the great leslie

Last night I watched part of "Secrets of the Dead," a television show on PBS. This episode tracked one scholar's quest to unravel the myth of the Amazonian warriors from Herodotus's and Homer's writings.

Part of the quest was digging up graves. Archeologists found several Russian graves dating back to the Iron Age. And in these graves, women warriors were discovered. Or, rather, the bones of warrior women. As one of graves was undug, a cache of arrow heads fell out, which was immensely pleasing to those excavating the site, and the arrowheads (and the remains of the warrior) were quickly removed and cataloged. And I, not very scientifically, thought: "Those are the warrior's arrow heads! She's had them with her for thousands of years! You can't just steal them!"

(I was annoyed at this program because of the pomp of the scholar who'd been working on tracking the genetic line of the Amazonian women. When she discovered a genetic link to a nomadic tribe in Mongolia — she'd had the DNA of the corpses and the nomads tested and compared — and she made some reference to how the nomads had no idea of their lineage. And I just thought: "Yeah, they do. They've known the whole time. It's you that made the discovery. They had nothing to discover.")

But, and this is a question I've often asked myself: why do we bury the dead at all? Is it not, perhaps partially, to maintain the memory of a person, or even a people? Wouldn't the warrior priestess, who fought her whole life, presumably for what she believed in, want to be discovered, want everyone to know just how many arrows she earned in her life?

To rest in peace or to inform latter generations — even if it means the bones end up in some cardboard box somewhere? I don't know the answer. I only know I was saddened to see the warrior lose her arrow head, especially after so much time.