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Ashtart or Astarte? A note on romanization and melting goddesses into slurry

Before I’ll begin properly, I feel obliged to once again reiterate my stance on the romanization of Ashtart's name. I’m not a fan of using Astarte (Άσταρτη) as the default. While sometimes used to refer to material from Ugarit and other bronze age sites (ex. Izak Cornelius, The Many Faces of the Goddess: The Iconography of the Syro-Palestinian Goddesses Anat, Astarte, Qedeshet, and Asherah c. 1500-1000 BCE, p. 93), this name is specifically a Hellenized spelling of a Phoenician theonym (Aren M. Wilson-Wright, Athtart: The Transmission and Transformation of a Goddess in the Late Bronze Age, p. 146). Very little material discussed in this article is Phoenician. And virtually none of it has anything to do with Greek reception of Phoenician (or any other) material. I will therefore stick to referring to the discussed deity as Ashtart - a romanization closer to the spelling of her name in the text corpora I’ll discuss in the late bronze age.

A major issue with the use of the romanization “Astarte” is that it often leads to both unintended misconceptions and fully intentional unwarranted conflations. Evidence from different cultures and time periods is lumped together without concern to create a composite deity - an unchanging goddess who’s somehow identical in Ugarit in the late bronze age, in Phoenicia in the last centuries BCE, and in many other places and times. She’s also, somehow, interchangeable with numerous others, from biblical asherah pole and Carthaginian Tanith (Athtart…, p. 6-7) to Isis, Aphrodite and Mesopotamian Ishtar (ibidem, p. 9). This ignoble tradition goes back directly to James G. Frazer and his Golden Bough, though in the case of Ashtart it’s also impossible to downplay the role of the Bible scholar W. F. Albright and his students like Frank Moore Cross (ibidem, p. 4-6). The goal is always the same, though - presenting goddesses as interchangeable is meant to boil them into a slurry, some sort of poorly defined “feminine principle” with no individual traits. Nebulous associations with “fertility” and sexuality are used to fill in the blanks (Jo Ann Hackett, Can a Sexist Model Liberate Us? Ancient near Eastern "Fertility" Goddesses, p. 75). Ashtart in particular has suffered badly from his misconception in past scholarship (Rüdiger Schmitt, Mistress of Horses, Lady of the Chariot: The Warrior Aspect of Astarte, p. 213-214). This article is my own small attempt at countering this problem.

A peculiar star? On Ashtart’s name

Ashtart’s name has a considerable number of cognates. Across the various languages from the Semitic family, four categories pretty clearly going back to the same root are attested: feminine theonyms with the expected feminine suffix -t (like the name of the discussed goddess); feminine theonyms lacking this suffix (like Ishtar in Akkadian); masculine theonyms (like the Ugaritic god Attar); and a number of ordinary grammatically feminine nouns referring to heaven or stars (Athtart…, p. 16-17). The last category is attested only in languages spoken in Ethiopia and Eritrea - Ge’ez, Amharic and Tigre (ibidem, p. 18-19). Wilson-Wright argues that this might reflect the original meaning of the word, relying on the fact an astral role is directly attested for some - but not all - deities with cognate names (ibidem, p. 21). While this is not an unconvincing etymology, some caution might be necessary, though. For instance, it’s regularly claimed that Ashtart was an astral deity. However, this argument depends entirely on her name being a cognate of Mespotamian Ishtar, whose astral qualifications are undeniable. For her “relative” direct evidence is actually lacking, though. If she was viewed as astral in the main areas where she was worshiped - like in Ugarit and Emar, which the bulk of this article will be dedicated to - it was clearly an aspect of her character of little importance (Mark S. Smith, ‛Athtart in Late Bronze Age Syrian Texts, p. 37). It should also be noted that this etymology of Ashtart’s name and its cognates is part of a broader proposal courtesy of Wilson-Wright. She argues the original root - which has an awkward number of consonants by the standards of Semitic languages - was actually a borrowing from another language family, specifically the (now extinct) Anatolian branch of Indo-European. The Hittite word for a star, ḫasterza, would thus be a distant cognate too (Athtart…, p. 23-24). 

Appealing as this idea might be at first glance, a huge dose of caution is necessary, though. Timothy D. Leonard in an evaluation of Wilson-Wright’s work notes that the root originating in a loanword would explain many of the phonetic problems not accounted for in earlier proposals. However, at the same time would require contact between speakers of Semitic and Anatolian languages to happen much earlier than first attested (effectively before the former split!). Furthermore, it’s not clear what cultural rationale there would be for borrowing an astronomical term which already had an equivalent, just to use it in a way not attested for it in any of the Anatolian languages (Ištar in Ḫatti: The Disambiguation of Šavoška and Associated Deities in Hittite Scribal Practice, p. 40-41).

Wilson-Wright suggests that the earliest theonym derived from this root was feminine but didn’t actually have a feminine suffix, while Ashtart’s name was an attempt at “fixing” this issue. Possibly it happened more than once, even; on linguistic grounds it can be assumed that it occurred separately in Ugarit and in Phoenicia, for instance. The related masculine theonyms would similarly be a secondary development, unrelated to Ashtart herself (Athtart…, p. 19). For instance, it’s safe to assume the existence of a male god with a clearly cognate name in southern Arabia in the first millennium BCE was an entirely unrelated development, and that his name arose independently from the same root (ibidem, p. 20).

In some cases, cognates of the name without the feminine suffix can be a subject of debate - for example, a deity worshiped in Ebla in the third millennium BCE whose name was usually written as Ašdar been variously interpreted as Ashtart, Attar (Mark S. Smith, The Ugaritic Baal Cycle. Volume I. Introduction with Text, Translations and Commentary of KTU 1.1-1.2, p. 240-241) or a deity ultimately closest to Mesopotamian Ishtar (Inanna), even if not identical with her (Alfonso Archi, Išḫara and Aštar at Ebla: Some Definitions, p. 15-16). As a side note, I feel obliged to point out that contrary to a persistent misconception popular in certain circles online, no form of the name has anything to do with the biblical asherah pole or any theonyms phonetically related to it. The resemblance is entirely down to romanization; Ashtart’s name starts with an ayin, not an aleph (Steve A. Wiggins, A Reassessment of Asherah With Further Considerations of the Goddess, p. 57). 

“A mighty panther is Ashtart”: the Ugaritic texts

The ruins of Ugarit in 2008 (wikimedia commons). With abstract linguistic considerations now out of the way, it’s time to look at the text corpora Ashtart is best attested in, starting with Ugarit (modern Ras Shamra), located in northern Syria, on the Mediterranean coast. The bulk of the texts from this city have been written in a unique alphabetic script derived from cuneiform, which was in use for some 80 years immediately before the destruction of the city in 1185 BCE (Athtart…, p. 121). Standard syllabic cuneiform is attested in the city earlier as well, though it was never used for, say, writing down local myths, in contrast with the new script (ibidem, p. 125). Two versions of the same text - a list of offerings - indicate that Ishtar’s name was used to represent Ashtart when writing in standard syllabic cuneiform. However, the spelling of the name in the alphabetic script - 'ṯtrt - leaves no ambiguity; Ashtart was clearly the deity meant (ibidem, p. 113).

While it’s clear Ashtart was a goddess of some importance in Ugarit, there’s a degree of discrepancy between her placement in different genres of texts. In offering lists she doesn’t seem all that important, relatively speaking. On the other hand, in a more politically charged context, like in official letters, she occupies an elevated position. The most prominent example, sent to an unidentified Ugaritic king by an official residing in Alashiya (Cyprus) lists her in the second place, right after Baal and before Anat and “eternal sun” (ie. Shapash) - in other words, at the very top of the divine hierarchy (‛Athtart…, p. 41-43).

The texts discovered so far provide little solid information about the temple(s) and clergy of Ashtart. It’s possible a temple or shrine dedicated to her was located in the royal palace. There’s also a single reference to a “kunaḫi house” belonging to her, similarly presumed to fulfill a religious role. As for clergy, there are isolated references to “singers” and “servants” of Ashtart, but nothing more solid (‛Athtart…, p. 38-39).

Seated figure of an unidentified goddess from Ugarit (wikimedia commons). It’s also known that at least one cult statue of Ashtart existed in the city - references to preparation of clothing for it are known (ibidem, p. 39). However, no figures in Ugaritic art have been conclusively identified as Ashtart. At most seated female figures might give us a vague idea how she would’ve been depicted. In absence of identifying labels caution is necessary, though (Athtart…, p. 114).

The Ugaritic texts associate Ashtart with three spheres of influence: warfare, hunting, and magic (Mistress of…, p. 216-217). Strictly speaking, the label “magico-medical” might be more apt for the third role (Athtart…, p. 27). Additionally she might have also fulfilled other, less significant functions - for instance, a single reference to the existence of a wadi associated with her in the proximity of the city might hint at an association with fishing or shipping (ibidem, p. 139). 

Ashtart's association with hunting is most likely reflected in the epithet šd, likely “of the field” or “of the steppe”, in the relevant passage  (‛Athtart…, p. 39-40). It might have originally arisen as an attempt at giving her a title similar to ṣēri, applied regularly to a deity designated by the logogram Ishtar - presumably Shaushka - in Hittite treaties and rituals (Athtart…, p. 114). A second notable title of Ashtart attested in the Ugaritic corpus is ḫr (‛Athtart…, p. 40). Based on texts written in Akkadian, it is to be vocalized as ḫurri, but its precise meaning remains uncertain (Athtart…, p. 107). Two most common explanations are “Hurrian” and “hole” or “grotto”. The former is overall more plausible, but somewhat awkwardly the cult of Ashtart - whether designed as ḫurri or not - shows no meaningful Hurrian influence in Ugarit (ibidem, p. 118-119). There’s only one possible exception - a bilingual ritual which refers to offerings made to Ashtart in Ugaritic, and then switches to Hurrian, with Shaushka, accompanied by the handmaidens Ninatta and Kulitta, the moon god Kusuh and the enigmatic god Nupatik, taking the central stage (ibidem, p. 120).

