The History of the Mongol Conquests: A Review

JJ Saunders, in his book, “The History of the Mongol Conquests”, attempts to make available to the public a body of research on the Mongol conquests that has until recently only been accessible to specialists in the area. A considerable amount of work in the subject has recently been accumulated in the more accessible English language, bringing with it a re-evaluation of the Mongol conquests. Saunders, in agreement with the conclusions of this re-evaluation, presents it in his book. Dismissing the viewpoint that the Mongol invasions were limited to wholesale destruction, he sheds light on their positive achievements.

Among the first pages of the book, genealogical tables of the Mongol ruling family are presented. The usefulness of these tables is fully appreciated once one has gone beyond the first two chapters of the book. Without the trees, it is near impossible to keep the different branches of the family straight. Thus, they are effective in making sense of the different rivalries and alliances formed between the individuals.

The book is divided into ten chapters and two appendices. Its first chapter is an introduction to the world of the Eurasian nomads. Set in the Eurasian steppes, the chapter describes the physical geography of the region and focuses on the people who have adapted their lifestyles to its harsh environmental conditions. Among these nomadic peoples are the Mongols. The map provided at the beginning of the chapter is a useful tool, showing the physical geography described in the chapter, and pinpointing the approximate locations of each of the communities discussed.

The second chapter delves into a description of the Turkish Empire in Asia as setting the stage for the rise of the Mongols. Saunders compares the two nomadic groups, highlighting the similarities that led to their rise, and contrasting their achievements. A convenient map of the Turkish Empire complements the chapter.

The next chapter opens with a map of Central Asia, showing the locations of the Mongols and their neighbors. This provides a hint of the contents of the chapter: The breakup of the Turkish Empire and the resulting rise of the Uighurs, Tanguts, Ch’I-tan, Chin and Sung. It is noteworthy that no single major centralized state is established.

Saunders’ fourth chapter is a charming mix of fact and legend. It takes us into the life of Chingis Khan and details the rise of the Mongol leader to military celebrity and administrative genius. Under him, an empire is born: the Merit, Naiman, Kara-Khitay, Chin and Khwarizmian territories fall under his control. Any resistance to the Mongol expansion is rewarded with large-scale slaughter. Unprecedented mingling of cultures in Asia is a feature of the era. A hint of the diversity expressed in the regions under Mongol control is illustrated in a map showing the religious distribution of the area.

Chingis’ death in the fifth chapter is a significant event. He is replaced after a while by his son Ögedei, whose reign pushes the empire into Chin territory, the remnants of Khwarizm and through Poland into Hungary. A traumatized Europe is relieved when a raid is stopped short by Ögedei’s death. A particularly useful map shows the routes used by the different hordes of Mongols in their invasions.

Chapter six describes the alarm among Christian authorities resulting from this invasion of Europe. Christian diplomatic missions sent to the Mongol Khan are rebuffed, but the diplomats come away with a better idea of Mongol strength and methods. Further raids of Muslim Asia are stopped by the death of the Khan Möngke. The Battle of Ayn Jalut is fought and lost by the Mongols. This marks the end of their expansion and the beginning of division of the empire as highlighted in the accompanying map.

One of the major problems faced by the Mongol rulers, that of no prior experience ruling over sedentary societies, is highlighted in the seventh chapter. The differences in religion between the rulers and the ruled further compound this situation. Kubilai Khan manages to conquer entire Chinese realm and to invade much of South Eastern Asia. The monarchy of Il-Khans in Persia is strengthened as the number of Mongol converts to Islam increases. After Kubilai’s death, its break in links with the Mongol base in China and establishment as an independent entity is only natural.

Chapter eight characterizes unrest among Chinese and Persian masses as leading to the fall of the already shaky Mongol Empire. Saunders takes time to reflect on China’s achievements under the Mongols: her people took to the sea, had interactions with Islam and Christianity and established trade links with Persia. This is only part of the story, though. As shown in the next chapter the Khanate of the Golden Horde of Mongols takes shape in Russia. The Khan, Timur, inflicts irreparable damage on Kipchak, and the khanate fragments. Another Timur rises in Chagatai, accumulating power through genocidal campaigns.

The tenth chapter closes this venture into Eurasian history with an assessment of the results of Mongol rule. For one, the strength and distribution of the major religions is changed. A second feature is the transformation in the ethnic character of the different regions. Thirdly, Asia is opened up to European penetration by land and sea.

Following this chapter are two appendices, the first of which discusses the “Secret History of the Mongols”, the primary source for Saunders’ book, whose author is to-date unknown. Appendix two examines the possibility that the Mongols may have been responsible for introducing gunpowder and firearms from China into Europe.

Saunders writes well, combining information from different sources smoothly. However, the large number of details can be confusing, especially when a single event is told from several different perspectives.

