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gilgemish

gilgemish Death in ancient Mesopotamia was something to be dreaded. Nowhere is there mentioned an afterlife condition comparable to our ideas of heaven. Their netherworld, endured by all, must have been the prototype of our idea of hell. It’s a place wherein souls “are bereft of light, clay their food” and “dirt is their drink.” They are ruled over by the harrowing figure of Ereshkigal, forever rending her clothes and clawing her flesh in mourning over her endless miscarriages. These unpleasant descriptions are a natural reaction to the experience of burial, being trapped within the earth where no light can reach and nothing can grow. In Gilgamesh, Enkidu bewails his fate “to sit with the ghosts of the dead.” This envokes claustrophobic imagery of having to crouch for eternity, but it might also be related to the fetal position that bodies take on at the onset of rigor mortis, sometimes causing bodies to sit up. Another consistency among the dead is decomposition. Eventually all bodies are stripped of their distinguishing features. Every man, regardless of his position in society while alive, is eaten away until all that remains are his bones, and then these are ground to dust. This observation can be found in Gilgamesh when Enkidu has his dream of the dead. “On entering the House of Dust, everywhere I looked there were royal crowns gathered in heaps, everywhere I listened, it was the bearer of crowns who in the past had ruled the land, but who now served Anu and Enlil cooked meats, served confections, and poured cooled water from waterskins.” The kings of old are forced, in the netherworld, to serve their masters food and water that they cannot partake of, being dead. The strangest, and perhaps most poetic, description of the inhabitants of the netherworld is that “They are clothed like birds in wings for garments.” In Gilgamesh, when Enkidu has his dream of the dead, he says of Anzu, “He...turned me into a dove, so that my arms were feathered like a bird.” Why would the dead, interred within the earth, be clothed like birds, inhabitants of the skies? The wings are a mockery of their condition. They, who in life surely looked enviously upon the birds in the sky, have in death been given wings, and have nowhere to fly to. Today we speak of angels, up in heaven, getting their wings, but the imagery here is better suited to Dante’s Inferno. Dirt for water, clay for food. Sounds pretty dismal, but there may be reason to believe you wouldn’t want the food down there. Those who are sent on an errand to the netherworld are cautioned not to partake of any water or food offerred them. In Inanna’s Descent Enki fashions an elegist and myrmidon out of the dirt beneath his fingernails, appropriately for their task is to the netherworld. Enki warns these two that, “They will offer you the river at its high water, may you not except it. They will offer you the field when in grain, may you not except it.” Perhaps by refusing the water and grain they are mimicking death? More likely, the food and water of the netherworld are poisonous to mankind. When Inanna is subdued in Inanna’s Descent, she is transformed into a “slab of tainted meat.” Important here is the reference to butchering. Inanna is not just reduced to a rotting corpse, but a slab of meat as it would have been portioned off for human consumption. Mesopotamians would have encountered the experience that meat gone bad is poisonous to our system. In Gilgamesh, at the gates of Mount Mashu, the netherworld is guarded by Scorpion-beings. In the tale of Nergal / Ereshkigal, Ea warns Nergal, “When they bring you a chair, do not proceed to sit upon it.” In other words, do not assume the posture of the dead. “When the butcher brings you meat, do not proceed to eat it. When the brewer brings you beer, do not proceed to drink it....She (Ereshkigal) will let you see her body, You must not become aroused as man and woman.” The netherworld is not the place for sexuality, which leads to reproduction, new life, and through generations, a means of conquering death. It is presided over by a Goddess crazy with grief as, one after the other, the children she produces are stillborn. The sexual liaisons between Nergal and Ereshkigal, each lasting for seven days, do not produce a child (or at least no mention is made of one). Given Ereshkigal’s history this is probably for the better. In Inanna’s Descent, when Dumuzi is being taken to the netherworld as a substitution for Inanna, his sister laments, “Woe, my brother who will not wed a wife, will not have a child.” Enkidu never conceived. In all the readings, those beings who descend to the netherworld are generally messengers or servants of the gods, and I assume they have no offspring. The rangers, who ascend with Inanna from the netherworld, besides not eating or drinking, “have no fathers, mothers, wives, brothers, sisters, or children.” Basically, the only beings who have access to the netherworld are those who are not involved in reproduction, who do not live on through the generations. Perhaps this hellish afterlife is only the fate of those humans who do not bear children? More likely, this all just alludes to the fact that when a person dies, only part of him is irrevocably lost, while another part of him is maintained through his offspring. Thus, the terrible image of Ereshkigal and her stillborn children. The Goddess of the netherworld is creating only death. In the Enuma Elish, when Tiamat and Apsu comingle their waters to produce the gods, each is described as representing an advancement over their parents. Today, we view the concept of evolution in terms of progressive advancement, though this is not inherent in the theory. This is because the lines of evolution eventually lead to us. Death, in this view, is integral to the process of advancement, for if nothing died then nothing would change. Once again, In the Enuma Elish, the world we inhabit was created by portioning out sections of the slayed corpse of Tiamat. An act of destruction must preceed an act of creation. Later, Marduk says, “Let one, their brother, be given to me. Let him be destroyed so that people can be fashioned.” Here, humankind is created through the act of killing the rebellious god Quingu. Perhaps, being created in such a way, human life was tainted from the beginning, requiring