From the Baal Cycle to fragmentary hymns

One of the tablets of the Baal Cycle (wikimedia commons). Even otherwise rigorous authors at times claim that Ashtart plays no major role in Ugaritic mythology (ex. Mistress of…, p. 224). While it’s true that she lags behind Baal and Anat in this regard, I think this is incorrect. Hopefully the amount of material in this section will convince you too. Most of the time, discussion of Ugaritic mythology has to start with the Baal Cycle, and this case is no different. It seems before appearing in person, Ashtart is referenced in it in a curse in an unclear context - possibly it’s a part of a message from Baal to Yam (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 264-265). The formula is pretty memorable - “May Horon break your head, Ashtart name of Baal, your skull”; it occurs in the Epic of Keret (or Kirta) as well (Athtart…, p. 133). It’s presumed that it had similar emotional valence to the contemporary phrase “go to hell”. Invoking Horon in it is not surprising - at least in Ugarit he was the god of incantations par excellence, capable of banishing any foe to parts unknown. Meanwhile, Ashtart might be invoked simply due to her belligerent character (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 278). As far as the surviving fragments go, Ashtart makes her proper debut a bit later. After Yam’s messengers make a series of demands to the divine assembly, Baal loses his temper and tries to attack them, which is prevented by an intervention of Ashtart and Anat (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 268):

The fact that even the two goddesses portrayed as Baal’s most stalwart allies elsewhere actively prevent him from acting might be meant to illustrate that he’s at his lowest point. Yam is triumphant and making extraordinary demands, and no one is willing to back him up (ibidem, p. 311-312). Baal’s fortunes eventually reverse. Just as El - the head of the assembly - has previously declared his fate is to be Yam’s captive, after an actual confrontation takes place he gains the upper hand and Ashtart proclaims a similar fate for Yam (ibidem, p. 357).

During the battle Ashtart intervenes from the sidelines, apparently rebuking Baal for unclear reasons. Perhaps she thinks Baal isn’t going far enough, and that she urges him to capitalize on his advantage to finish him off (Theodore J. Lewis, ʿAthtartu’s Incantations and the Use of Divine Names as Weapons, p. 209-210). While this is an isolated minority opinion, I found Theodore J. Lewis' proposal that “rebuke” is a mistranslation and Ashtart might be using an apotropaic formula to help Baal interesting, as well (ibidem, p. 216-218).

The scene as a whole is important for understanding the position of Baal in the cycle and his relationships with other deities. With Yam defeated, Baal can assume kingship, but his position will remain precarious. And, most importantly, it was not attained alone. The help of Ashtart, as well as the craftsman god Kothar-wa-Khasis (who provided Baal with weapons and possibly cheered on him alongside Ashtart), were vital for his success (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 361).

Ashtart and Anat are also portrayed cooperating in a myth dealing with El suffering from hangover after overindulging during a feast. They are first portrayed serving meat during the event itself, and later embark on a hunt to acquire ingredients for a cure for El. It seems the composition was an etiological explanation of the origins of a real remedy for hangover used in Ugarit, complete with an instruction on how to prepare it (Athtart…, p. 137). A myth dealing with Ashtart’s role as a huntress is also known, though it’s quite fragmentary. She apparently embarks on an expedition to the steppe land, hunts unspecified game with a spear, and then serves the meat to El and the moon god Yarikh. The rest of the composition might describe an encounter between Ashtart and Baal, which may or may not be sexual in character, though this is highly speculative (Athtart…, p. 135-137).

Last but not least, a further text focused on Ashtart has been discovered relatively recently - in 1998 - in nearby Ras Ibn Hani (Dennis Pardee, Preliminary Presentation of a New Ugaritic Song to ‘Aṯtartu (RIH 98/02), p. 27). Much remains unclear, but it’s evident that she is described in it as a huntress armed with a bow, which is in line with her portrayal in the two myths already discussed earlier. It is possible that it contains a similar list of vanquished enemies as Anat’s famous speech about monsters from the Baal Cycle (ibidem, p. 35-37). Ashtart’s adversary seems to be a creature referred to as “whelp of El”, who can be reasonably assumed to be a similar being as the “bitch of El” and “calf of El” listed among Anat’s conquests (Athtart…, p. 130). It seems Ashtart is also metaphorically described in feline terms, which would offer a neat parallel to her Mesopotamian “relative” Ishtar, whose association with big cats is well documented (Preliminary Presentation…, p. 33-35):

Ashtart, Baal and Anat: allies with benefits?

As you probably already noticed, Ashtart appears alongside Anat in two separate cases discussed in the previous section. Those aren’t the only examples. This recurring association is quite easy to explain, given the distinctly belligerent character of both goddesses (Mistress of…, p. 215). The two seem the most closely connected in anti-snakebite incantations, which you might remember from my article about Shapash and Shamash. There - and only there - they are jointly referred to as Anat-wa-Ashtart, ie. “Anat & Ashtart”. The pair is invoked from Inbubu  (‛Athtart…, p. 40). This location is exclusively attested in mythological context, and might not be a real place  (Athtart…, p. 139). The very same incantation also separately invokes Ashtart on her own, from Mari (‛Athtart…, p. 40).

Since Inbubu is a location otherwise only associated with Anat, it’s occasionally proposed she and Ashtart are effectively merged into a single deity in the aforementioned text (‛Athtart…, p. 40). However, this is a considerable overinterpretation of the available evidence (Athtart…, p. 140). Ashtart and Anat clearly aren’t interchangeable in the Ugaritic texts (or elsewhere) - it’s possible that even individual hypostases of Ashtart weren’t (Athtart…, p. 141).

What is true is that in addition to their similar character, in all due likeness, Ashtart’s and Anat’s iconography was similar (The Many…, p. 5). It’s pretty much a given that people in antiquity could tell them apart, though - just like a modern catholic will often be able to tell apart saints based on minor details. In absence of accompanying inscriptions, this can be very difficult for researchers today, though (ibidem, p. 6). Similarity in iconography cannot be held as evidence for conflation - in the end it’s comparable to iconographic similarities between Baal and Resheph (ibidem, p. 100). In particular, the proposal that they merged into Atargatis known from classical sources from across Syria is baseless on both theological and linguistic grounds, and is a relic of antiquated attempts at proving every goddess is actually but an aspect of an underlying all encompassing greater whole (Athtart…, p. 140-141). 

It’s evident that Ashtart was also associated in some way with Baal, though she is never addressed as his spouse or sister (Mistress of…, p. 216). It’s safe to say she was regarded as his ally, as evident in the Baal Cycle (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 281). Much remains unclear, though. A particular mystery is one of Ashtart’s epithets, which designates her as the šm of Baal. It’s generally accepted that this term literally means “name”, but it’s far from clear what exactly it entails in this context (Athtartu’s Incantations…, p. 208-209). A meaning alongside the lines “alter ego of Baal” has been proposed (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 278). However, implicitly interpreting Ashtart as a hypostasis of Baal is obviously implausible (Athtart…, p. 134). 

It’s also unclear if the relationship between Baal and Ashtart was ever imagined as romantic and/or sexual. The evidence is unclear at best. For instance, as already noted the myth focused on Ashtart’s hunt might also allude to an encounter of some sort between her and Baal, and someone’s “desire” for someone or something is mentioned, but the passage is simply too fragmentary to determine what’s going on with absolute certainty (‛Athtart…, p. 59-60). 

I personally find Daniel Schwemer’s evaluation the most convincing: it’s fairly plausible that individual texts might hint at sexual encounters between Ashtart and Baal, as well as Anat and Baal, but it’s clear that none of them were envisioned as married. It can be also safely assumed that Ashtart was not regarded as the mother of the group of goddesses labeled as Baal’s daughters; she’s only ever an ally who may or may not have other dealings with Baal as well (The Storm-Gods of the Ancient Near East: Summary, Synthesis, Recent Studies: Part II, p. 13-14). I suppose one could refer to this interpretation as “allies with benefits”.

“Ishtarat” and Yam: a goddess that never was and her impact on Ashtart

There’s technically a third proposed close relationship between Ashtart and another deity which continues to pop up in scholarship. It has much more shaky foundations, though. To understand where it came from we need to go further back in time, and a bit further to the east. 

At an uncertain point before the Sargonic period (ie. before 2350 BCE or so), a certain Ikun-Shamagan became the king of Mari, a city located close to the border between Iraq and Syria. It’s unknown how long he remained on the throne, and even his placement in the sequence of Mariote rulers is up for debate (Douglas R. Frayne, The Presargonic Period (2700-2350 BC), p. 317). One of Ikun-Shamagan’s courtiers, a cupbearer named Shu-Weda, dedicated a vessel for the sake of his employer to a pair of deities: Id (“river”) and a goddess who, as it was assumed for a long while, was named Ishtarat or something along those lines. It’s formulaic and not very informative (ibidem, p. 318):

The reading “Ashtarat” or “Ishtarat”, and the resulting assumption Ashtart is the deity meant, goes back to Georges Dossin. However, it should be pointed out he actually read the name not as Ashtart or even as Ishtarat, but as Gishtarat (Manfred Krebernik, Einiger Frühdynastischer Inschriften aus Mari, p. 165). This in turn reflects his perplexing proposal that the theonym Ishtar was a Sumerian compound, a combination of giš and dar, which he translated as “penetrated sex”. Needless to say, to call this implausible would be an understatement (Athtart…, p. 23; Ištar in…, p. 39-40). It’s not even a correct translation - giš dar would actually mean “cut tree” (ibidem, p. 40)... “Ishtarat’s” foundations were therefore always quite shaky.

This issue was first pointed out in 1984 by Manfred Krebernik (of Reallexikon der Assyriologie fame). His reexamination of the text revealed that a misreading was otherwise unknown theonym, ba-sur-ra-at (Zur Lesung…, p. 165). In 2011, his arguments were expanded upon by Gianni Marchesi and Nicolò Marchetti, who similarly concluded Bassurat is the more likely reading, and etymologized her name as a derivative of the root bsr, “to announce (good news)”. This would mean it can be translated as something along the lines of “annunciation”, a fairly believable theonym (Royal Statuary of Early Dynastic Mesopotamia, p. 228). Dominique Charpin in a review of their work concluded that Krebernik’s reading can now safely be assumed to be correct. In other words, the career of Ishtarat is over.

In theory, this section of the article could end here - there’s no Ashtart in the inscription.

Sadly, it’s not quite as simple. Some time before Krebernik’s paper, Wilfred G. Lambert offered his own treatment of “Ishtarat”. He concluded that the name cannot be a simple variant of Ishtar, and tentatively proposed identification with “Ashtart of Mari”, though not without reservations (The Pantheon of Mari, p. 76; page numbers follow the reprint from Ancient Mesopotamian Religion and Mythology. Selected Essays).

A fresco from Mari showing Ishtar (right) with king Zimri-Lim and an intercessory minor deity (wikimedia commons).