Using his primary source to provide the official history, Saunders supplements his work with chronicles and histories recorded in different segments of the empire. These describe the invasions and their immediate results. Additionally, modern day historical analyses are used. These detail the economic and political developments derived from the Mongol Empire.

His documentation is detailed, including endnotes, and a bibliography for each chapter. By highlighting the positive developments arising from the Mongol invasions, achieves his thesis. His method is sufficiently persuasive. Ironically, despite all the evidence he gives to the contrary, Saunders describes the Mongols as a barbaric and cultureless people several times.

Not only would the book serve as an ideal introduction to the subject area, but its excellent documentation would also be helpful in sourcing material for further research in the area. Saunders’ politically statements do not detract significantly from the balanced image of the Mongols that he strives to depict.


This essay is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License. Please feel free to use my writing for non-commercial purposes and do credit my name Rose Kahendi as the writer.

Le savane de mon enfance

Un petit enfant de trois ans, laissé tout seul, vit dans son monde imaginaire, ne manquant jamais des choses à faire ou des amis avec lequel il peut jouer. Cette situation caractérisait mon enfance, particulièrement après le départ de mon frère aîné pour l’école. Néanmoins, parfois je ne voulais plus m’amuser de cette manière. Un désir intense pour la solitude me remplissait et je me réfugiais dans la chambre de mon frère. Là-bas, repoussé tout contre la fenêtre, se trouvait le lit grand sur lequel je m’allongeais. Celle-là position me donnait une vue imprenable qui m’ensorcelait pour des longues heures innombrables.

Le terrain plat s’étendait jusqu’une ligne invisible qui la séparait du ciel. La concession dont je parle se situait derrière notre maison. Même que ce n’était pas la nôtre, je me souviens d’avoir pensé que je ne permettrais à personne de faire rien sur “ma propriété”.

Donc j’étais enfermée dans la maison avec la bonne, et me ressentais comme une prisonnière. Je voulais être dehors avec des aigles et des gazelles, libre à prendre le frais et à sentir les rayons de soleil sur ma peau. Ne pouvant pas éviter la sensation de claustrophobie, je mettais la main sur la vitre de la Fenêtre et le chaleur me transportait en dehors.

Les bruns, jaunes et verts de la savane devenaient plus vifs et le soleil brulait avec plus de force sur les herbages qui s’étendaient pour des kilomètres. Ne me fatiguant jamais de remarquer les petits buissons ligneux, je les comptais. Ils étaient toujours plus nombreux que les acacias, qui ne manquaient jamais d’absorber plus que leur part de l’eau: la terre autour chaque acacia était toute nuée de végétation.

Eloignés de la maison, les baobabs noirs apparaissaient dans l’encadrement du bleu recémment lavé du ciel. Leurs branches s’étendaient en haut en cherchant de l’eau comme des racines. C’était pour cette raison qu’on les appelait “les arbres renversés”.

Toute cette végétation s’alternait avec quelques trainées brunes, indiquant les champs défrichés sur le canevas de jaune et vert. Ayant vu tout cela, mes yeux se fatiguaient et, petit à petit, se mettaient à s’enfermer. Mon dernier spectacle était toujours la vue d’une grande balle rougeoyante s’enfoncant au dessus de l’horizon.

First published in TakingITGlobal's Panorama Zine on 1st February, 2008.

Ferry ride to Unguja

The ferry ride to Unguja was long, but peaceful. The ocean was beautiful. For miles on end, there was nothing around but calm skies and a gentle sea. Standing there, I couldn’t help thinking just how small and insignificant I was.
When the island became visible in the distance, we were all excited. Everybody wanted to see Unguja. A family with a video camera was filming the approach to the island. I was standing next to them and could hear their little boy crying out for candy, “Awz helwa,” over and over again to his mother.

The deck was packed. Everybody was standing out there watching the island. I imagine many of them were coming back home to visit their families. Some were probably coming to visit for the first time, perhaps to work, or maybe to make a new home on the island. Others were tourists, come to see “Africa”. There was a mix of people on that ferry, rich and poor, but for the moment, we were all equals as we stood on the deck, caught up in awe at the island’s beauty.

Some people were so enraptured that they forgot where they were, and left their bags unattended on the ground. Of course, one man, alert to the opportunity, took advantage of the fact that the deck was crowded and no-one was watching. He grabbed hold of another man’s bag and was trying to sneak away with it when somebody saw him and raised the alarm: “Mwizi!”

Suddenly, the magic spell was broken. Everyone turned away from the beautiful view in time to see the young man being pushed into a corner. The bag was grabbed from him and returned to its rightful owner. Only then did the angry crowd unleash its wrath on him. The crowd rained blows on him and kicked him mercilessly, only stopping when two men who had muscled their way through stood before him, shielding him. They took him to a little room and locked him up in there.

