By studying the early splits within Korean nationalism, Michael Robinson shows that the issues faced by Korean nationalists during the Japanese colonial period were complex and enduring. In doing so, Robinson, in this classic text, provides a new context with which to analyze the difficult issues of political identity and national unity that remain central to contemporary Korean politics.

Thirty years ago, anthropologist Laurel Kendall did intensive fieldwork among South Korea’s (mostly female) shamans and their clients as a reflection of village women’s lives. In the intervening decades, South Korea experienced an unprecedented economic, social, political, and material transformation and Korean villages all but disappeared. And the shamans? Kendall attests that they not only persist but are very much a part of South Korean modernity. This enlightening and entertaining study of contemporary Korean shamanism makes the case for the dynamism of popular religious practice, the creativity of those we call shamans, and the necessity of writing about them in the present tense. Shamans thrive in South Korea’s high-rise cities, working with clients who are largely middle class and technologically sophisticated. Emphasizing the shaman’s work as open and mutable, Kendall describes how gods and ancestors articulate the changing concerns of clients and how the ritual fame of these transactions has itself been transformed by urban sprawl, private cars, and zealous Christian proselytizing. For most of the last century Korean shamans were reviled as practitioners of antimodern superstition; today they are nostalgically celebrated icons of a vanished rural world. Such superstition and tradition occupy flip sides of modernity’s coin—the one by confuting, the other by obscuring, the beating heart of shamanic practice. Kendall offers a lively account of shamans, who once ministered to the domestic crises of farmers, as they address the anxieties of entrepreneurs whose dreams of wealth are matched by their omnipresent fears of ruin. Money and access to foreign goods provoke moral dilemmas about getting and spending; shamanic rituals express these through the longings of the dead and the playful antics of greedy gods, some of whom have acquired a taste for imported whiskey. No other book-length study captures the tension between contemporary South Korean life and the contemporary South Korean shamans’ work. Kendall’s familiarity with the country and long association with her subjects permit nuanced comparisons between a 1970s "then" and recent encounters—some with the same shamans and clients—as South Korea moved through the 1990s, endured the Asian Financial Crisis, and entered the new millennium. She approaches her subject through multiple anthropological lenses such that readers interested in religion, ritual performance, healing, gender, landscape, material culture, modernity, and consumption will find much of interest here.

Once viewed as an embarrassing superstition, the theatrical religious performances of Korean shamans—who communicate with the dead, divine the future, and become possessed—are going mainstream. Attitudes toward Korean shamanism are changing as shamanic traditions appear in staged rituals, museums, films, and television programs, as well as on the internet. Contemporary Korean Shamanism explores this vernacular religion and practice, which includes sensory rituals using laden altars, ecstatic dance, and animal sacrifice, within South Korea's hypertechnologized society, where over 200,000 shamans are listed in professional organizations. Liora Sarfati reveals how representations of shamanism in national, commercialized, and screen-mediated settings have transformed opinions of these religious practitioners and their rituals. Applying ethnography and folklore research, Contemporary Korean Shamanism maps this shift in perception about shamanism—from a sign of a backward, undeveloped Korea to a valuable, indigenous cultural asset.

The Three Kingdoms Period in Korean history consisted of the kingdoms of Silla, Koguryo and Paekche. It was only the Silla kingdom which seemed to have had a connection to the ancient nomadic Scythians. These people seemed so different from the indigenous inhabitants who were already living in Korea during the 3th to 6th centuries CE. It is the author’s opinion is that they were the descendants of the Scythians – who although they would not have called themselves ‘Scythians,’ they were none the less, the remnant members of nomadic tribes that pushed eastward from Central Asia and Siberia to the Korean peninsula. Once in Southern Korea, they established the Silla kingdom, where their time honored beliefs are depicted in their mound burials, wooden burial chambers, gold crowns, horse riding, and also in their Siberian shamanism. This time period of the gold crowns and the people who produced the royal headgear was the Maripgan Period, and as mentioned, they were the descendants of Scythians who although in Central Asia and Siberia were known to have existed as far back as 10,000 years BC, they were always on the move searching for new pasturelands for their herds or to avoid conflicts and war with their enemies. The Silla crowns were created around the 5th to the 7th centuries in Kyongju, the former capital of the Silla people. When they were discovered in various archaeological mound sites, they were found to be in a highly fragile state. The crowns were each designated as national treasures by the Korean government and most weigh about one kilogram. Some of the crowns came in two parts: an inner gold cap, which may have been covered in silk fabric and sat inside of the crown, and the crown itself. The crowns were totally shamanistic in their symbolism, and represented the belief systems of the Scythians of Central Asia and Siberia, which eventually made its way to Korea and the ancient Kingdom of Silla.

A series of psychological and anthropological studies about the oldest and the most fascinating religious tradition of Korea.