It should be noted that while an “Ashtart of Mari” is indeed attested in Ugarit - she already came up in this article - Wilson-Wright argues that it’s possible that she was actually a goddess who arose in this city, not an import from Mari. In the Old Babylonian period, king Zimri-Lim of Mari visited Ugarit. Wilson-Wright speculates that he and his entourage might’ve compared Ishtar - who is well attested in Mari - with the goddess they encountered in Ugarit, leading the locals to create an “Ashtart of Mari” entirely based on their idea of Mariote culture. Of course, this is all speculation (Athtart…, p. 140). I personally find it quite convincing, though - gods reflecting a culture’s idea about how the deity of another culture would be like, such as Amurru, were fairly common in the “cuneiform world”.

Putting that aside, Lambert assumed that “Ishtarat” and the river god were a couple, though the only evidence he provided is that one is feminine and the other masculine, and that they occur next to each other (The Pantheon…, p. 75). This supposed spousal connection, as he argued, can be extended into a new way to interpret the plot of an Egyptian composition conventionally referred to as the Astarte Papyrus (more on it later), and most importantly to the Baal Cycle (ibidem, p. 76-77). Neither of those compositions feature a deified river; however, Lambert argued that the sea god Yam played a similar role due to his recurring Ugaritic title “judge Nahar”, ie. “judge River”, which he took for an allusion to river ordeal (ibidem, p. 77). However, river ordeal is not attested in Ugarit. It’s therefore quite unlikely that this title was anything but a way to highlight Yam’s mastery over water (Herbert Niehr, Yammu in RlA vol. 15, p. 143).

As far as I can tell, the reception of Lambert’s interpretation has been mixed at best. For instance, Mark S. Smith in the 1990s described the evidence mustered as “minimal” (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 24). Despite that, Noga Ayali-Darshan attempted to not just confirm it, but even expand its scope, in 2010 (‘The Bride of the Sea’: The Traditions about Astarte and Yamm in the Ancient Near East, p. 19). In addition to accepting the premise of Lambert’s article uncritically, she argues that Ashtart is an “erotic” goddess (sic) and therefore it only makes sense to associate her with Yam and to presume a lost scene in the Baal Cycle dealt with his seduction by her since “sea dwelling creatures (...) are associated with lust and sexuality” (ibidem, p. 23; no specific source is provided for this assertion). In addition to relying on an interpretation of Ashtart’s character which, to put it lightly, has little to do with the primary sources (Mistress of…, p. 214), Ayali-Darshan’s article is riddled with other factual errors. For instance, she incorrectly states that the masculine gender of the river deity is something unique to Mari and distinct from (lower) Mesopotamian tradition in order to make the dubious identification with Yam more plausible (Bride of…, p. 26). However, as argued by Lambert (The Pantheon…, p. 75) and more recently by Marchesi and Marchetti, most likely the dedication invokes the consistently masculine divine representation of river ordeal, well attested across Mesopotamia, not just in Mari (Royal Statuary…, p. 228). The treatment of supplementary material from other text corpora poses other similar problems, as will be demonstrated later.

While ultimately the fact neither Ashtart nor Yam appear in the dedication should be enough to abandon the quest for a love story starring them, it also has to be stressed that a single dedication which doesn’t specify the relationship between invoked deities should never be used as the sole evidence for an alleged relationship in the first place. Yam receives offerings with Baal in one of the Ugaritic ritual texts (Dennis Pardee, Ritual and Cult at Ugarit, p. 20-21) - should we assume they too were a couple?

Jokes aside, Steve A. Wiggins’ warning remains timeless: one should be cautious about taking rudimentary associations like that, lest they are ready to make similarly bold claims about the reasons behind dedicating contemporary churches to two saints at once (A Reassessment…, p. 101). 

Last but not least, note that there’s a distinct possibility that lacking a partner was actually seen as Yam’s distinctive characteristic in Ugarit. In the Baal Cycle, after Shapash announces his elevation to kingship, someone complains that a god who lacks a wife is unfit to rule. Depending on restoration, this might be Shapash rebuking Attar, who would like to become king in Yam’s place - but it might also be Attar grumbling that Yam is unfit because he’s single. The passage is too damaged to determine which of these two is the speaker, sadly, but neither option can be easily ruled out (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 258).

“Ashtart of battle”: ritual texts from Emar

Tell Meskene in 1998 (wikimedia commons).

The city of Emar (Tell Meskene), located near Aleppo, is already attested in sources from Ebla, around 2400 BCE, and later on in the Old Babylonian Mari corpus. However, most of the texts discovered during excavations are considerably later. They have been written mostly between 1310 and 1187 BCE. It seems that for most of its history Emar was part trading emporium, part agricultural village, with a city council of sorts rather than a hereditary king in charge. A local dynasty of rulers only arose around 1400 BCE. Less than a century later the Hittite Empire under Muršili II conquered Emar and turned it into a frontier military outpost. The local dynasty was deposed, and a new one subordinate to the Hittite viceroy residing in Carchemish was installed. However, the Hittite administration seemingly didn’t replace local religious officials, with the “diviner of the gods of Emar” enjoying particular prestige and autonomy (Athtart…, p. 73-75).

What’s most important for Ashtart is that it has been argued that the evidence pertaining to her found in Emar is complementary with the Ugaritic texts. While Ugarit provided more literary texts, Emariote finds are almost entirely ritual in character (‛Athtart…, p. 34).

It’s indisputable that Ashtart was a prominent goddess in Emar (‛Athtart…, p. 44). No less than 17 hypostases of her are attested (Athtart…, p. 72). Rather surprisingly, no study of Ashtart before the 2010s took the material from this city into account, though (‛Athtart…, p. 33).

Very few sources from Emar refer to Ashtart using phonetic spellings of her name. Most of the time, she is represented by a logogram - either the “Akkadogram” Ishtar or “Sumerogram” Inanna. That in at least in some cases Ashtart is meant is confirmed by sporadic use of phonetic aš-tar-ti which alternates with both logograms. The phonetic spelling is also common in theophoric names. However, in some cases a different goddess (or multiple goddesses) might be hiding behind the logograms; a degree of caution is necessary (Athtart…, p. 77-78). One exception might be the goddess Aštar-ṣarba, “poplar Ashtar”, who was seemingly a relic going all the way back to the times of Ebla. Her name contains an archaic Akkadian cognate of Ashtart’s (ibidem, p. 84-85). Ashtart’s role as a divine huntress was well known in Emar, as evidenced by references to the “hunt of Ashtart” (ṣadu ša Aštart). It has to be pointed out hunting was not necessary for subsistence in Emar in the late second millennium BCE. However, the hunt of Ashtart could be a ritualized echo of her original role in a less urbanized environment (ibidem, p. 87). It’s not clear what the hunt entailed, though. It might’ve simply been an actual hunt meant to honor a goddess fond of such endeavors. A more speculative interpretation also exists: the “hunt” is metaphorical, and might reflect a hitherto unknown myth in which Ashtart ends up lost in some way or another, and has to be recovered, similarly to Ugaritic Baal in the Baal Cycle (Athtart…, p. 83). The latter option is less likely in the light of the portrayal of Ashtart as a huntress in other text corpora, though (ibidem, p. 87).

The warlike role is well documented, too. As a matter of fact, the single best attested form of Ashtart in Emar is “Ashtart of battle” (Aštart ša tāḫāzi). She occurs under this title in numerous ritual texts. She also had her own cultic personnel, including a high-ranking priestess, the maš’artu. This position was held for life, with a new priestess only appointed if the previous one died or was too sick to continue upholding her religious duties (ibidem, p. 89). While there’s no consensus about the origins of the term maš’artu, it might be a cognate of Akkadian ša’āru, “to conquer” or “to be victorious”. If so, we might be dealing with a title along the lines of “priestess of military success”. It’s worth noting it’s possible that the maš’artu took part in military campaigns herself, likely to guarantee Ashtart’s support for Emariote troops, which lends further support to this interpretation (ibidem, p. 91-93). Among her duties was bathing the statue of Ashtart - possibly to symbolically purify the goddess after she took part in warfare. Comparisons with Anat bathing herself after slaughtering enemies in the Baal Cycle have been made (ibidem, p. 90). A further hypostasis which warrants some discussion is Ashtart ša abi. This byname sparked a number of interpretations (ibidem, p. 100-101). She most notably appears in a list of offerings for a festival known as zukru. She’s paired with a god whose name is suspiciously similar to Yam’s in it (Daniel E. Fleming, The Installation of Baal’s High Priestess At Emar: A Window on Ancient Syrian Religion, p. 300). The presence of Yam next to this specific form of Ashtart led to the rise of a proposal ša abi was a marine epithet related to the sumerogram A.AB.BA, “sea”, though this is far from being the consensus position today. As far as I can tell, this has been first questioned by Daniel E. Fleming in 1992. He suggested that it might instead be a reference to either the abi - a type of offering pit which originated in Hurrian tradition - or to the word ab(u), “father”, metaphorically used to refer to ancestors. Either option could reflect an association with ancestor worship - possibly something alongside the Ugaritic concept of ilib, divine ancestors. Quite importantly, the rites dedicated to Ashtart ša abi took place in the month Abû, which was seemingly a time of funerary rites (ibidem, p. 300-301). Fleming later pointed out that while the discussed epithet occurs at Emar multiple times, Yam is absent from all the other texts it is attested in (Time at Emar: The Cultic Calendar and the Rituals from the Diviner’s Archive, p. 187).

For what it’s worth, in the most recent treatment of the zukru I’m aware of, John T. Thames translates the discussed title as “of the abi” (The Politics of Ritual Change. The zukru Festival in the Political History of Late Bronze Age Emar, p. 100). He doesn’t discuss it further, but it’s pretty clear he likewise doesn’t see it as a reference to any bodies of water. 

While other authors generally depend on evidence from Emar itself to evaluate the epithet, Ayali-Darshan - who sees it as supporting evidence for Ashtart and Yam being regarded as a couple - asserts that it is actually to be found in lower Mesopotamia too. She states that her “Astarte of the sea” hides behind epithets of Mesopotamian Ishtar containing terms referring to the sea (The Bride…, p. 25).