Whatever transpired after that, I do not know. I imagine that when the ferry docked, the man was turned in to the police. As for the rest of the passengers, most of them went back to what they were doing before the incident: watching the approach to the island. To them, it was just another ordinary day: a man had tried to steal and mob justice had been meted out to him. Now that he had been locked away somewhere, they could go back to admiring the features of the island- the trees were now visible, as were some beautiful white buildings.

I noticed that the tourists looked a bit anxious. They were probably shocked at the speed with which everything had happened and at the seeming brutality of the crowd. Where had the anger and violence come from? They were not used to being this close to public anger and violence.

Whatever their feelings were, there was no time to dwell on them, the ferry soon docked and everyone was in a rush to get off.

This work is licensed to Rose Kahendi under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

From thoughts into words

From thoughts into words by Rose Kahendi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Mgeni siku ya kwanza...

Remember when we were kids in primary school, and we had to sit through endless hours of Kiswahili, memorizing semi, methali and the like? And remember how Mr Macharia was constantly making us use that phrase, “Chembilecho wahenga…” in our essays? How about “Wahenga hawakuropokwa na maneno waliposema…” And then we’d have to complete the phrase with a saying or proverb that captured the apt sentiment for that paragraph. “Haba na haba hujaza kibaba” was a great favourite of mine. Apparently, those were choice condiments, guaranteed to spice up your essay and get you one step closer to that perfect score: 19 out of 20. (Mr Macharia would never give anyone the full 20 points.) We thought they were silly phrases back then, but still used them because we wanted good grades.

And today … well I never thought I’d say this, but those old folks we were always referring to in our essays sure were wise. My life today is a testament to the deep truth encoded in those proverbs, sayings, riddles and poetry that we so grudgingly memorized when we were kids. Mr Macharia would probably be disappointed to hear this, but we never really did think about those gems of knowledge and their implications at the time. As far as we were concerned, we were cramming for the exams. Nowadays I actually find myself thinking about them all the time, and it’s all thanks to my one-time friend, Marcia, who came to visit a couple of months ago.

Marcia knocked on my door one day, 3 months ago. She was just passing through town, she said, and was looking for a place to lay her head for two nights while she processed some documents in town. She’d intended to spend the night at her auntie’s place, but there was noone at home. The neighbors had said that the family’d gone upcountry for the weekend. Marcia was really apologetic about showing up at my doorstep with no advance warning, but she didn’t know where else to go. I was glad to host her for the two or so nights that she needed a place. After all, we’d sat through four miserable years of high school together. I smiled, and told her she was welcome to stay, her home was my home, and all the usual fanfare that a gracious host goes through: “Make yourself comfortable. You know where everything is.” And so, Marcia made herself comfortable.

 

 

Day one:

I wake up. Chaos in the kitchen. Marcia’s gone, presumably to the government building to get her paperwork done. The charcoal’s on the stove, soaking wet. The matchbox is split open, and the matches scattered on the wet ground. The tap is running and the sink overflowing. I close the tap, spread the charcoal out in the sun to dry, mop the floor, and then I realize that the food I’d left out on the table the previous night for the two of us to share at breakfast is all gone. Looks like I’m going to start the day on an empty stomach. I’m already cussing the guest out at this point. No time to waste, get ready for work.

When I come back home in the evening there’s a hole in the window. Marcia got home early and the door was locked, so she broke the window pane and opened the window so that she could climb in. She smiles at me and tells me that we’re out of milk, so could I run down to the store and get some?

 

 

Day two:

A better start to the day. It seems that I achieved something with yesterday’s talk. Marcia’s already gone, but this time the place doesn’t look like a hurricane ran through it. Maybe I was too hard on Marcia last night, she really isn’t a bad girl after all. Just a bit silly at times.

 

 

Day three:

Marcia’s still gone. Didn’t come back last night. I’m worried sick. What could have happened to her? I get dressed up, grab a bite to eat. On my way out to work, guess who I see curled up on the pavement, fast asleep outside the Mabatini street bar! I smell alcohol on her breath and her clothes. Now I know where she was last night. I drag Marcia back to my place, do my best to make sure she’s okay and take off. I have to. I’m already late for work.

In the evening Marcia is apologetic. She says she met an old friend, decided to buy some drinks to celebrate the end of her bureaucratic battles at the government office, had too much too drink and lost track of the time.

 

 

Day four:

I can’t help noticing that two days have turned into four. What on earth have I gotten myself into?

She was supposed to leave by noon today, but by the time she got to the bus station, the tickets for her bus were already sold out. So she’ll have to go back tomorrow. At this point, one more day won’t make a difference, right? She can have an early start tomorrow morning. I will gladly wake up bright and early to escort her to the bus station.

