[Author’s Note: Originally published in TRIVIA: Voices of Feminism, Issue 6, September 2007, www.triviavoices.net.]
Inland, beyond the coastline, among the islands numerous hills and woodlands, rise remnants of nearly 8,000 round stone buildings. The Nuraghi crafted these structures from basalt quarried miles from their villages, carried to each site by mule or by human labor. They burdened themselves with one-thousand-pound rocks to construct their sanctuaries near the springs that beckoned, the springs that would ease their thirst, quench their souls, bless their meals, invigorate and sustain their lives. An egalitarian, matrilineal society, the Nuraghi used these massive rocks, as well, to build round stone huts for meeting rooms. Inside these hollowed centers were encircled with basalt benches, resting places for the men and women who gathered to discuss the needs of the villagers, decide on how best to proceed for the good of the many.
Crafted by hand and with communal effort, Nuraghi men worked side by side with intention, creating homes, shelters, sacred spaces. Through their matrifocal culture, the women carried the memory of the Mother, the Divine Dea, Giver of Life, Midwife of Death. They instilled Her lineage in the blood of their children, their children’s children, the daughters and sons who would, century after century, carry the light forward.
Back further in time, down the meandering byways of memory, before the impulse to haul rocks and shape environment compelled the building of villages, hillside caves opened their stony mouths to cradle the island’s Neolithic people, protecting them from the rains, the fierce winds, the scorching sun. In these times, before written words marked their stories, the wild, untamed soul of humans mirrored nature. All that was necessary was taught by heart, etched upon dank cave walls, recited by tongues familiar with survival, accustomed to the sacred litany of cultural continuation. Many such cave-repositories can be found throughout the island of Sardegna.
At the necropolis of Montessu, in the southwestern region of the island, I spiraled into the Neolithic ages and sensed the echoes of prehistoric voices. Montessu is one of the largest of many ancient necropolis, dating from 3,500 BCE, carved out of stone by pre-Nuraghic Sardegnans. This massive site spans two square kilometers and contains more than 40 inter-linked tombs. Peoples of the Ozieri culture settled the area to farm and hunt. To bury their dead, they built hypogeums, “cities of the dead”. The entryways of these monumental sanctuaries stand two meters high and two meters wide, diametrically facing a natural rock amphitheater. Renowned for their typology, size and the intricate ways they replicate houses, these graveyards of prehistory incorporated windows, doors, and rooms uniting interior and exterior ritual spaces. The Ozieri placed foodstuffs inside, in tribute to their dead, seeking to feed their souls as they made their way to the world beyond this one.
Domus de janas, the locals now call Montessu and other ancient burial places like it, the tombs of the fairies. Tiny female creatures are said to inhabit these ‘houses’, many of which are adorned with bas-reliefs petroglyphs, potent symbols that archeologists associate with veneration of the Feminine Divine: the spiral, the ochre-red pubic “V”, the sacred horns, meandering lines, concentric circles.
Inside the domus de janas, the air is chilly, yet vibrant with energy. Carved out of rock, these tombs of the fairies were places where Neolithic men and women buried their dead, returning those whom they loved most dearly to the womb of the Earth. Ochre red spirals etched with prehistoric tools tattoo the coarse walls of now-silent tombs to mark the spot, the cave-place where human form returned to spirit. Into the exterior arch of the cave’s entryway was carved an embossed female figure, round-bellied, full-breasted, red “V”s pointing, like uterine arrows, toward home. In these rock tomb-womb portals, the lamentation of loved ones hovers, still, wailing loss, heaving sorrow into the echoes of time and space.
At Montessu, the dead walk among the living and the Sardegna air is perfumed with rosemary, juniper, and honeysuckle, awakening an urge in me to inhale deeply. I borrowed breath from the sky and filled my lungs, exhaling what was false, releasing it into the abyss of forgetfulness. I want to remember everything.
We humans have strayed far from our homeland, have long wandered alone in the desert of our amnesia. Have we learned nothing? Vivo and morto. The circle of life embraces the round mouth of the cave, the red O of the uterus. It births mysteries that can save and sustain us, if we will heed its call to silence. Where there is tyranny, how can there be love? Or peace?
Aggression reigns unchecked throughout the world, most recently in Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, but other places as well. Not too long ago, in Iraq and Afghanistan, Americans, supposed people of freedom, enforced liberty with the barrel of a gun. Prisoners beaten and humiliated in the name of truth-telling. We say we bring democracy, but our might and muscle are used to empty the heart of a proud people, long oppressed. Instead of freeing them we denigrate their spirit. How can they recognize an enemy from a friend when our arms come laden with bullets instead of open, welcoming hands?
For more than 7,000 years humankind has borne the scars of violence. That legacy began around 4,500 BCE when the early Indo-European, nomadic Kurgans emerged from the Russian steppes and launched incursions throughout northern Europe. Eventually these warrior people broadened their territory, invading the Aegean and Adriatic regions as well. Scholars, including the renowned Marija Gimbutas, tell us the Kurgans rode horse-drawn chariots and worshipped storm gods of vengeance and battle. Peaceful Neolithic peoples, whom the Kurgans encountered along the way, were ill equipped to combat such aggression. Even during the early Bronze Age the heirs of nonviolent Neolithic societies, such as the Nuraghi of Sardegna, fashioned metal and stone into tools and utensils, not weaponry. Jewelry, cooking vessels, urns, weaving implements, shamans’ wands, not daggers, not warriors’ lances. Their lands, often rich in silver, zinc, copper and obsidian, provided ample raw materials, which were traded among groups of people over vast distances. The Kurgans traded with these peaceful societies, fashioning the raw materials into swords and spears, turning the metallic fruits of the earth against those whose cultures were imbued with social harmony, whose principles embodied the beliefs of the sacred female.
(To be continued)