The people of Drangmaling-Nangar village in Tsamang Gewog, Mongar Dzongkhag in the eastern district gather every two years to perform Khar-phued. Literally, dairy product; milk, curd, cheese, butter, etc. were used as offerings. In other words, Kar means "wheat", Phued means "offering" - it is the offering of the first wheat harvest. \n\nKharphu is a Bon ritual festival used to pay homage to local deities and ensure the well-being of the community, its households, livestock and crops. Kharphu is celebrated from the 26th day of the fourth month to the 2nd day of the fifth month according to the Bhutanese calendar. \n\nThe village elders trace the origin of this ancient festival to the days of the creation of earth and sky (sachag namchag), as they do not know the exact century of origin or when it was held. The program and its components have been entirely preserved and passed down through oral tradition. This includes the ritual nightly exchange of songs that extends throughout the week. Apparently, this festival is in great danger of being lost in the modern cultural landscape.

In the rugged landscapes of Timor-Leste, where dry seasons can stretch long and food insecurity remains a reality for many, the people have long relied on their deep knowledge of wild, resilient crops. Among them is Koto-Tisi—a hard, dark wild bean that offers vital sustenance but must be carefully prepared to remove its natural toxins. What might appear at first glance to be just another seed is, in fact, a symbol of survival, ecological wisdom, and ancestral resilience.\n\nThe bean is typically found growing on hardy, thorny shrubs or climbing vines in semi-wild areas. It is gathered primarily by women, who know when the pods are ready to be picked and how to handle them safely. The challenge lies not in harvesting but in transforming Koto-Tisi into something edible—an intricate cooking process that has been passed down through generations.\n\nPreparation begins with repeated boiling and rinsing, sometimes up to five or six times. Each round helps to leach out the toxic compounds present in the bean. The water must be discarded each time, and the beans carefully watched to ensure that they soften without disintegrating. After boiling, the beans are often sun-dried and stored for later use, to be boiled again before eating or ground into a starchy paste.\n\nThe process is labor-intensive and demands both patience and precision. Elders in the community emphasize that the knowledge of how to process Koto-Tisi is not written in books—it lives in memory, movement, and the rhythms of daily life. To rush the process or ignore the sequence could lead to poisoning. For this reason, children are taught to observe closely, assisting their mothers or grandmothers and gradually learning the delicate balance between danger and nourishment.\n\nIn times of drought, scarcity, or natural disaster, Koto-Tisi becomes a lifeline. Its ability to grow in harsh conditions, with little water or care, makes it a dependable fallback when cultivated crops fail. But it is more than a survival food—it is also a testament to how culture and ecology intertwine. The knowledge required to use it safely reflects a deep respect for the land, a skillset honed through centuries of careful experimentation and oral transmission.\n\nToday, as dietary patterns change and imported food becomes more available, the practice of preparing Koto-Tisi is fading in some areas. But in others, it remains a respected tradition—especially among elders who see it not only as food but as a story, a ritual, and a reminder of community strength in the face of adversity.

Along the coastal regions of Timor-Leste, especially in areas where seawater meets fertile land, communities have preserved a unique tradition known as Tein-Masin—the age-old practice of salt making. More than just a method for producing seasoning, this practice reflects generations of local knowledge, environmental adaptation, and cultural ritual.\n\nThe process begins with the careful selection of salty earth, which is usually dug from the beach or coastal swamps. This salt-rich soil is placed into large woven baskets or wooden containers and then carefully filtered using fresh water collected from nearby springs. The resulting brine is collected in clay pots or metal vessels and then boiled over a wood fire for hours—sometimes days—until only fine salt crystals remain.\n\nSalt production is typically carried out by women and elders who have mastered the delicate timing and techniques required for successful extraction. Every step—from gathering the earth to managing the fire’s intensity—demands attention, patience, and experience. It is common to see family members working together, with children helping to fetch water or gather firewood, making it both a household activity and a community effort.\n\nBefore the salt-making begins, it is customary to conduct a ritual led by a lia-nain (traditional spiritual leader) or elder. An animal, often a chicken, is sacrificed and its blood is offered to local spirits as a request for protection and success. This ritual underscores the belief that nature’s resources must be treated with respect, and that balance between human needs and the environment must be maintained.\n\nSalt produced through Tein-Masin is more than a culinary product—it is a symbol of cultural resilience and a vital part of local economies. It is exchanged in traditional markets, used in rituals, and stored as a valuable household good. In times of hardship or isolation, it has even served as a form of currency.\n\nToday, while industrial salt is widely available, many communities still choose to practice Tein-Masin, valuing not only the quality of the hand-made salt but also the cultural meaning embedded in its production. Yet, challenges remain: the practice is labor-intensive and yields are modest, and younger generations are increasingly drawn away by urban migration and modern lifestyles.\n\nPreserving Tein-Masin means more than protecting a traditional technique—it means safeguarding a way of life shaped by harmony with nature, intergenerational collaboration, and deep spiritual connection to the land and sea.

