Living traditions

The horizon lies low in the Ganjig, a city surrounded by grasslands. Wind from the grasslands gently blew, filling the city with a sense of openness that felt almost endless. 

I met Qi during a meal, where she performed traditional Mongolian songs,  as if the landscape of the vast steppes emerged from the depths of her eyes. For a brief time, it felt as though we were not simply listening to a song, but stepping into a living fragment of a culture.

“Performing and singing is never just a job,” she said. “I do it because I truly love it. As a Mongolian person, this is part of who I am.” She smiled slightly, as if the answer had never been in doubt.

For her, sharing culture was not a task assigned, but an instinct—something that came naturally, almost inevitably. She spoke of wanting people from different places to understand not just the surface of Mongolian life, but the traditions and values that continue to shape it. 

“Choosing this path was less of a decision and more of a continuation of identity,” she said determinedly. 

Curious about her cultural identity, I brought up a common stereotype, that Mongolians ride horses to school, and asked whether such traditions still held any place in modern life.

She didn’t dismiss the idea. Instead, she traced it back to its origins.

The desert that Qi grew up in

“These stereotypes come from real traditions,” she said. “Horse culture is still here. We rode horses to school as children. Not only horse culture, but traditional dances, singing, wrestling… these traditional practices are also preserved.”

In cities, she acknowledged, these cultural elements might feel less visible. But beyond the urban edges, deeper into the grasslands, they remain vivid and alive. Modern life, she suggested, has not erased tradition. It has simply changed where and how it is felt.

With new roads, growing cities, and increasing tourism, I wondered whether modernization might weaken what has been preserved for generations.

“Development and cultural heritage can go together,” she said. “We move forward with the times, but we never forget our roots.”

She spoke of other places where traditions have faded, contrasting them with her own hometown, where culture, she believed, had been carefully held onto. Progress, in her view, was something that could coexist with continuity of culture.

Recalling how she mentioned her job is primarily performing for tourists, I asked how this growing interest, especially through tourism, had changed the way Mongolian culture is shared.

“It has helped a lot,” she said. “It gives us the chance to show our culture to the world.”

Local landmarks, the places tied to history and memory, are now seen by more people than ever before. But more importantly, she emphasized experience. When visitors step into the culture themselves, their understanding becomes something deeper than what words alone can offer.

During our conversation, she showed a sense of ambience. There was no grand statement, no attempt to elevate her role beyond what it was. And yet, in that simplicity, there was something quietly profound. Her work was not just about preserving culture, but living the traditions, allowing it to be seen, recognized, and understood.

Meeting so many different people from different backgrounds, day after day, must mean a lot to her, I wondered, and asked her the question. 

She contemplated, “I think meeting people is a kind of fate. Every culture has its own beauty. My performances… I am just helping to build a bridge.”