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West Country, says Brian Pedley
The reports this week that several hundred Breton druids plan to apply for British citizenship elicited a wave of sympathy among their co-religionists in Cornwall.
The druids of Brittany, whose forebears have been immortalised in the Asterix cartoon stories, complain that France's highly centralised Government has rendered them effectively "stateless".
The issue boiled over this week when President Jacques Chirac rejected constitutional changes that would have enabled official European recognition of the Breton language. The Grand Druid of France immediately declared that he would seek British nationality for his people in order
to escape "oppression" at home.
Bretons have gazed enviously at the autonomy that has been granted to Welsh and Gaelic speakers and other groups in Britain. Even the Cornish language, last spoken as a mother tongue by Dolly Pentreath of Mousehole, who died in 1777, is in line for recognition as a regional language of Europe.
Cornwall itself is enjoying a vigorous resurgence of druidism - generally regarded as the ancient pagan religion of pre-Roman, Celtic Britain.
Ironically, just as the people of Cornwall are enthusiastically finding in their Celtic roots a potent source of regional identity, the basic assumptions about an unbroken 2,500-year Celtic culture along northern Europe's Atlantic seaboard are being attacked by a number of historians.
In his book, The Atlantic Celts - Ancient People or Modern Invention?, Simon James, of the Department of Archaeology at the University of Durham, suggests that the Ancient Celts never existed and that Celtic identity is in fact a product of the rise of nationalism in the 18th century.
"Most popular histories say that the Celts came by migration to Britain and Ireland during the Iron Age," he says. "It's now clear that the people who were here when the Romans arrived were overwhelmingly indigenous, but with lots of important contacts with the continent of Europe. My conclusion is that Celtic identity is indeed real now, but it is not a phenomenon of deep antiquity; it is a consequence of modern history."
However, the notion that Cornwall's Celtic forebears never really existed before the 18th century - and Dr James makes the point that "no one in Britain or Ireland called themselves 'Celtic' or 'a Celt' until after 1700" - has left the Duchy's own appreciable body of scholars wholly unimpressed.
"It's a huge arrogance to deny people the right to self-identify as they wish," says Dr Philip Payton, director of the Institute of Cornish Studies at Truro.
"It also denies the central tenet of modern social science scholarship which is to understand that identities are dynamic and are continually being reinvented. The idea that there are some primordial identities which are true and authentic and some latterday invented traditions which are unauthentic is in itself bogus."
Whatever the arguments from archaeology, history and linguistics, there is no gainsaying the vibrancy of the Celtic idea in Cornwall today. For the Breton druids the coming few weeks offer a welter of opportunities to see the most encouraging aspects of their potential new homeland (a ferry-ride away from the Breton port of Roscoff).
Cornish druids will have ringside seats at the solar eclipse jamboree, guarding the Duchy's prehistoric monuments and celebrating their pagan rituals at stone circles and other ancient sites.
At a stone circle near St Buryan, for example, on August 11, landscape architect Andy Norfolk will don a white robe to conduct a pagan ritual celebrating the "coming together" of the moon and sun.
"Pagan worship revolves around the sun and the moon as symbols and markers of changing seasons," says Norfolk, 46, a member of the world-wide order of Bards, Ovates and Druids and of Britain's own 10,000-strong Pagan Federation.
"The sun and moon are also regarded as symbols of masculine and feminine aspects of divinity, and at the eclipse they come together in a dramatic way. This is seen as the beginning of a new cycle, with a lot of opportunities for change for the better."
As well as their priestly role in the early Celtic religion, druids were also judges, doctors and scholars. Records exist of human sacrifices that involved strapping victims to wicker effigies and burning them alive and Britain's Pagan Federation is fighting to redress a negative image that has persisted through the centuries.
"It's still a bit of a battle and I think it's because of people like the author Dennis Wheatley and the Hammer horror films," says Norfolk. "Pagans just don't do that sort of thing."
At St Merryn, Ed Prynn, a former quarryman and self-styled "Archdruid", plans to mark the eclipse with a druidic wedding and a "gods and goddesses" night. The setting will be the garden of his bungalow, amid homemade granite monuments that attract 3,000 non-paying visitors a
year.