In the quiet Kazakh village of Zhosaly, the threads of tradition, resilience, and love are being woven together—one knot at a time. At the heart of this story is Bakytgul Raimbaeva, a mother whose personal struggle with her daughter’s illness led to the creation of something extraordinary: “Ansagan,” a school of traditional Kazakh folk crafts for children with disabilities.\n\nWhat began in 2007 with just four girls—including her daughter Ansagan, who had been diagnosed with a painful and incurable skin condition—has grown into a life-changing creative community of more than 130 students. Children who once felt isolated and hopeless now find joy, purpose, and healing through the ancient art of carpet weaving, korpe-making, and felting. Here, they learn to create with their hands, share laughter, and rediscover strength they never knew they had.\n\nGuided by the belief that every thread carries emotion and intention, Bakytgul teaches not just a craft but a philosophy: weave only with positive thoughts, and your creation will carry healing energy. With carpets made using traditional Kazakh methods and designs—like ornék looms, tekemet rugs, and sacred motifs—this grassroots school revives and preserves centuries-old techniques once passed from grandmother to granddaughter.\n\nAmong the pupils are teenagers like Kuralai and Inkar, who have mastered complex weaving skills and find pride in their cultural roots. But at the heart of it all remains the story of a mother's devotion. Miraculously, two years after the school was born, Bakytgul witnessed the impossible—her daughter Ansagan stood up and walked again.\n\nToday, “Ansagan” is more than a workshop—it's a sanctuary of cultural revival, inclusion, and hope. Supported by the village and driven by a passionate mission, Bakytgul continues to teach, inspire, and heal through craft, proving that folk art is not just a legacy of the past, but a force for transformation in the present.

The Yao people are one of the 54 ethnic groups of Viet Nam, residing primarily in the northern provinces of the country. According to the tradition of the Red Yao people, when a man gets married, he must go through a 12-lamp initiation ritual with his new wife. This initiation is an important ritual in the life of the Red Yao man - their rite of passage from an ordinary person to a member of the community. The film covers the entire ritual process with the ritual acts that reflect the belief system and the world view of the Red Yao people.

Mongolian worship ceremonies are performed at sacred sites to invoke assistance from nature deities: in the summer for timely rain and abundant pastures, and in the autumn for the protection of humans and livestock from a harsh winter. The tradition maintains a variety of forms of intangible cultural heritage, and builds a sense of community and solidarity among the people, while strengthening awareness of the importance of protecting the environment. On a set out day, all the participants gather early in the morning at the site of the worshipping. Everyone comes in their ceremonial clothes along with the offerings to the deities.

Mongolian worship ceremonies are performed at sacred sites to invoke assistance from deities of nature: in the summer for timely rain and abundant pastures and in the autumn for protecting humans and livestock from a harsh winter. The tradition maintains a variety of forms of intangible cultural heritage and builds a sense of community and solidarity among the people while strengthening awareness of the importance of protecting the environment. On a specified day, all the participants gather early in the morning at the worship site. Everyone wears their ceremonial clothes and brings offerings to the deities.

In a small lakeside village in central Kazakhstan, a former history teacher and journalist, Togaybay Nurmuratuly, has dedicated his life to reviving the lost traditions of Kazakh craftsmanship. Disturbed by the decline of authentic handmade wooden goods and the disappearance of ancestral knowledge, he left a successful career in the capital to found a free school of traditional crafts in the village of Ozernoye.\n\nWorking primarily with birch, Togaybay carves dishes, trays, and cultural items adorned with ancient Kazakh ornaments like qoshqar muyuz (ram’s horns), a symbol of vitality and prosperity. Despite having no formal training, he taught himself the techniques of woodworking and has since passed on his knowledge to over a hundred students across Kazakhstan.\n\nAlongside him, his wife Gulbarshyn Zaitzhankyzy—an ethno-designer and expert in felting—teaches women to sew traditional Kazakh clothing and accessories using ancient materials and motifs. Together, they have created a community that reconnects Kazakhs to their cultural roots while helping learners build sustainable livelihoods.\n\nTheir school offers not only craft training but also guidance on entrepreneurship, production, and promotion—helping modern artisans blend tradition with technology. With ambitions to expand into blacksmithing, build an ethnographic village, and establish a Kazakh national brand of handmade products, the couple’s vision is reshaping cultural preservation in Kazakhstan.\n\nThis is more than a story about wood and wool—it's about identity, resilience, and the belief that tradition, when nurtured with passion, can forge a future as strong as its past.