However, these are actually completely irrelevant to her argument. All of them are designations of a hypostasis of Ishtar associated with the Sealand - the southernmost section of the Euphrates and the coast of the Persian Gulf. This region was called (māt) tâmti in Akkadian and (KUR) A.AB.BA in Sumerian. The English translation “Sealand” is literal (Odette Boivin, The First Dynasty of the Sealand in Mesopotamia, p. 22-23). The existence of an “Ishtar of the Sealand” is hardly surprising considering she was an important goddess for the rulers of this area. This is well demonstrated by her appearance in the royal epic of Gulkishar (ibidem, p. 30). This is sadly not the time or place for dissecting Gulkishar’s career and the accuracy of the epic starring him in detail; I feel obliged to let you know that his regnal name means “raider of the totality” (ibidem, p. 39). In other words, it’s a moderately successful attempt at coining a name which would mean, more or less, “conqueror of the world”.

Going back to Emar, it's pretty clear that most authors are fairly sure that there was no marine hypostasis of Ashtart in the local pantheon. Even if the precise meaning of her epithet under discussion is up for debate, it seems likely it had something to do with ancestor worship instead. In any case, any connection with Yam can be safely ruled out.

Ashtart and the weather god of Emar

The better established and less baseless debate about Ashtart’s love life has its Emariote reflection, too. It has been argued that, for instance, the popularity of the theophoric names Zū-Ba’la and Zū-Aštarti coupled with absence of similar names invoking other deities proves the two were viewed as a couple. However, as soberly noted by Wilson-Wright, the names indicate little beyond the two being comparably popular among Emar’s populace. The fact Baal’s lead priestess, the entu, was appointed ceremonially in a similar way to the mašartu also doesn’t say much about Baal and Ashtart themselves (Athtart…, p. 94-95).

While as I said before I think it’s sensible to assume the Ugaritic material reflects some sort of relationship between Baal and Ashtart, it has to be stressed that it cannot be used to prove this was also the case in Emar. The Emariote weather god was a wholly separate entity; he wasn’t even consistently referred to as Baal, most likely. The city was the westernmost limit of the spread of this convention, but in different linguistic contexts the same weather god could be referred to as Teshub or Addu (Adad). Similarly, his relationships with other deities might’ve reflected Mesopotamian and Hurrian tradition more closely (The Storm-Gods…, p. 14). Ultimately the only firm evidence for the existence of some association between Ashtart and the weather god in Emar are the references to “Ashtart of the temple of Baal” (INANNA É IŠKUR-ma). While this clearly implies that a hypostasis of her was worshiped in a temple of Baal or at least was associated with it in some other way, it provides no hints for how the relationship between the two deities was envisioned. Therefore, while it cannot be fully ruled out that they were perceived as a couple, it might also be that they were viewed as siblings or simply as allies (Athtart…, p. 97-98).

Hebat (right) and Teshub on a Hurro-Hittite relief from Yazılıkaya (wikimedia commons). Daniel Schemer points out that a further obstacle for interpreting the weather god and Ashtart as a couple is the presence of Hebat in the local pantheon. He argues that she is more likely to be his spouse, in line with both inland Syrian and Hurrian tradition. He speculates that the relationship between him and Ashtart might have accordingly resembled that between Teshub and Shaushka in Hurrian mythology. An arrangement in which Hebat played the role of an official spouse and Ashtart that of a mistress in theory cannot be excluded - local pantheons with a similar structure are well known from the first millennium BCE - but there’s no actual evidence for such an interpretation from Emar itself (The Storm-Gods…, p. 14).

“Angry and raging goddess”: Egyptian sources

A stela of Ramses II showing him in the company of Ashtart (right), with the Seth animal depicted above them (Louvre).

Ashtart first appears in Egyptian sources in the fifteenth century BCE (the New Kingdom period), with the earliest examples dated to the reign of either Thutmose III or Amenhotep II. That’s actually slightly earlier than the oldest surviving texts mentioning her from either Ugarit or Emar - even though she was not a deity native to Egypt (Athtart…, p. 27). Ashtart’s introduction roughly coincided with the “debuts” of a few other foreign deities in the Egyptian pantheon: Baal, Resheph, Horon and Anat. It has been proposed that they were either transmitted by prisoners of war who brought their deities with them, or through deliberate royal policy of the pharaohs (ibidem, p. 28). It’s quite possible that both theories are correct at once. There probably was no single event resulting in the transmission of Ashtart (or the other deities) to Egypt, but rather multiple separate introductions spread over a period of time (ibidem, p. 31). A common assumption is that one of the main reasons behind the embrace of Ashtart was the lack of a native deity who could be linked with war chariots, or more broadly with the use of horses in warfare (Athtart…, p. 29). The earliest Egyptian references to Ashtart pretty much uniformly associate her with the training of chariot horses for the elite of ancient Egyptian society - an activity in terms of prestige comparable to car racing today (Athtart…, p. 37). It therefore should come as no surprise that even Amenhotep II himself boasted that he got to work in the royal stables as a youth. He supposedly became an extraordinary horse trainer. Such was his skill that, as he claims, Ashtart and Resheph rejoiced when they saw him in action (ibidem, p. 38). 

However, it has to be stressed both horses and chariots were already well known in Egypt by then - the oldest evidence comes from the seventeenth century BCE, and they became a mainstay of Egyptian military after Ahmose I expelled the Hyksos in the sixteenth  (Athtart…, p. 37-38).

Furthermore, as pointed out by Dennis Pardee, the equestrian association is missing from Ugaritic compositions dealing with Ashtart’s belligerent side (Preliminary Presentation…, p. 35). An isolated reference to a “horse of Ashtart” has only been identified in what’s most likely an account of an oracular dream (Mistress of…, p. 216). However, even if it reflects an otherwise unattested equestrian aspect of her character at Ugarit, it’s not clear if it was entirely comparable to her association with horses in Egypt (Athtart…, p. 141).

Ashtart as a horse archer on an Egyptian stela (wikimedia commons). As a reflection of her primary role, Ashtart could be depicted on horseback in Egypt. In most cases there’s no sign of a saddle, with only reins used; the only exceptions presently known are two depictions showing her in a side-saddle (The Many…, p. 77-78). In a few cases she’s riding in a chariot instead (ibidem, p. 40). While textual sources every now and then link Anat with horses and chariots too, so far no certain evidence that this was reflected in iconography is known, making identification of unlabeled examples as Ashtart rather than Anat more sound (ibidem, p. 42). However, caution is necessary - ultimately not every figure on horseback is a deity, let alone specifically Ashtart (ibidem, p. 40). On the other hand, it has to be taken into account that even though consistently referred to as a goddess, she could sometimes appear somewhat androgynous in Egyptian art (Christiane Zivie-Coche, Foreign Deities in Egypt in the UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology, p. 6). It probably comes as no surprise that Ashtart was also typically depicted armed. The weapons are not very consistent, though - axes, maces, spears and shields are all attested in art. She was also uniquely depicted with a bow. Furthemore, in some cases generic typical divine attributes such as the was sceptre or the ankh show up too (The Many…, p. 75-76). While well documented, Ashtart’s belligerence wasn’t her only trait in Egypt. Some of the titles she acquired - like “mistress of all the gods” or “mistress of the two lands” - are feminine forms of titles of major gods such as Amun, or originate in the titulature of Egyptian royalty. Presumably they’re meant to show her close association with royal power. Likewise, this role is probably reflected in Ramses II’s decision to name two of his sons in her honor (Keiko Tazawa, Syro-Palestinian Deities in New Kingdom Egypt, p. 134). #6 bore the name Ashtarthirwonmef, “Ashtart is on his right side”, and #26 - Meryashtart, “beloved of Ashtart” (ibidem, p. 95).

“Hurrian Ashtart” or Shaushka?

The stela of Rom (Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek; reproduced here for educational purposes only, original source is a dead link).

At least one of Ashtart’s epithets used in Egypt - ḫꜢrw - indicates that she was probably introduced from somewhere outside the stretch of Levantine coast under direct Egyptian control, possibly from some more distant locale in inland Syria. It’s even possible that the enigmatic Ashtart ḫurri best known from Ugarit was the deity transferred (Athtart…, p. 66). 

The oldest known reference of Ashtart ḫꜢrw is generally assumed to be the votive stela of a certain Ram, otherwise notable for the unusually realistic portrait of the dedicant. He’s shown with a deformed right leg (possibly a result of undergoing polio), and he’s using a walking stick. In the accompanying inscription in hieratic he asks Ashtart for happiness and “a beautiful burial in the western desert of Memphis” (Athtart…, p. 62-63).

Putting Ram’s personal struggles aside, the byname of Ashtart he included in his dedication is pretty clearly a loanword which goes back to the already mentioned term ḫurri, ie. “Hurrian”. As Hurrian was commonly spoken across Syria in the second half of the second millennium BCE, in Egypt this label came to designate the region as a whole. Therefore, most translators assume from Egyptian perspective Ashtart ḫꜢrw would be “Syrian Ashtart” rather than “Hurrian Ashtart” (ibidem, p. 65). 

Ram and his family were likely foreigners, so for him she could instead be an “Ashtart from back home”, if you will. Not everyone who worshiped her in Egypt was a foreigner, though - another dedication comes from Ptahankh, a priest of Ptah (ibidem, p. 66).

Shaushka (right) with Ninatta and Kulitta on a relief from Yazılıkaya (wikimedia commons). It should be noted that despite the Hurrian-adjacent aspect of Ashtart’s career in Egypt, her Hurrian credentials are sometimes a bit exaggerated in scholarship. To be specific, there’s an erroneous view that her introduction had something to do with a statue sent to Amenhotep III by his father-in-law, king Tushratta of Mittanni, the preeminent Hurrian state. In theory, the accompanying letter - which is written in Akkadian (the language of international diplomacy at the time) - does use a logogram which could stand for Ashtart, namely INANNA. However, Tushratta specifies that the deity the statue represents comes from Nineveh. Therefore, it’s pretty clear that Shaushka - the tutelary deity of this city at the time - is meant. And on top of that, multiple Egyptian attestations of Ashtart predate Amenhotep III’s reign. Part of the confusion stems from inconsistent rendering of the logogram in translations, resulting in  “Ishtar of Nineveh” instead of “Shaushka of Nineveh”; neither is incorrect, but elsewhere Tushratta spelled Shaushka’s name phonetically. However, even that doesn’t justify the jump from Ishtar to Ashtart. Especially since Egyptian transcriptions of Akkadian theophoric names invoking Ishtar imply she was not seen as identical with Ashtart (Athtart…, p. 29-30).