them to suffer the same destructive act by which they were created. This is the “fate of mankind.” Everythings gotta die. In early Mesopotamia death must have been prevalent. It must have come often and unpredictably. The Tablet of Destinies, upon which (it is assumed), the time of death for every person was established, seems to get passed around alot. In the Enuma Elish, it is given to Quingu by Tiamat, and is eventually retrieved by Marduk who presents it to Anu. Traditionally, it was supposed to reside in the netherworld with Ereshkigal. Yet, In Ishtar Queen of Heaven, it is Ishtar in collaboration with Anu, Enlil, and Ea, who decree destinies. Now, in establishing a destiny, the time of death would necessarily be included. Or perhaps not. In Gilgamesh, Utanapishtim tells the despondent hero, “the Annunaki, the Great Gods (in which Ishtar, Anu, Enlil, and Ea are included), assembled. Mammetum (Earth Mother), she who fashions destiny, determined destiny with them. They established Death and Life, but they did not make known the days of death.” Well, whether through the conflicts of the gods or simply by its ommission, The time of a person’s death cannot be known. In Gilgamesh, “No one can see death, no one can hear the voice of death, yet there is a savage death that snaps off mankind.” No fair! Good people die! In Gilgamesh, Enkidu is fated to die for transgressions in the eyes of the gods that he committed with Gilgamesh. Enkidu did not actually commit any of these acts (“I did not kill the cedar!”), but nonetheless it is he who bears the punishment. This situation gives the reader two major avenues of insight into the way Mesopotamians dealt with death. The reaction of Enkidu upon learning of his fate, and the reaction of Gilgamesh to the loss of his friend. Learning of one’s imminent demise necessarily provokes strong emotional responses. It’s difficult to retain one’s dignity in such a circumstance. This type of reaction must also have been experienced in Mesopotamia, as can be seen in the plaintive, almost hysterical, tone of Assurnasirpal in On Occasion of Illness. Nowhere in Mesopotamian literature is there a more poignant example of this then in Enkidu’s reaction to his dream of death. He curses the Cedar Door, fashioned from the towering cedar they removed from the forest. He is cursing his own creation as time and labor wasted. He then curses the trapper, who was the first to recognize his greatness and report of it to Gilgamesh. Here he curses what was previously his good fortune, because it led eventually to his misfortune / death. Finally, he curses the Harlot, wishing upon her all sorts of unsavory punishments. It is here that Shamash moves to scold Enkidu. Shamash acts as the conscience of the dying person. By cursing his past, he is cursing the very life he wants to keep. Enkidu realizes the foolishness of this approach and confers instead a blessing on the harlot. Through this act he comes to accept his fate with dignity. Loss of a loved one is an unfortunate inevitability of human existence. The death of Enkidu provokes a series of philosophical musings in Gilgamesh. The first problem that the loss of a loved one invariably produces is in regards to one’s own mortality. “I am going to die! - am I not like Enkidu?!” What was previously known only as an abstract concept in the mind has now become undeniably real. “I fear death, and now roam the wilderness.” The spirit grows restless thinking every moment might be its last. “I saw lions, and I was terrified!” The heroic Gilgamesh, who slew the Celestial Bull and the terrible Humbaba, is now afraid of mere lions? This shows that Gilgamesh’s heroicism was undertaken without any real understanding of the consequences. Now that he knows the harsh reality of death, he sees it everywhere. But, a fellow like Gilgamesh can’t sit around for long. He takes a journey, this time not to slay some menacing demon beast (that could get him killed!), but rather to understand the problem of Life and Death. The first thing he must do is endure the irony of the Road of the Sun, the passage through the mountains where no light reaches. This is the dark night of the soul, a journey through the very depth of sorrow. “Dense was the darkness, light there was none. Neither what lies ahead nor behind does it allow him to see.” Here time dissolves and one is truly alone. It is through just such an ordeal of darkness that one discovers the spark of life still burns within. “Though it be in deep pain and sadness...I will go on.” Gilgamesh expresses the great resiliency of life. He continues on to put his question before Utanapishtim. Utanapishtim chides Gilgamesh, showing how his morbid fascination is a self fulfilling prophecy. “For how long do we build a household?...For how long do brothers share the inheritance?” How could anything get done if people thought only of the inevitable destruction of that which they produce? For how long could humanity maintain their bond with one another, knowing they will be torn apart? “For how long has the river risen and brought the overflowing waters?” Utanapishtim is reminding Gilgamesh that though things must fade away, like the rivers in Winter, they also must return, though always a little different. He then recounts the Story of the Flood to elucidate this point. Mankind was once wiped out on earth, but they cover it once again. Utanapishtim then, very cleverly, gives Gilgamesh a chance at immortality, provided he does not sleep for seven nights. The point is that eternal life is eternity without rest. “Look there! The man, the youth, who wanted eternal life! Sleep, like a fog, blew over him.” The relationship between sleep and wakefulness is here seen as a microcosm for death and life. Gilgamesh moans, “In my bedroom Death dwells.” Utanapishtim speculates, “How alike are the sleeping and the dead. The image of death cannot be depicted.” What is meant is that the nature of the afterlife cannot be described, just as the true nature of a dream cannot be described. Whenever we relate dreams to each other, we have the sensation that we are making it up even though we describe it as faithfully as possible, because we are necessarily translating the dream into the language of waking reality. So Gilgamesh must come to understand that the thing he wants to know is ultimately unknowable. Bibliography:

Word Count: 2191