Tara-Bandu is one of Timor-Leste’s most enduring systems of customary law—an ancestral method for maintaining harmony between humans, nature, and the spirit world. Practiced across many municipalities, this tradition involves the collective setting of social and environmental rules by the community, enforced not by police or government, but by deep-rooted respect for customary authority and ancestral belief.\n\nThe term “tara-bandu” itself means “to suspend” or “to declare a prohibition.” At its core, it is a communal agreement to protect certain aspects of life—be it sacred forests, clean water sources, agricultural land, or interpersonal relationships. Violating a tara-bandu is believed to bring not just social disapproval, but also spiritual misfortune, such as illness, crop failure, or even death.\n\nThe process of establishing a tara-bandu involves an elaborate ceremonial act led by lia-nain (customary custodians), elders, spiritual leaders, and village chiefs. At the heart of the ritual is the symbolic installation of the prohibition. This may take the form of hanging a tree branch, an animal skull, or even a bound bundle of leaves at the boundary of a protected area. These symbols serve as visible markers that the space or behavior they refer to is off-limits.\n\nEach tara-bandu is tailored to local needs. In some communities, it may prohibit cutting down trees from a specific forest. In others, it may regulate marriage customs, resolve conflicts, or prevent theft and violence. The process is highly participatory: villagers gather in large open-air meetings to discuss the rules, agree on penalties, and publicly reaffirm their commitment to uphold the communal values.\n\nThe ceremony itself often includes the sacrifice of an animal—commonly a pig, goat, or chicken—as an offering to the ancestral spirits. A traditional oath is spoken, and traditional liquor (tua sabu) is sometimes poured on the earth as a gesture of sealing the agreement. These rituals symbolize not only human consensus but a spiritual pact between the living and the unseen world.\n\nBeyond its legal implications, tara-bandu has an environmental and ethical function. It teaches respect for natural resources, encourages collective responsibility, and reinforces peaceful coexistence. It also represents an indigenous system of governance, reminding the Timorese people that long before modern institutions, their ancestors had mechanisms to resolve disputes and protect what mattered most.\n\nIn the years following independence, tara-bandu experienced a significant revival. Communities, NGOs, and government bodies alike have recognized its value—not as a relic of the past, but as a living, adaptable tool for building resilient societies. It is now being integrated into conservation projects, natural resource management plans, and even civic education programs in schools.\n\nStill, its continued vitality depends on intergenerational transmission. Elders must be supported in sharing their knowledge, and younger generations must be empowered to see the relevance of tara-bandu in today’s context. As both law and ritual, tara-bandu is a shining example of how intangible cultural heritage can guide communities in shaping a sustainable, respectful, and united future.

“The Swan Rings: A Story of Eternal Love” is a captivating journey into Mongolia’s rich oral heritage, retelling the 500-year-old love story of Donoi the Rich and Tsagaankhuvi—a tale passed down through generations and revived today through storytelling, singing, and sand art.\n\nSet in the breathtaking landscapes of present-day Aldarkhaan soum in Zavkhan province, this story of devotion and harmony pays tribute to two legendary figures who helped sustain their community through horse herding and deep compassion. Honored and remembered as Ongods—ancestral spirits—Donoi and Tsagaankhuvi's story is a cherished legacy that continues to inspire.\n\nThis video reintroduces Mongolia’s storytelling traditions, blending folktale narration with epic singing and visual storytelling through sand drawing. At its heart are three handcrafted portraits depicting the main characters in their original attire, and a symbolic pair of silver swan rings—representing eternal love and unity.\n\nTo bring this tale to life, the creators conducted extensive research—consulting Ongods, visiting sacred sites, and collaborating with master storytellers such as N. Lantuu, B. Bayarmagnai, and G. Buuveibaatar. The team also drew inspiration from the natural beauty of Ganga Lake’s swan gatherings and the horse festivals of Agtana Khureet.\n\nNarrated by Merited Artist S. Otgon and sung by tradition bearer S. Dansran, this multimedia work features sand art by B. Sodnomdarjaa, original music by B. Erdenebat, and performances by S. Dansran and E. Enkhjin. The project was conceptualized by Agula Ulaach, revised by Agaruu UdGun, technically edited by B. Bilguun, and beautifully translated by B. Mandakhnar.\n\n“The Swan Rings” is the first in a trilogy exploring the theme “How Swans Became the Symbol of Love,” an artistic tribute to Mongolia’s timeless traditions of storytelling, love, and the spirit of community.