Two dads and old friends: Ashtart and other deities

A late statue of Ptah (wikimedia commons). After her introduction to Egypt, possibly as early as during the reign of Amenhotep II, Ashtart came to be regarded as a daughter of Ptah (Athtart…, p. 66). On a stela from Memphis, they are even depicted together (The Many…, p. 26). It’s possible that at least in Memphis Ashtart was believed to intercede with her father on behalf of petitioners (Athtart…, p. 65).

Mark S. Smith proposes that the Egyptian tradition about Ashtart’s parentage might’ve been an adaptation of a tradition portraying her as a daughter of El (‛Athtart…, p. 66). For what it’s worth, it has been suggested that an association between El and Ptah is implied in an inscription from Serabit el-Khadim, though the former is not directly mentioned (Mark S. Smith, Wayne T. Pitard, The Ugaritic Baal cycle. Volume II. Introduction with Text, Translations and Commentary of KTU 1.3-1.4., p. 555). I think caution is required, though. Ultimately providing Ashtart with an Egyptian parent might’ve simply been a way to integrate her better into the pantheon, with no direct predecessor tradition from elsewhere (Athtart…, p. 97).

A different Egyptian genealogy of Ashtart is known from the Contendings of Horus and Seth, where both Ashtart and Anat are daughters of Ra (The Many…, p. 85-86). This might be a local tradition from Thebes, since a colophon indicates this famous composition originates there (Athtart…, p. 57-58). Ashtart and Anat play no major role in it, though - they’re merely mentioned in passing by Neith, who is one of the judges in the eponymous contendings. She rules in favor of Horus, but instructs Ennead to give Seth a compensation prize, including Re’s daughters Anat and Ashtart (William Kelly Simpson et al., The Literature of Ancient Egypt, p. 93-94; all page numbers follow the 3rd edition).

As you can probably tell, the passage above indicates the pairing with Anat wasn’t limited to Ugarit. It’s curiously actually more common in Egyptian sources, if anything. It occurs particularly often in incantations against snakebite and crocodiles. It’s clear that they represent the same tradition as the already discussed Ugaritic incantation against snakebite, but the direction of the transfer is unclear - it might be that Egyptians received Ashtart and her bff prepackaged with information about this area of expertise and sample incantations, but it actually cannot be ruled out the pairing of the two in this role was an Egyptian invention then imported to Ugarit, either (Athtart…, p. 68). It should be noted that in contrast with the passage from the Contendings of Horus and Seth, in most cases the two aren’t explicitly identified as sisters (Foreign Deities…, p. 6).

Baal-like Seth or Seth-like Baal (left) receiving offerings on a stela of Ramses II (wikimedia commons).

The association with Seth is a more complex issue. The passage from the Contendings of Horus and Seth appears to portray both Ashtart and Anat as his prospective brides, though this view is not universally accepted. The interpretation ultimately depends on the evaluation of the nature of the connection between Ashtart and Baal in other text corpora (‛Athtart…, p. 60). This might sound bizarre at first glance, but bear in mind that in the New Kingdom period, Seth was partially amalgamated with Baal (or vice versa). There are cases where Baal’s name was written with the Seth animal sign as a determinative of sorts, but also depictions of Seth as a Baal-like “foreign” god, with a normal human face. There seemingly were two different phenomena at play - Seth acquiring traits of Baal to better represent his control over foreign lands, and Baal acquiring some traits of Seth to better integrate him into the Egyptian pantheon. The latter is particularly well documented in Memphis (Foreign Deities…, p. 5). Coincidentally so is the recognition of some sort of connection between him and Ashtart (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 279).

Fighting the sea (again)

The surviving fragments of the Astarte Papyrus (wikimedia commons). A further major source presumably reflecting the perception of the relationship between Ashtart and Baal and/or Seth in Egypt is a composition usually referred to as the Astarte Papyrus or Astarte and the Sea. The title is somewhat of a misnomer, though - Ashtart doesn’t exactly take the center stage (Athtart…, p. 55).

The sole fragmentary copy dates to either the eighteenth or nineteenth dynasty (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 34). A composition date during the reign of Amenhotep II has been proposed, but isn’t universally accepted (Athtart…, p. 55). It’s pretty clear that the Astarte Papyrus shares a number of similarities with the Yam section of the Baal Cycle - most notably a conflict which involves Yam demanding tribute from other gods, and the involvement of Ashtart (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 23). It’s sometimes argued that it was directly derived from the Baal Cycle itself, though influences from other works have been proposed as well (The Literature…, p. 108). Possibly the large community of foreigners living in Memphis had a role in its transmission, though it remains unclear just how much constitutes an Egyptian innovation. One major difference is that Ashtart actually plays a somewhat different role than in Ugarit (Baal Cycle vol. 1, p. 25).

A figure of Renenutet from the first millennium BCE (wikimedia commons). While due to fragmentary preservation full plot cannot be restored, parts of it can be reconstructed with reasonable certainty. The gods - specifically the Ennead - are seemingly threatened by Yam, and decide to deliver tribute to him. Initially Renenutet is selected, and brings Yam a selection of precious stones. Something’s evidently not working as intended, though, since after a lacuna she suggests tasking Ashtart - addressed as daughter of Ptah - with it next. She is less than thrilled - she actually breaks down in tears upon hearing the request. However, she does as instructed… just to hear even more demands. Yam demands increasingly precious objects, including a necklace belonging to Nut and Geb’s signet ring. It’s revealed that if Yam’s request is not fulfilled, he’ll cover the world with his waters. At this point Seth enters the scene, but the rest of the composition is lost (The Literature…, p. 109-111). Presumably the now lost ending was centered on Yam’s defeat at the hands of Seth. This is confirmed by a number of medical incantations, which allude to Seth and/or Baal vanquishing him (The Bride…, p. 20). It seems no further interactions between Yam and Ashtart occur, though (‛Athtart…, p. 67). If this assumption is correct, the Egyptian version doesn’t offer a parallel to her involvement in the battle itself.

As in the case of the Baal Cycle and the material from Emar, Ayali-Darshan likewise attempted to prove that the narrative has romantic undertones. She argues that Yam desires Ashtart by the time the meeting between them ends (The Bride…, p. 20). However, Smith points out the fact that Yam  seemingly refers to Ashtart as “angry and raging goddess” doesn’t exactly imply any deeper connection between the two. The lists of Yam’s demands may or may not include someone’s daughter, but that’s far from clear (‛Athtart…, p. 67). Ayali-Darshan supplements the Astarte Papyrus with a second composition, the Tale of the Two Brothers (aka Papyrus d’Orbiney). She argues that the fact Yam appears to desire the wife of the main character, Bata, can be considered further evidence (The Bride…, p. 21). Note that Bata’s wife is not Ashtart, nor even a goddess, but rather a nameless woman created as a companion for him by Khnum at Ra’s request (The Literature…, p. 85-86). As soberly noted by both Smith (‛Athtart…, p. 67) and Wilson-Wright, this is quite a perplexing attempt - once again, the Tale of the Two Brothers at no point mentions Ashtart (Athtart…, p. 101 fn. 139). At most you could perhaps use it to argue that, at least in Egyptian literature, Yam was more or less consistently portrayed as lecherous, I suppose. 

From Ashtart to Astarte?

While Ugarit and Emar both ceased to be after the bronze age collapse, in Egypt Ashtart lingered on well into the Roman period (Mistress of…, p. 223). A text from the Ptolemaic period confirms she retained her old responsibilities - she is still the “mistress of horses, lady of the chariot” in it (ibidem, p. 222).

For completeness’ sake it’s also worth noting Ashtart appears in a theophoric name from Alalakh roughly contemporary with the Ugaritic material (‛Athtart…, p. 34). This is quite notable since this city shows multiple similarities with Ugarit, including in the religious sphere (Mary E. Buck, The Amorite Dynasty of Ugarit: Historical Implications of Linguistic and Archaeological Parallels, p. 261). For instance, it’s the only known location outside Ugarit where Shapash was definitely known (ibidem, p. 263-264). It’s also the single site most similar to Ugarit as far as the archaeological data goes (ibidem, p. 259). However, as far as I’m aware no notable references to Ashtart have emerged from it so far.

There’s some evidence that in some cases Egyptian Ashtart was imported to levantine sites (Athtart…, p. 68-69). However, overall comparatively little is known about the pantheon(s) of coastal areas further south than Ugarit (like the kingdom of Amurru) and it cannot be automatically assumed that the area was culturally homogeneous, or similar to Ugarit (The Many…, p. 18).

A possile Phoenician depiction of enthroned Astarte from Cyprus (wikimedia commons). It’s sometimes argued that the Phoenician goddess known to Greeks as Astarte, worshiped in cities like Sidon or Tyre in the first millennium BCE,  evolved from the one known from bronze age sources discussed in this article and they are to be considered one and the same (ex. Mistress of…, p. 224), I personally lean towards the view that we should be speaking of multiple goddesses whose names happen to go back to the same root, though (Athtart…, p. 146). Even similarly named goddesses, at the end of the day, are not necessarily identical, though. The burden of proof should be on those who seek to prove that every single similarly named deity is part of a greater whole - though sadly that is still far from being the standard (ibidem, p. 9). Few things demonstrate the need for caution better than the fact a cognate of Ashtart’s name, as already discussed earlier, is attested as the name of an ostensibly male deity in Sabaic - a language spoken historically in the south of the Arabian peninsula; very obviously this god had little to do with her (ibidem, p. 13). In the case of Phoenician Astarte, the most important factor for making a distinction is her character, in my opinion. She was never depicted as armed, though, and only appears in association with warfare in a treaty between king Baal of Tyre and Esarhaddon of the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Most likely she was primarily regarded as a generally benevolent figure, closely tied to royalty (Mistress of…, p. 217-218). A number of attested cases of interpretatio graeca and romana also speak against any more significant martial role - Astarte is identified with Aphrodite, Hera and a number of other goddesses depending on location, but never with Athena or any other warlike deity (ibidem, p. 219). On the other hand, she was clearly associated with seafaring (Athtart…, p. 149). Hopefully future studies, instead of necessarily assuming deities with cognate names were identical, will attempt to untangle the history of Phoenician Astarte. The textual record from her major cult centers is at best imperfect, but surely Wilson-Wright is right that it’s ripe for similar approaches as those currently applied to bronze age sources from Ugarit or Emar (ibidem, p. 146).

Conclusions

Introduction: an empress and her wu

The account of Chen Jiao’s (陳嬌) affair with Chu Fu (楚服) is often described as the oldest reference to a relationship between women in the entire Chinese textual record (Liang Shi, Mirror Rubbing: A Critical Genealogy of Pre-Modern Chinese Female Same-Sex Eroticism, p. 751).