 

 

Day five:

Apparently, Marcie’s antics have taken a toll on her health. She now has a full-blown flu and has a high fever. She’s retching her guts out. I can’t believe this: I actually feel sorry for her. My neighbor is a medical student and drops in to check on Marcia at my request. She’s confident it’s just the flu and tells me the name of some over-the-counter drugs I can get to ease her symptoms.

It’s a Saturday. I’m supposed to be visting my folks in Nakuru this weekend, but how can I go when there’s a miserably ill young woman in my bed-sitter? Someone has to look after her. I grit my teeth. I’m going to get through this somehow. I only hope that I don’t catch her flu in the process.

 

 

Day six:

No water in the taps. It’s bad enough when I’m alone at home and this happens, but now I have a sick guest who frequently needs to go to the bathroom. It shouldn’t be too bad. I have a couple of jerrycans in which I store water. They should be able to get us through until the water supply is back on.

I thought I had a couple of jerrycans full of water. Not anymore. They’re empty. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who emptied them. I’m too frustrated to ask her why. She’s sick. I’m going to let her be, but the minute she recovers, I’m kicking her out.

 

 

Day seven:

It’s a miracle! She’s gone. She insisted on getting an early start today, and since I was going to work, I couldn’t escort her. She said it was okay, and thanked me for my hospitality, insisted that she’d let herself out when it was time to go and that I shouldn’t worry about her. It’s nice to come home to a clean, quiet and empty home. Hold on a second… my room’s looking too clean and empty. Some of my clothes are missing from my makeshift wardrobe and my modest music collection is gone. What’s left of my savings is gone. She must have seen the box where I kept my money when I was looking for change to buy her medicine.

There’s a note on the table. How “thoughtful” of her! She apologizes for taking my money. She realized she didn’t have enough for her bus fare because she’d stayed longer than she’d intended to and ended up using all the money than she had. There’s no mention of my other belongings or of anything else, for that matter. I’m exasperated. If I could, I would throttle her at this exact moment.

 

 

Wahenga hawakukosea waliponena, “Mgeni siku ya kwanza. Siku ya pili mpe jembe.”

Those old folks were right when they spoke about welcoming a guest on the first day and giving him a jembe to go dig the shamba on the second day, but I think there’s still room for improvement in that methali. If I could, I’d rewrite it to say: Mgeni siku ya kwanza. Siku ya pili, arudi kwake!

This work is licensed to Rose Kahendi under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Do bees here speak Swahili?

They say that it’s easier to write about home when living away from it, that the colors, scents and sounds that filled our childhood come back to us in bold, clear detail when we are shut off from experiencing them. That’s not true. The last desire on my mind is to write about my home and my childhood. My memories are too precious to lay bare to the eyes of an outsider. And truth be told, my memories are rather hazy. I can hardly remember the names, faces and places. My present is more real to me.

I want to connect with the people around me and to talk to them about our shared reality. My present surroundings may not be the hibiscus lined streets of my hometown, but the white florets borne by the branch scraping across my window pane smell heavenly. The bees go about their busy way, moving from nectar sac to nectar sac. I wonder, do bees here speak a different language from the ones back at home? I want to laugh at this thought, but pause. Maybe it’s not ridiculous after all. No. It is ridiculous. What’s more, it’s indicative of that special brand of megalomania that has us humans constantly trying to recreate the world in our image: I speak Swahili, therefore the African bee buzzes in Swahili.

But I do wonder about this thing called language. Is it a normal state of “being”? Is it possible for humans to live and coexist without any form of language? When I open my mouth to speak over here, my accent betrays my foreign origins right away. Does something parallel happen to migrating birds during their winter sojourns in warm lands, when they encounter birds from other territories?

Here I am making a big deal of my foreignness when I have been drinking this water and eating of this soil for ages. Every single cell in my body must be “of this nation” by now. There is a kind of poetic justice in that. No matter how hard I try to dissect and to label, reality has a way of throwing all my neat classifications into disarray.


This work is licensed to Rose Kahendi under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Sunset

Yearning, reaching, grasping for the unattainable.
The dream of an island of light, distant… unreachable,
Beyond the horizon.

Drowning, sinking, choking, gasping…
Too blind to see the elusive skin
That would allow a final escape.
The silent screams
Rise and emerge into the air,
The bubbles of urgency, now devoid of meaning, dissolve into nothingness.
And the weight descends, sinking, gliding through the curtains,
Expelling the old memories.

Pink…
Blue…
Indigo…
Black.
The darkness surrounds and encloses,
Its impenetrable veil covering up all traces
Above and below.
First published in TakingITGlobal's Panorama Zine on 18th June, 2007.