"I was guided spiritually to build my first henge," says the 62-year-old Cornishman. "Our rules are that if you can do a bit of water divining, you then become a mystic and a member of the St Merryn Druids. I tend to model myself on the Rev Jesse Jackson and Dr Billy Graham and, believe you me, that's a potent concoction."
He will be celebrating the eclipse with a new 5ft monolith in his garden and with music from his own band, known as Eddie Hardrock and the Mystics.
Less than a month after the eclipse, on the first Saturday of September, the "Horn of the Nation" will echo again across the land west of the River Tamar, and Cornwall will throw itself into the celebration of its annual gorsedd, the Duchy's most important Celtic celebration and its equivalent of the Welsh eisteddfod.
Schoolgirls will perform the ritual flower dance and the "Lady of Cornwall" will proffer the "Fruits of the Earth" in the form of a sheaf of corn and wild flowers. The ceremony of the gorsedd ends when more than 200 blue-robed bards swear on the sword of King Arthur to be loyal to the "Motherland".
Bards were traditionally the historians, poets and musicians of the ancient druidic hierarchy. Now, Cornwall`s 400 bards include journalists, politicians and sports people, together with a growing contingent of fluent Cornish speakers from all over the world.
"The gorsedd provides a focus for Cornish nationality and allegiance," says former Grand Bard George Ansell. "We also meet throughout the year and pronounce on important matters to do with Cornwall and Cornishness, such as the closure of hospitals and threats to our main-line railway. If you don't have a community, you don't have a culture."
Department of Defense defends the right to practice such
minority relilgions despite criticism from some Christians
Published on July 26, 1999 TIMES STAFF WRITER
FAIRFIELD -- In today's military, witches can be all they want to be. At bases across the country, Wiccans are coming out of their secret
covens -- with the blessing of the Department of Defense. They wear pentagram pendants underneath their spit-and-polish camouflage fatigues. They practice candle magic and meditation when off-duty. They attend on-base circle rituals, the Wiccan equivalent of a Mass.
"The base provided us with what we wanted -- equality," said staff Sgt. Loye Pourner, a high priest, military lean and ramrod straight, and leader of the Travis Air Force Base circle. "We didn't want special treatment. We wanted exactly what everybody else had."
Of course, compromise is sometimes required. Wiccans don't practice base rituals "skyclad," their sacred term for nudity.
From the Bible to the works of Shakespeare, witches have received a bad rap, pagans say. After all these centuries, they are finally getting some respect -- at least in the United States armed forces.
But trouble is brewing in this pagan paradise.
National Christian leaders and some congressmen, after learning of moonlit rituals at Fort Hood, Texas -- America's largest military post -- are demanding an end to what they say is Satanism in the barracks. The military, though, is not standing down: It defends the right of those practicing minority religions to worship on bases, just like Christians, Jews and Muslims.
Wiccans do not believe in Satan. They embrace pre-Christian paganism, a polytheistic belief system in which male and female deities are worshipped and nature is revered.
Pourner went public with his paganism about three years ago. He requested base support for witch rituals. Now he holds circle worships and classes in the chaplain complex.
"We may not agree with them, but we have to defend their right to worship," said senior Master Sgt. Lisa Olsen, a spokeswoman for the Travis chapel services.
Travis spokeswoman Lt. Carie Seydel said, "It's part of our diversity. You have to accept people for who and what they are to get the mission done."
Federal courts have recognized Wicca as a faith protected under the First Amendment, said Pentagon spokesman Lt. Col. Tom Begines. "Decisions to accommodate requests to hold meetings or conduct ceremonies on military installations do not constitute endorsements of a particular belief or practice," he said.
No one knows how many pagans have a connection to the military. John Machate, coordinator of the Military Pagan Network, figures there are 10,000 neopagans -- Wiccans and people of other faiths, such as Asatru and Druid sects -- on active duty, in reserve or the National Guard, and dependents. There are Open Circles at 11 bases and one ship, and study groups at five other bases, he said.