The events supposedly unfolded during the reign of Emperor Wu of Han (武帝; 141-87 BCE). Very early on in his career, a marriage was arranged between him and Chen Jiao. However, the couple failed to produce an heir. The emperor’s elder sister, the princess of Pingyang (平陽公主) came up with a solution - she arranged a banquet where Wu was introduced to multiple prospective concubines. A certain Wei Zifu (衛子夫) caught his attention. Over the course of the next few years, she gave birth to three daughters and a son, crown prince Ju (據). Meanwhile, still childless Chen Jiao lost the emperor’s favor, and the marriage was falling apart. She was seemingly still hoping that providing Wu with an heir would let her regain her status, though. She initially sought medical help, but eventually turned to a more esoteric sort of specialist, the female wu (女巫) Chu Fu. And from there on, things kept escalating (Laurie Venters, Leftover Peaches: Female Homoeroticism During the Western Han Dynasty, p. 6-7):

Alas, once the news about Chen Jiao’s scheme reached the emperor, he ordered an investigation. The empress was found guilty of utilizing wugu (巫蠱) to gain back her former position and harm Wei Zifu. Subsequently her collaborators - around three hundred people total, including Chu Fu - were executed. Chen Jiao herself was “merely” forced to “retire” from her official position and leave the palace, though (ibidem, p. 8).

Wu, gu, and wugu

A pair of figures from the state of Chu from the fourth or third century BCE, regularly labeled as “shamans” online (wikimedia commons).

Before delving into the part of the account you’re probably here for, I need to provide additional context for the terms applied to Chu Fu and her arts.

The term wu (巫) is variously translated in English as either “shaman” (Li Guo, Writing Gender in Early Modern Chinese Women's Tanci Fiction, p. 77)/“shamaness” (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8; as seen above), or “witch” (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 751) in discussions of the Chu Fu episode. In scholarship it’s generally argued that wu were “mediums” or “shamans” (imprecise as those terms can be), though as stressed by Barend J. ter Haar none of the early sources point into that direction. In those dating to the Han period, it’s often not even clear if wu is a neutral or derogatory label (The Fear of Witchcraft and Witches in Imperial China: Figurines, Familiars and Demons, p. 27-28). Later on, especially in twentieth century sources, it usually functions as a term which is both pejorative (much in the way “witch” often is in English) and imprecise. In secondary sources it can essentially designate “any religious activity of expertise” which is not clearly Buddhist, Daoist or Confucian, and simultaneously cannot be easily explained as “popular beliefs” and has nothing to do with secret societies (ibidem, p. 33). 

A classic European depiction of a witch from the fifteenth century (wikimedia commons). A key difference between wu and witch is that at the end of the day the wu is always actually a ritual specialist, even if an unorthodox and not necessarily universally respected one; while the European witch is largely a figment of imagination (ibidem, p. 420). It’s likely that wu was often used as a stand-in for many strictly local terms, some of which weren’t preserved in writing (ibidem, p. 36). It’s clear many existed in various periods. For instance, ter Haar’s brief survey of local gazetteers from the nineteenth century revealed terms such as jingyan (淨眼, “pure eyes”) and guanwang (關亡; uncertain meaning) in Baoshan County near Shanghai; ang i (尪姨, “divine lady”) in the south of Fujian; mingyan (明眼; “owner of clear eyes”) in Shandong; or zouwuchangzhe (走無常者; metaphorically “underworld messenger”) in Henan and Hebei (ibidem, p. 28-29).

A nine-tailed fox on a Qing period illustration (wikimedia commons). As for gu (蠱), it first occurs in Shang oracle bone inscriptions, but in a context which is unhelpful at best (ibidem, p. 252). You might be familiar with it from the description of the nine-tailed fox in the Shanhaijing (西山經), which similarly says little about it - other than that eating the meat of this animal is an antidote to it (Richard Strassberger, A Chinese Bestiary: Strange Creatures from the Guideways Through Mountains and Seas, p. 88). Multiple other creatures from the same work are said to ward off gu in one way or another, including the xibian (谿邊; ibidem, p. 99) and the sanzugui (三足龟; ibidem, p. 158). Whatever its original meaning, ultimately gu came to be used first and foremost as a nebulous term for “fears and accusations of harmful ritual”. It’s quite likely that much like wu, it was often a shorthand for numerous strictly local terms of varying precise meaning (The Fear…, p. 36). However,  it was particularly commonly defined as the result of putting multiple venomous or poisonous small animals into a container and waiting until only one remains. Note they’re not necessarily meant to be insects; this is a misconception based on the mistranslation of the term chong (蟲) used in this context. It has no precise taxonomical meaning and in addition to various invertebrates it can also refer to snakes, as well as various other similar animals (ibidem, p. 36-37). A famous early account of this belief can be found in the compilation Suishu (隋書, “Documents of the Sui”), completed in 636 (ibidem, p. 253-254):

Another similar definition can be found in the medical treatise Zhubing Yuanhou Lun (諸病源候論; “Discussion of the Causes and Symptoms of All Illnesses”), attributed to the physician Zhao Yuanfang (巢元方) and presented to the imperial court in 610 (ibidem, p. 255):

However, in later periods in medical context gu instead referred to pain in the belly and conditions which could be linked with it, like diarrhea. It doesn’t designate a specific affliction, just a class of symptoms (ibidem, p. 38). The medical meaning likely developed based on beliefs of people who thought they were struck by the supernatural gu. The pain likely resulted from stress-related problems or from common issues like stomach disorders or parasites in those cases (ibidem, p. 427). Both of the discussed terms - wu and gu - could be combined into the compound wugu (巫蠱), which functioned essentially as an equivalent of English “witchcraft” in legal context and in accounts of courtly plots. However, it was otherwise relatively rarely used in the past, and only became a common term in contemporary scholarship as a handy umbrella term (ibidem, p. 38). Last but not least, a further term used in accounts of the Chen Jiao case is meidao (媚道), literally “way of seduction”, presumably to be understood specifically as something alongside the lines of “love magic”, given the empress’ objectives (ibidem, p. 191).

What did Chu Fu do?

Megan Huang as Chu Fu in the tv drama The Virtuous Queen of Han (screencap from an official yt upload of episode 24; reproduced here for educational purposes only).

With Chu Fu’s professional qualifications now more or less clear, it’s time to go back to her supposed affair with Chen Jiao.

The most reliable accounts of emperor Wu’s reign are generally agreed to be Shiji (史記, “Records of the Grand Scribe”) by Sima Qian (司馬遷; ca. 145-87 BCE) and Hanshu (漢書; “Book of Han”) by Ban Gu (班固; 32-92). Both mention Chen Jiao’s scheme and the enlistment of a suspect helper, but neither implies any romantic or sexual involvement between the two women (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8-9).

The allegation that Chu Fu and Chen Jiao were a couple actually only appears in the Han Xiaowu Gushi (漢孝武故事; “Tales of Han Emperor Wu”), which is both less reliable and significantly later. It was most likely only composed in the Six Dynasties period (220-589), and pretty late on at that. It also contains many very obviously fictional additions. On top of that, only one surviving copy - a manuscript called Hanfenlou (涵芬樓) - describes the supposed affair in any greater detail. It’s not impossible that this is down to chance preservation, to be fair. At the same time, it’s hard to prove the supposed tryst with Chu Fu was anything but a fabrication added many centuries after the events involving Chen Jiao have unfolded (Leftover Peaches…, p. 9). In other words, it's probably historical fiction.

Interestingly, Sima Qian actually leaves Chen Jiao’s co-conspirator nameless; she is first referred to as Chu Fu in Ban Gu’s work. The name is fairly unusual (The Fear…, p. 190). It has been proposed that it might be a nod to her crossdressing - fu (服) can be translated as “raiment” (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8). However, another possibility is that 楚服 is a typo, and it’s actually supposed to be homophonous 楚婦 - “a woman from Chu”. As remarked by ter Haar, this area was commonly associated with “dubious ritual techniques”, making it a suitable place for a suspicious ritual specialist to hail from (The Fear…, p. 190-191). I wonder if the addition of crossdressing to her repertoire wasn’t actually an attempt at rationalizing Ban Gu’s spelling of her name, if so.

Figure of a musician in a jieze headwear (wikimedia commons).

Official in a pingshanze headwear on a tomb painting (wikimedia commons).

For clarity, the crossdressing is not just a matter of interpretation - the belt and the cap or head wrap (幘, ze) Chu Fu donned were both perceived as firmly masculine (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8). For what it’s worth, Chu Fu’s presentation has actually been indirectly compared to contemporary butch lesbian fashion in at least one paper (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 767). It’s additionally assumed the reference to Chu Fu and Chen Jiao loving each other “as if they were a husband and wife” reflect the masculine presentation of the former. This description might simply indicate that the relationship was meant to be understood as a parody of heterosexual marriage arrangements by the intended audience. However, Laurie Venters also suggests that it might hint at the use of sex toys (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8). It’s generally agreed that a number of phallic grave goods from the Han period were sex toys, with one variety evidently meant to be fastened around the waist. However, whether any of them would actually be used by women on their own as opposed to in voyeuristic spectacles obviously cannot be easily determined. Therefore, even though Venters’ is probably right to argue that “their utilisation within homosexual partnerships is not unthinkable”, once again caution is necessary. As she stresses herself, it’s important to “differentiate between sex acts forcibly undertaken and those genuinely desired” in this context (ibidem, p. 18-19). Venters further speculates that from Chen Jiao’s perspective sex with a crossdressing ritual specialist might’ve been a form of sexually charged exorcism interconnected with the rest of the latter’s activities in the court. Possibly Chen Jiao was hoping to remove supernatural obstacles preventing her from getting pregnant this way (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8). Fascinating as this possibility sounds, until more evidence emerges it probably should remain speculative, though. Next to Chu Fu’s presentation, her death is probably the most discussed part of the story. It is sometimes argued that her  execution can be considered “the first case of persecution of female homosexuals in Chinese history” (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 751). However, as pointed out by Venters, this is most likely an incorrect interpretation of the events. The description of the execution matches legal prescriptions for dealing with users of gu and other nefarious ritual techniques; Chu Fu was therefore apparently executed for witchcraft rather than for an illicit relationship (Leftover Peaches…, p. 8). Her fate is similar in the earlier accounts of the events, too (The Fear…, p. 190-191) - which, as already stressed, don’t make her involvement with Chen Jiao into a romance.

