Dimitris Xygalatas - Ritual

On the tiny Greek island of Tinos, in the Aegean Sea, the daily ferry from Piraeus shudders into the main harbour. The whitewashed cubic houses that line the waterfront stand in sharp contrast to the rugged brown hills looming behind them. A handful of trucks and some passenger cars trundle out of the lower deck as tourists pour down the gangways. On the dockside, taxi drivers and travel agents crowd around them holding pickup signs with hotel names, while others advertise last-minute room-rental deals. Quickly enough, the sightseers are spirited away, most of them to local beaches and museums. And now the holiday atmosphere takes an odd turn.

The remaining visitors, most of them dressed in black, move at a different pace. They seem solemn and purposeful. Once they have assembled on the quayside, one after the other they get on their hands and knees and begin to crawl through the towns main street. Some of them fall on to their stomachs and use their elbows to pull themselves forward. Others lie down perpendicular to the street and roll up the steep hill in an almost Sisyphean way, twisting and turning their bodies and pushing against their elbows to drag themselves along. A woman slumps back while two men drag her by the hands. There are also those who carry small children perched on their backs while moving on all fours.

It is midsummer. Shade is scarce, and the cobbled street bakes in the sun. As they inch their way through the steep incline, the scene begins to resemble a battlefield: bleeding knees and elbows, scorched hands and feet, bruised bodies and faces full of agony. Many collapse from the heat and exhaustion. But they push on. Accompanying family members rush to offer them water, and as soon as they regain their senses, they continue their ascent.

Their destination is the Orthodox church of Our Lady of Tinos. Towering at the top of the hill, this spectacular temple is made entirely of white marble, imported from the nearby island of Delos. From a distance its faade, draped with numerous arched porticos, carved balusters and ornate windows, looks like the finest embroidered lace. In 1823, legend has it, an ancient icon was dug up after its location appeared to a local nun in a prophetic dream. The church that was built on the same spot to host it soon became a major pilgrimage destination. People flock to Tinos every year from all corners of the world to visit this icon, which is said to work miracles.

After reaching the top of the hill on their hands and knees, the pilgrims must still drag themselves up two flocks of marble steps before paying their tribute to the icon. Carved in exquisite detail, it portrays the Annunciation. But the scene is barely visible, as the image is completely covered by jewels donated by visitors. Hundreds of silver votive offerings dangle from the ceiling above it, reminders of vows and miracles. A heart, a leg, a pair of eyes, a cradle, a ship.

Remarkable as these scenes of apparently senseless self-mortification may be, comparable ones are found all over the world. In the Middle East, Shia Muslims slash their flesh with blades to mourn the martyrdom of Imam Husayn. In the Philippines, Catholics have nails hammered through the palms of

In other parts of the world people engage in rituals that are less painful but no less costly. Tibetan monks spend decades trying to perfect their meditative practices, shutting themselves off from the world for a life of silent contemplation. Muslims around the globe deprive themselves of food and water from dawn to dusk during the month of Ramadan, and Indian wedding ceremonies can last an entire week. Preparations take several months, and hundreds or even thousands of guests are invited. The costs can be crippling for the average family. According to estimates by the Progressive Village Enterprises and Social Welfare Institute (a local NGO), over 60 per cent of all Indian households turn to moneylenders to finance their childrens weddings, often at extortionate rates. Those who have no other means to guarantee these loans are often forced into servitude to pay off their debt.

So far I have only mentioned religious ceremonies. Yet rituals are central to virtually all of our social institutions. Think of a judge waving a gavel or a new president taking an oath of office. They are held by militaries, governments and corporations, in initiation ceremonies, parades and costly displays of commitment. They are used by athletes who always wear the same socks in important games, and by gamblers who kiss the dice or cling on to lucky charms when the stakes are high. And in our everyday life they are practised by each and every one of us when we raise a glass to make a toast, attend a graduation ceremony or take part in a birthday celebration. The need for ritual is primeval, and, as we shall see, may have played a pivotal role in human civilisation.

But what drives us all to engage in these behaviours, which have tangible costs without any directly obvious benefits? And why are these activities often held to be so deeply meaningful, even as their purpose is so often obscure?

Several years ago, when I was living in Denmark as an exchange student, I visited the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, a spectacular art museum in Copenhagen. As I was wandering through the Antique collection, which included artefacts from ancient Mediterranean cultures, I came across a group of archaeology students visiting from the USA. They were gathered around their professor, a tall, energetic, middle-aged woman who was commenting on the exhibits. Her enthusiasm seemed contagious, and the students appeared attentive and interested in everything she had to say. I decided to follow them and take advantage of the free guided tour.

The professor was using what is known as the Socratic method: rather than merely lecturing the students, she would ask them questions to probe the knowledge they already possessed and help them make new inferences. After pointing to various objects and discussing their origin and purpose, she eventually came to a strange-looking clay vessel from ancient Greece. What is this? she asked. The students seemed puzzled. The object had the shape of a hollow horn, but was clearly not a drinking vessel, as it was too small and had a hole in the bottom. It was ornately carved in minute detail, but despite all the effort that clearly went into making it, it had no apparent utility. The professor turned to one student in particular. What do you think it does? What is it