However, U.S. Air Force Maj. Gen. Richard Carr, chairman of the Armed Forces Chaplains Board, estimates that fewer than 100 people on active duty, out of a force of about 1.4 million people, practice Wicca.
The first official Wiccan ritual held at a U.S. base was in 1992 in Kaiserslautern, Germany, Machate said.
"There are incidents of harassment or discrimination, but they are limited and usually dealt with quickly," he said.
Some Christians and politicians, spooked that witches are openly praying to their gods on bases -- and in chaplain complexes, no less -- are crusading to ban their ceremonies.
"Make no mistake: The status quo is unacceptable," said John DeCrosta, spokesman for Sen. Strom Thurmond, chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. "The United States armed forces is not a seminary in camouflage. It's not a forum for comparative religions. There is no question that the presence of these groups diminishes readiness, good order, discipline and morale."
For some religious leaders, opposing witches on bases is something of a holy crusade. National organizations, including I Love Jesus Worldwide Ministries, Traditional Values Coalition and American Association of Christian Schools, are calling on Christians to boycott the Army by refusing to enlist or re-enlist.
"We believe God hates witches," said the Rev. Jack Harvey, pastor of Tabernacle Baptist Church, located near Fort Hood. "I'd like to see them saved. But they are a bunch of wicked witches. They are pacifists. They are nature lovers. They admit this. We don't need those kinds of people in the Army."
Harvey is leading a letter-writing campaign to Congress and is planning a "march for righteousness" on a new age store near Fort Hood.
"Obviously, it's a concern," said the Rev. Mike McCamey, senior pastor at First Baptist Church of Fairfield. A good number of his parishioners serve at Travis. "It causes people to have a dim view of the military. They are promoting it by allowing it. It's a product of the political times -- amoral."
At Travis, the small Wiccan community of about a dozen officers and enlisted personnel blends into the rigid rigors of military life. At the chapel complex, just beyond the billboard announcing Catholic and Jewish services, a sign taped to the building one recent Wednesday afternoon read, "Intro 2 Wicca." Inside, Pourner arranged books on his religion.
Often, people show up for the class simply for the magic, he said with a sigh. "They want to learn how to turn people into frogs and toads." Wiccans don't do such things, Pourner said.
Though some chaplains keep their distance, Pourner said officers overall have supported witches in uniform. Once, though, a woman interrupted a class he was teaching. "She was telling me we were all going straight to hell and we were desecrating the church," he said. She quickly retreated when told of military policy.
"I feel comfortable here," said Airman Russell Duff, a 20-year-old witch at Travis who grew up in southern Illinois. "I've had almost no trouble. Back home, I'd be in physical danger if I walked around with my pentagram around my neck."
Each Wiccan coven has different practices. In fact, many people are solitary practitioners. But they adhere to the basic doctrine. Wiccans, Pourner said, do not sacrifice animals, are forbidden from casting spells on people to force them to do things against their will, and follow a variation of the Golden Rule, "An it harm none, do what ye will."
They believe in the law of karma: Whatever ill one does to another will return to a person threefold in this life. Repeat offenders, those who slander others, needlessly hurt the environment, discriminate, could face excommunication, said Pourner, 38, who first learned about the pagan religion while watching the TV show "Picket Fences" six years ago.
"If you make a mistake, fix it," he said. "Don't ask the gods."
At Travis, a dozen airmen gather in the religious education wing of the chapel about every other month around the time of a full moon. Clothed in red or white robes, men and women -- officers and enlisted -- join hands in a circle. Candles flicker in all four corners. The high priestess or high priest invites the god and goddess to bless the Open Circle with their presence. Because the feminine side of life is emphasized, the high
priestess usually leads ceremonies.
Most believe in reincarnation, with existence being a many-lives process of attaining spiritual perfection, each life a step in a cosmic progression. "If you are stubborn and not smart, you go in a loop until you learn your lesson," Pourner said.
Yes, these witches have brooms, which are used "sweep" an area of negative energy. Many grew up in pagan families. Others come from a diverse background, including Christianity. Wiccan rituals include incense, blessed water and candles. The ceremonial similarities to Catholicism aren't lost on pagans, Pourner said. "Some Wiccans find that offensive," he said.