Even though Chen Jiao’s alleged affair with Chu Fu is frequently discussed in scholarship, both in Chinese and English, and it’s not hard to find discussions of it online either, as far as I’m aware it didn’t really become a mainstay of later works of fiction focused on Chen Jiao or more broadly on emperor Wu’s court. For what it’s worth, Chu Fu appears in the 2014 TV drama The Virtuous Queen of Han (大汉贤后卫子夫), portrayed by Megan Hwang. However, as far as I can tell she doesn’t crossdress. let alone have an affair with Chen Jiao (if that happens at some point in the show and I simply missed it in online coverage - mea culpa for overlooking it). As a matter of fact, it seems the show turns her straight, which as far as I can tell has no precedent in historical sources. I’d be interested to learn if any more niche media stayed closer to the narrative; there’s definitely no shortage of Chinese social media posts discussing it, at least.

Love between women in historical Chinese sources

Even if the historicity of Chu Fu - or at least crossdressing Chu Fu interested in women (Chen Jiao in all due likeness did work with suspect ritual specialists) - is ultimately dubious given the character of Xiaowu Gushi, the tale is still pretty valuable as a source in the broader context of study of relationships between women in China. Even if ultimately every single detail is a fabrication, it still provides some information about attitudes towards them at the time of its composition (Leftover Peaches…, p. 9).

It needs to be pointed out that the very idea of a lesbian relationship in the Han court is not entirely implausible. Strictly speaking, prior to the early twentieth century Chinese lacked a direct equivalent of the term “lesbian” (ibidem, p. 3). However, a possible euphemism for relationships between women - duishi (對食) - is already attested in the Han period. It can be translated as “paired eating”, which may or may not be an euphemism for cunnilingus. It occurs in the Hanshu, where it’s used to describe the relationship between two female “state slaves” (官婢, guanbi), Cao Gong (曹宮) and Dao Fang (道房). The events took place around 12 BCE, during the reign of emperor Cheng (成帝). The later writer Ying Shao (應劭; ca. 144-204) outright defined duishi as a term for “women behaving as husband and wife with one another” and stated that such relationships could involve “intense mutual jealousy” (ibidem, p. 10-11).

Despite this evidence, some caution is necessary regarding duishi. Not all attestations of the term have romantic or sexual implications, and sometimes it refers to people simply sharing a meal. Furthermore, in a single later work - the Mingshi (明史; “History of the Ming”) it’s used to describe an affair between a woman and an eunuch - specifically between Tianqi Emperor’s wet nurse Madam Ke (客氏) and a certain Wei Chao (魏朝). It’s therefore not impossible that it was a general sexual euphemism which could be also applied to heterosexual relationships, rather than exclusively those between women (ibidem, p. 11-12). Given the gap in attestations, I wonder if its semantic range might have changed between periods, though? Ying Shao doesn’t seem to have any doubts about its meaning, after all. Entirely for completeness sake, it’s worth noting that other euphemisms for relationships between women are attested as well, for example “grinding bean curd” (磨豆腐, mo doufu) and “grinding the mirror” (磨鏡子, mo jingzi). However, they’re quite rare and restricted to late imperial times, with no earlier precedents (ibidem, p. 5). They reflect a pattern attested in numerous other languages: historical (and at times modern) terms referring to women pursuing relationships with other women, or for sexual activity between women, tend to allude to rubbing or grinding in one way or another, in reference to non-penetrative sex (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 769).

A seventeenth century illustration of an anecdote about emperor Ai of Han (劉欣) and his partner Dong Xiao (董賢), the origin of one of the most widespread historical euphemisms for gay relationships (wikimedia commons). It sadly doesn’t seem that a category of flowery euphemisms similar to those referring to relationships between men, which often invoked specific historical romances, ever developed in the case of women. There’s no wlw answer to the likes of fentao (分桃, “shared peach”) or duanxiu (斷袖, “cut sleeve”), tragically (ibidem, p. 769). 

Despite the existence of the aforementioned relatively blunt euphemisms,  in most cases relationships between women were simply described in terms used for heterosexual couples, though, as in the case of Chen Jiao and Chu Fu (Leftover Peaches…, p. 4-5). Another example like that can be found in the Jinshi (金史, “History of the Jin”), which mentions that emperor Wanyan Liang’s (完顔亮; 1122-1161) royal concubine Alihu (阿里虎) and her maid Shengge (勝哥) slept together “like husband and wife” (ibidem, p. 13). However, this might only reflect male perception of relationships between women (ibidem, p. 766-767). Liang Shi argues that this phenomenon reflects the “inability of a literary imagination to conceive any female homosexual relationships outside the mode of heterosexuality” (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 755-756). 

In some cases it’s virtually impossible to argue with this evaluation. One example is an adaptation of the account of Alihu’s affair with Sehngge written by the Ming writer Feng Menglong (冯梦龙), published his 1627 anthology Xingshi Hengyan (醒世恆言, “Common Words that Awaken the World”) The author went out of his way to describe Shengge’s appearance as masculine (to the point other characters assume she’s a man in disguise), and the entire relationship as a proxy for a heterosexual one. The Ming period also provides some examples of voyeuristic erotica in which women turn to having sex with maids using strap-ons in absence of male partners, with the act itself presented as an unsatisfying prelude to heterosexual intercourse; it’s hard to argue this is anything but a male fantasy (ibidem, p. 753-754). Liang Shi assumes that Two Women Who Died Together (二女同死, Ernü tongsi), a short story from the Qing period anthology Mingzai Xiaoshi (明齋小識) might be a closer match for the reality of relationships between women. The nameless protagonists grow gradually closer, spenting time with each other at every opportunity, and eventually commit suicide together (Mirror Rubbing…, p. 756-757). He argues that while unique, the story might be closer to the doubtlessly numerous actual relationships between women which must’ve occurred through Chinese history without leaving any other traces in literature, in contrast with the prevailing descriptions of faux-heterosexual setups. It’s not impossible the latter were modeled on historical affairs, but as he argues they spread largely through literature rather than experience (ibidem, p. 758). Liang Shi argues that the limited interest in writing about relationships between women outside of contexts pertaining to male interests reflects a broader pattern indicating they were universally frowned upon or even persecuted (ibidem, p. 758-759). This might be a bit too radical of an evaluation, though. Other authors argue that while in most periods relationships between women were generally frowned upon, they were necessarily openly condemned. In contrast with heterosexual affairs they posed no threat to legitimate patrilineal descent, which might explain the lack of interest in writing about them. It might very well be that they were more common than textual sources would indicate, and simply for one reason or another were not described (Leftover Peaches…, p. 6). There’s no evidence for a blanket ban on relationships between women in any period in which they are documented (ibidem, p. 12-13).

Yu Huilan: Yu Xuanji’s life

A portrait of Yu Xuanji from the eighteenth century (wikimedia commons).

The poetic career of Yu Xuanji (魚玄機) was short and tumultuous (Suzanne Cahill, Material Culture and the Dao: Textiles, Boats, and Zithers in the Poetry of Yu Xuanji (844-868), p. 102). She has been recognized as “perhaps the most sophisticated and daring female poet of the Tang” by modern researchers (Bret Hinsch, Women in Tang China, p. 102) and as an “idiosyncratic” writer (ibidem, p. 129). Fittingly, her family name, which literally means “fish”, is uncommon and unusual. Her personal name means something along the lines of “mysterious luck” or perhaps “dark secret” (David Young, Jiann L. Lin (trans.), The Clouds Float North: The Complete Poems of Yu Xuanji, p. IX). It might not actually be her original name, though - it’s possible she was originally named Huilan (蕙蘭; “orchid”), which was one of the most common feminine names at the time. Xuanji might’ve been a name she assumed upon being ordained, presumably alongside her courtesy name Yaowei (幼薇), “deep and subtle” (Jinhua Jia, Gender, Power, and Talent: the Journey of Daoist Priestesses in Tang China, p. 166).

Xuanji most likely hailed from a commoner family (ibidem, p. 166-167). She is frequently described as a courtesan both in historical and contemporary sources. However, according to Jinhua Jia this claim is not attested before Song period, and has to be placed in the context of efforts to brand her as uniquely licentious and immoral (ibidem, p. 164). She became the concubine of the scholar and official Li Yi (李億) at some point during the reign of emperor Yizong of Tang, ie. no earlier than in 860. She was apparently quite happy with this arrangement, and accompanied him as he moved between provincial offices in modern Hubei and Shanxi. It seems the relationship fell apart when Li Yi returned to the capital in 866. The reasons are unclear; it’s possible that one of them simply lost interest by then. However, it has also been suggested that Li Yi’s primary wife wasn’t fond of Yu Xuanji, and might have convinced him to abandon her (ibidem, p. 167-170). Around the same time, Xuanji got ordained as a Daoist priestess (ibidem, p. 170). She resided in the Xianyi convent (咸宜觀), named in honor of princess Xianyi, who funded the construction of most of its buildings upon her ordination in 762. It was a traditional destination for female relatives of officials residing in Chang’an who decided to enter the clergy. Xuanji might have been allowed to enter it due to her earlier relationship with Li Yi (Ibidem, p. 14-15).

Wen Tingyun (wikimedia commons). In the following years, Xuanji apparently engaged in (or at least tried to engage in) affairs with a number of poets and officials. In poems inspired by those events she frequently cast herself in the role of a seductive immortal, or compared herself to famous literary lovers. Perhaps most notably, she also exchanged letters with Wen Tingyun (温庭筠). Later literature at times alleged they were lovers, but no poems written by either of them actually indicate that. It’s possible they were initially introduced to each other by Yi, who was Tingyun’s friend. As pointed out by Jinhua Jia, Tingyun doesn’t really fit the image of Xuanji’s desired lover - men mentioned in her love poetry were generally young and handsome; in contrast, he was 40 years her senior and contemporaries regarded him as uniquely hideous. It’s therefore distinctly possible that the two were really just friends (ibidem, p. 169-170). Xuanji’s religious career only lasted for around two years, as she was supposedly executed in 868 after killing her maid Lüqiao (綠翹) in a fit of jealously (ibidem, p. 171-172). It has been argued that this might be why her poetry managed to reach a bigger audience with time. The late Tang public was in all due likeness generally unaware of her activities in life. However, it’s very likely that the news of the execution of a homicidal clergywoman would make rounds far and wide, indirectly attracting attention to her earlier endeavors too (Women in…, p. 102-103). There’s a problem, though - it has been argued that the amount of dramatic detail in accounts of Yu’s death is suspect. The whole story might originate in the Tang dynasty equivalent of modern tabloid press. Doubts have been raised about the authenticity of the entire episode as a result (The Clouds…, p, IX-X). Suzanne E. Cahill states that the story was “never satisfactorily proved”, for instance (Transcendence…, p. 234). Other proponents of dismissing it argue that it fits the pattern of narratives representing independent women as dangerous and immoral (Kang-i Sun Chang, Haun Saussy, Women Writers of Traditional China: An Anthology of Poetry and Criticism, p. 67). Granted, those doubts are themselves questioned at times. The possibility that the event did occur but Xuanji didn’t actually intend to kill Lüqiao has been raised, too (Gender, Power…, p. 172).

