nurturing kinship and belonging, while the latter risks suffocating a community’s natural growth. Just as ecosystems flourish through adaptation and change, so too must cultures transform to stay vibrant. For communities like the Kirati Khambu Rai, who have long drawn inspiration from nature, resisting cultural change and embracing rigidity would be a profound irony.

What truly deserves preservation is not the entirety of culture in its static form but those traditions that enrich a community’s sense of identity. Accepting the fluidity of culture is essential—allowing it to shift and adapt organically ensuring its relevance in changing times. By embracing this natural flow, communities can honour their heritage while making space for innovation and new expressions, so that their traditions remain vibrant and meaningful for generations to come.

Thomas Sowell, a distinguished economist and social theorist, has delved deeply into the evolution of cultures and traditions, particularly in the context of conquests and cultural exchanges. In his book Conquests and Cultures: An International History, Sowell examines how cultural differences, both within and between nations, have shaped the economic and social trajectories of peoples and civilizations across centuries. This observation resonates in the context of the Himalayas, where communities have continually reshaped their traditions to adapt and survive amidst the challenges of the modern world.

Sowell argues that cultural evolution is significantly influenced by historical events such as conquests, migrations, and the dissemination of human capital. He suggests that while some cultural elements are lost or transformed through these processes, others adapt and endure, contributing to the dynamic nature of cultural identity. This perspective aligns with the observation that traditions, including those in the Himalayan region, are subject to change and amalgamation over time.

The Himalayan region, known for its rich diversity, offers a microcosm of how cultures interact and evolve. Communities like the Kiratis, Tamangs, Gurungs, and Magars have developed unique traditions over centuries, but these traditions have not remained isolated. Trade, migration, and religious influences have facilitated a continuous exchange of ideas, rituals, and philosophies.

Take, for instance, the Kiratis of the ancient Kathmandu Valley. Their traditions, as described in ancient Lichhavi inscriptions, differ vastly from those practiced by Kiratis today. These inscriptions mention the veneration of Matindevkul, a female deity revered by the ancient Kirats. However, its connection to the modern reverence for Sumnima by the Kirat Rais or Yuma by the Limbus remains uncertain. Similarly, indigenous groups also honour feminine powers in various forms—be it Ajima of the Newars, Machakomma of the Chamlings, Mangchemma of the Bantawas, or Honku Mang, the divine female river spirit, alongside the more universal “Boju Devi.”

What is unclear, however, is whether the ancient Matindevkul has evolved into these household female spirits, now worshipped distinctly by each community, or whether her significance has been quietly diminished over time. This ambiguity underscores the dynamic nature of cultural transformation, where fluidity shapes new practices while leaving parts of the past in shadows.

In The Invention of Tradition, Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger write, “We should expect it (invention of tradition) to occur more frequently when a rapid transformation of society weakens or destroys the social patterns for which ‘old’ traditions had been designed, producing new ones to which they were not applicable, or when such old traditions and their institutional carriers and promulgators no longer prove sufficiently adaptable and flexible, or are otherwise eliminated.”

This statement highlights how traditions adapt in response to societal changes. As communities encounter rapid transformations—whether from external influences, shifting needs, or modern pressures—their old traditions may no longer be effective. In such situations, new traditions are often created or adjusted to help communities preserve their identity while navigating the changing landscape.

Historical shifts, including the rise of Hinduism and Buddhism, have introduced new elements while marginalizing some older practices. Yet, amidst these changes, certain traditions persist because they hold deep significance, acting as cultural anchors. This phenomenon illustrates a critical point: cultural elements that endure are often those revered or deemed essential by their communities. At the same time, the loss of certain practices is inevitable, reflecting changing priorities, environments, and values.

Shamanism, a cornerstone of many Himalayan cultures, exemplifies the fluid nature of traditions. Historically rooted in animism and the deep connection between humans and nature, shamanism has undergone various changes over time. External religious influences, such as Hindu and Buddhist philosophies, have introduced syncretic practices. Tamang shamans (Bompos) may integrate Buddhist mantras into their rituals while preserving core elements like the Lha (soul) and the shamanic journey.

One key insight is that traditions do not survive solely because of historical continuity. They endure because they are revered—imbued with meaning and value by the community. Rituals, songs, and festivals tied to shamanic practices or nature worship continue in part because they resonate deeply with cultural identity and collective memory.

However, the reverence for certain practices also raises questions about what is lost. When oral traditions fade, or languages erode, the intricate details of rituals and cosmologies risk being forgotten. This loss does not diminish the adaptability of culture but highlights the importance of documentation and preservation efforts. Ethnographic studies, storytelling, and education are crucial in ensuring that even fading traditions find a place in the broader narrative of human history.

The fluid nature of culture is both its strength and its vulnerability. As traditions adapt to new circumstances, they demonstrate resilience, but this process also entails the loss of practices that no longer seem relevant. Environmental changes, shifting societal needs, and external pressures all contribute to this duality.

The story of Himalayan civilizations illustrates that culture is not a monolith but a living, breathing phenomenon. While acknowledging the inevitability of change, it is essential to preserve and document traditions that form the foundation of a community’s identity. Efforts to safeguard languages, rituals, and oral histories are not about resisting change but about ensuring that the essence of a culture endures through its evolution.

Only if we ponder upon the transformative nature of traditions, and accept it, can we truly achieve a balance—celebrating the dynamism of culture while honouring the legacy of the past. In doing so, we recognize that even as traditions change, they endure as crucial components in the continuous evolution of human civilization.