In the communities of Viqueque, particularly among the Tetun-Terik-speaking people, fai-akar—the production of sago flour from the akar palm—is not merely a method of food preparation; it is a cultural ceremony that blends labor, rhythm, and collective identity. At the heart of this tradition is the Tali-Bole dance, a dynamic performance woven seamlessly into the act of pounding sago, transforming a daily task into a vibrant expression of heritage.\n\nThe process of making fai-akar begins with harvesting the inner pith of the akar palm tree, which is then ground and washed to extract starch. This labor-intensive task is done in groups, mostly by women, using long wooden pestles to pound the fiber in large mortars. But what sets this practice apart is the way pounding becomes performance: the coordinated movement of the pestles rises and falls to the beat of chanting and drumming, and the Tali-Bole dance emerges from the rhythm of the work itself.\n\nDancers move in synchrony with the pounding, often stepping in and out of the work line, twirling or waving cloth, and responding to sung verses. The term tali-bole can be interpreted in various ways—some connect it to the image of “binding cords,” others to the swinging motion of the pestles themselves—but in all meanings, it emphasizes connection, unity, and the shared pulse of community labor.\n\nSongs sung during the pounding and dancing are passed down orally and are rich in metaphor and memory. One of the most well-known verses, Lakaleok, is sung toward the end of the session, signaling closure and expressing gratitude. These lyrics often tell stories of ancestors, landscapes, and social values, ensuring that cultural knowledge is preserved even in the most practical of activities.\n\nTraditionally, fai-akar and Tali-Bole were performed during rites of passage, funerals, house inaugurations, and communal feasts. Participation was seen not only as a contribution of labor but as an affirmation of cultural belonging. The rhythmic beat of the pestles and the voices of the singers created a space where work, ritual, and performance blended into one.\n\nAlthough the practice remains alive in some villages, it faces growing challenges. The availability of processed food, the decline of communal labor traditions, and the migration of youth to urban areas have all contributed to its reduced presence. Yet, in places where it continues, fai-akar and Tali-Bole are embraced as sources of pride, often featured at cultural festivals and heritage events to showcase the strength and creativity of traditional life.\n\nTo witness Tali-Bole is to see cultural memory in motion—where hands work, feet dance, and voices carry the wisdom of generations. In every stomp and song, the community reaffirms its bond with the land, its past, and one another.

Sau-Batar is one of Timor-Leste’s most cherished agricultural ceremonies, marking the successful harvesting of corn—batar, the staple crop that lies at the heart of both sustenance and spiritual life for many communities. Far more than an agricultural routine, this ritual reflects a worldview where nature, ancestors, and community are deeply intertwined.\n\nThe ceremony typically begins with a symbolic act called “taking out the old corn and bringing in the new.” This signifies a transition between agricultural cycles and expresses gratitude to the spirits of the land for their blessings. Families gather at their sacred houses (uma lulik), bringing both harvested corn and cooked rice to share in a ritual meal that reaffirms communal bonds.\n\nCentral to the ritual is the lia-nain—a customary elder responsible for oral tradition and ritual practice—who recites prayers, chants, and invocations handed down through generations. These words are not merely spoken; they are believed to activate ancestral protection and ensure future abundance. The corn offered during the ceremony becomes sacred, often preserved in specially designated granaries or placed on altars within the sacred house as a gesture of respect to the ancestors.\n\nMusic and dance are vital parts of Sau-Batar. Performances of Tebe Lilin (Candle Dance) and other local dances transform the occasion into a festive gathering, where movement and rhythm mirror the unity and joy of a successful harvest. The babadok drum keeps the beat as men and women, elders and children, participate in a shared expression of thanks and renewal.\n\nThe ceremony also involves the symbolic sharing of corn among relatives and neighbors, emphasizing that harvest is not an individual achievement but a collective gift. In some cases, leftover corn from the previous season is burned or ceremonially discarded to make room for the new yield, representing a fresh start and spiritual cleansing.\n\nBeyond its religious and social meanings, Sau-Batar also serves as a moment of informal education. It is during this event that younger generations hear the stories of how rituals are performed, why they matter, and what each gesture or offering means. Through active participation, children and youth absorb the knowledge of land stewardship, spiritual ethics, and cultural identity.\n\nIn recent years, as commercial farming methods expand and traditional schedules shift, Sau-Batar has faced challenges. Yet in many rural areas, the ceremony continues to be practiced with dedication, often with support from local schools and cultural preservation initiatives.\n\nFor the communities that uphold it, Sau-Batar remains a vital link between past and present, the visible and the invisible, and the land and its people. It is a ceremony not just of harvest, but of harmony—a living tradition that continues to nourish both body and spirit.