Yu Yaowei: Yu Xuanji’s works

A portrait of Yu Xuanji by the Qing dynasty painted Gai Qi (wikimedia commons). As illustrated by the previous section, ultimately very little can be said about Yu Xuanji’s life with certainty. The exception is what’s conveyed in her own poems (The Clouds…, p, IX). Luckily, there’s no shortage of them. It’s estimated that around a quarter of her body of work has survived (Material Culture…, p. 102). 49 of her poems have been collected in the Tang nülang Yu Xuanji ji (唐女郎魚玄機集), which in turn is preserved in multiple Song anthologies. The compilers of the Qing collection Quan Tangshi (全唐詩) supplemented it with a further fully preserved poem, discovered in the Wenyuan Yinghua (文苑英華) and four fragments from the Tangshi Jishi (唐詩紀事), bringing the total of Xuanji’s works known today to 54 (Gender, Power…, p. 258). It’s assumed that the inclusion of Xuanji’s poems in various anthologies must’ve at least partially reflected a desire to gather all sorts of curiosities alongside “regular” poetry (ie. poetry written by men of specific social standing). Poems written by women (as well as foreigners and, surprisingly, clergymen) were generally treated as an oddity similar to those attributed to ghosts or foxes (The Clouds…, p. X).

It should be noted that despite her poems' frequent classification in anthologies, Xuanji was not entirely an outlier. There are multiple other female poets from the Tang period who happened to be Daoist clergywomen. A slightly earlier example is Li Ye (李冶). At the peak of her fame she was invited to visit the court of emperor Daizong - which she apparently didn’t enjoy; she reportedly found the palace life tedious. Her career was cut short after she was forced to write poetry disparaging the Tang dynasty during the short-lived rebellion of Zhu Ci (朱泚). After Zhu Ci’s defeat, she was executed for treason (Women in…, p. 103). Still, Xuanji stands out thanks to her unique style. She had limited respect for traditional decorum; one of her poems purposely startles the reader with a shocking final line in which the lovesick lyrical self declares that “amidst the flowers, silently my guts are sliced”. The gory imagery would be quite shocking to the Tang audience, but then so would be the fact that the lyrical self does not just passively accept the absence of a lover, and instead opts to seethe in anger (Women in…, p. 102).

Another of her poems is focused on voicing frustration with being unable to take the imperial examination due to her gender. Interestingly, she focuses on the way she had to dress as the cause of this misfortune; it is merely the feminine style of clothing that results in her literary talent being overlooked (Material Culture…, p. 104-105). The frustrations voiced in this poem were quite novel, and arguably ahead of their time - no other instances of women writing they wish they could take the imperial examination are recorded before the Ming and Qing periods (Gender, Power…, p. 185). Furthermore, in some of her poems Xuanji cast herself in a masculine role. For example, she expressed the wish to become a butterfly seeking flowers, usually a poetic metaphor for a man seeking relationships or visiting brothels. In this case, the target of her affection was a man - specifically Li Yi. The use of similar masculine language might reflect a desire to become a part of the world of male literati. It’s particularly significant that the metaphor occurs in a poem which also documents her interest in traveling, seeing marvelous landscapes and drinking wine - pastimes typical for the aforementioned group (ibidem, p. 173-174). This specific reuse of a traditional metaphor was already praised by Ming critics such as Huang Zongxi (黃宗羲) who recognized it as remarkably novel and erotic (ibidem, p. 175). A further point of interest is that five of Xuanji’s surviving poems are addressed to other women, either to fellow members of Daoist clergy or to courtesans (Gender, Power…, p. 162). White caution is necessary, it seems that with the exception of one or two examples from the reign of the Southern Liang dynasty, the poetry of Xuanji and her contemporaries - mostly fellow Daoist clergywomen - does appear to mark the first time women wrote poetry about and for other women  (Women in…, p. 129). As a matter of fact, it has been recently suggested that while it was previously believed a distinct “women’s literary culture” only emerged in China in the seventeenth century, its roots might actually to be sought in Tang monasteries at least to a degree (Gender, Power…, p. 162-163).

Out of the poems addressed to other women, one stands out - Guang, Wei, and Pou are three sisters, orphaned when young and accomplished from the beginning. Now they have written these poems, so essential and pure that they are hard to match. How could even the linked verses from the Xie household add to them? There was a stranger coming from the capital city who showed them to me. Consequently, I put these rhymes in order (Material Culture…, p. 120-121):

At first glance, aside from its lengthy title the poem isn’t all that remarkable. It actually had minimal impact on Tang poetry at large (Women in…, p. 129). However, it attracted considerable attention in scholarship over the course of the past few decades, as it might be a unique example of a lesbian love poem. As far as I can tell, the first academic publication to propose this was Suzanne Cahill’s 1993 Transcendence & Divine Passion: the Queen Mother of the West in Medieval China (Transcendence…, p. 235). According to Cahill’s interpretation, Xuanji’s attraction to the three sisters is reflected in the use of phrases well attested as sexual euphemisms, such as references to rain and blowing the syrinx. Furthermore, Xi Wangmu might be invoked to act as a matchmaker between her and the sisters, just as she would be for straight couples (Material Culture…, p. 122). Cahill’s proposal has been adopted by a number of other authors, including Bret Hinsch (Women in…, p. 129) and Li Guo (Writing Gender in Early Modern Chinese Women's Tanci Fiction, p. 77), though it has to be stressed it’s not accepted unanimously. For instance, Jinhua Jia states that she has doubts about whether the poem Cahill depended on can be interpreted as a display of Yu’s attraction to women (Gender, Power…, p. 263). However, she doesn’t explore the topic further. It certainly doesn’t help with making a final verdict that we don’t really know how women attracted to other women would express their desires in Xuanji’s times, or in most other periods of Chinese history. No sources written by them are available (Liang Shi, Mirror Rubbing: A Critical Genealogy of Pre-Modern Chinese Female Same-Sex Eroticism, p. 753). All of the available accounts of relationships between women come from texts written by men (ibidem, p. 767). Personally I found the arguments of Cahill and authors following her interpretation compelling. However, it needs to be stressed that the possibility that she was attracted to women doesn’t automatically mean it was a central concern in her poetry, nor should she be labeled as the first attested wlw in Chinese history, as is sometimes claimed online. 

Empress Chen (with no crossdressing WLWizards in sight; wikimedia commons). Li Guo argues that the earliest example of a reference to a relationship between women is an affair between empress Chen (陳) and the crossdressing “shaman” (女巫, nüwu) Chu Fu (楚服) from the Hanwu Gushi (漢武故事; “Precedents of Emperor Wu of Han”). The same period also yields a number of references to dushi (對食), literally “paired eating” (a possible allusion to oral sex), apparently to be understood as relationships between women (Li Guo, Writing Gender in Early Modern Chinese Women's Tanci Fiction, p. 77). I will explore this topic in more detail in a second pride month special, stay tuned.

Gyo Genki: Yu Xuanji’s afterlife

Interestingly, even before the academic debate about Yu Xuanji’s sexuality, there was a semi-biographical work about her which portrayed her as attracted to both men and women. There’s a fair number of modern works dealing with her life - for instance, in 1984, Eddie Fong’s movie An Amorous Woman of the Tang Dynasty (唐朝豪放女; Tangchao haofangnü) was released by the Brothers Shaw studio. Four episodes of the 1988 TV series Those Famous Women in Chinese History (歷代奇女子, Lidai qinüzi) are focused on her, too (Gender, Power…, p. 258). However, the first one to explore her orientation is surprisingly both earlier and from outside China.

Mori Ōgai in 1916 (wikimedia commons).

In 1915, the Japanese writer and playwright Mori Ōgai (森鷗外) published the short story Gyo Genki (the Japanese reading of Yu Xuanji’s name; Atsuko Sakaki, Obsessions with the Sino-Japanese Polarity in Japanese Literature, p. 106). Prior to that, Yu Xuanji wasn’t really a well known figure in Japan, in contrast with many other Tang poets (ibidem, p. 210). Mori ostensibly depended on multiple historical sources dealing with Yu Xuanji’s life - they are even listed as a bibliography of sorts at the end of his story. Allusions are made to many events from her life mentioned in the earlier sections of this article - her poetic career, her frustration at inability to partake in civil service exam, and so on (ibidem, p. 129-131). However, Mori also took many liberties. Li Yi’s role is considerably reduced, and the relationship between him and Yu Xuanji is explicitly not consummated. As a matter of fact, her unwillingness to do so is presented as the reason why she was sent to live in a Daoist temple instead (ibidem, p. 131-132). The friendship between Yu Xuanji and Wen Tingyun is also presented with some liberties - for instance, in the story the two met when Yu was still a teenager (ibidem, p. 128). Most importantly from the perspective of the article, Mori describes an affair between Yu Xuanji and another woman. The episode actually has nothing to do with the poem discussed earlier, though. Instead of three sisters, a fellow Daoist practitioner is involved. It’s generally agreed that this is pure literary fiction (ibidem, p. 132). Mori loosely based it on the poem Presented To the Girl Next Door, which doesn’t actually imply any affairs with women (ibidem, p. 217):

For what it’s worth, it’s quite plausible that it was addressed to another woman who lived in the Xianyi convent, at least. It might’ve been intended as advice in heartbreak. Yu Xuanji seems to be suggesting that due to her relatively independent status as a Daoist priestess, her associate could simply seek a new lover. She invokes the names of men who would be recognizable to a contemporary reader as archetypal charming lovers - the famously handsome third century BCE poet Song Yu (宋玉) and Wang Chang (王昶), a recurring character in love songs  - to essentially tell the recipient that sky’s the limit for her (Gender, Power…, p. 180-181).