By Julian Dierkes
Sometimes first-time visitors to Mongolia ask questions that I have also been asking myself, so leave me stumped and wondering.
One of these questions is the origin of the khashaa (Хашаа), or fence that demarcates a family’s property around their ger in an urban context.
These fences are ubiquitous in Ulaanbaatar as much as in provincial capitals and even soums. And, I mean ubiquitous as in really everywhere!
B Reichhardt has written a very brief note about the use of fences in Ulaanbaatar ger districts. K Brinkmann has photographed them.
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Below I am trying to muse out loud about some of the origins of the specific version of the xashaa fence. If anyone has any different ideas or perhaps even more well-grounded information, I would absolutely welcome that. This is a little bit like my orange-turquoise puzzle that I thought about with NUM’s Munkh-Erdene, but that we did not really reach a conclusion on. Therefore, it might even be an idea for a dissertation topic!
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Function
Two obvious purposes come to mind for these fences: keeping animals in, and keeping the elements and, perhaps, people and animals, out.
The counter-arguments are relatively clear, however. Obviously, Mongolian herders generally do not corral their animals except, for example, to sheer them or to catch horses to train them. So the idea of the wooden fence to contain animals seems to run somewhat counter to usual practice. However, perhaps it is the quasi-urban context where we see the fences that changes that practice? For example, in a soum centre, is a fence useful to keep animals that are about to be sold or moved somewhere else?
The one animal that might be kept in more obviously by a fence could be a dog. But there is little attention paid to dogs, their whereabouts and their well-being in the countryside, so this seems somewhat unlikely.
What about keeping animals out then? Again, when gers are sitting on the steppe somewhere, there is no obvious concern with animals coming close to the ger itself or to the cooking or slaughter areas that might be nearby. In an urban context, perhaps there is some utility in keeping herds out that are passing through, but is that enough of a need for one type of wooden fence to dominate across the whole country?
Maybe urban social distrust is at the root of the fence? These fences are not all that solid, so they would not really keep a determined animal or human out, but as gates typically have some kind of locking mechanism, there is some attention that is paid to the capacity of a fence to keep a property private and perhaps somewhat secure. If families might be leaving a property for months at a time as they are migrating, perhaps this modicum of security is enough to motivate some fences initially and they are subsequently copied by others?
In April 2025, I had a chance to meet up with National University’s Bayartsengel B who introduced me to the lovely new café at Dashchoilin Monastery near the university.
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This conversation pointed me in two directions for possible explanations. The first might be that the fences might be intended to keep someone out. But, Bayar countered that hospitality norms in the countryside are so strong, that gers would generally be left open for travellers to visit, so fences to keep travellers out or prevent theft would be an unlikely explanation. This might be different for nobles, however, where a fence might signal status. Monasteries may also have had enclosures initially as my check on Erdene Zuu photographs below suggests.
History?
But when did the wooden fence arrive? I’ve got Chris Atwood’s new translation of The Secret History of the Mongols on my desk and will have to check if wooden fences are mentioned anywhere in there, particularly given his discussion about the relative lack of prevalence of what we think of as a proto-typical ger today during the Imperial period. I would be surprised to find that wooden fences played a role in long-ago history.
One obvious thought, especially when traveling in northern Mongolia where small wooden houses are much more prevalent is: are wooden fences a Russian import?
As I was pondering this without really having much of an answer, part of a negative answer presented itself in a photobook on Erdene Zuu history that I picked up in Kharkhorin.
This book is not easy to find online, but I bought it at a gift shop at Erdene Zuu. Here is the entry from the National Library: Энх тунх Эрдэнэзуую.
Because the copyright and origin information about the photos reproduced in the book is very unclear, I do not want to simply reproduce the photos here. But, in several images that are marked “Archival photo, early 1900s”, there are wooden fences that divide different parts of the temple district around Erdene Zuu. These appear to look very similar to today’s xashaa fences, although they do appear to be a little taller and perhaps somewhat more orderly, that is, made of more regular planks. But, they are definitely planks that show some of the bark on (pine) trees, standing vertically, much like today’s planks.
These photos suggest to some extent at least that the xashaa look is not a Soviet import as “early 1900s” at a Buddhist monastery is likely somewhat removed from strong Russian influences.
My conversation with NUM’s Bayar also pointed me to Marzan Sharav’s “One Day in Mongolia” paintings. These are described in many places, including on lots of Mongolia tour company sites. Jamo Grand offers one such recent description. When you look at reproductions of the paintings (many available online), monasteries are clearly walled or fenced-in. The paintings are generally dated to the early 20th century, though not to an exact date. Either way, they seem to predate a pervasive Russian influence (while there was a Russian (trading) presence, of course), supporting my conclusion that the fences are not Russian in origin. Where gers are depicted as free-standing, i.e. not on temple grounds, they do not appear to be fenced-in. Perhaps that suggests that it was monasteries that were first fenced in in this fashion and that urban, i.e. less-nomadic gers may have subsequently adopted this. If that is the case, this might have been in the early days of the MPR. But, it would be surprising if these fences had become as ubiquitous as they are in only 100 years.
In the end, the fences thus remain a bit of a mystery to me…
Further Reading
For fascinating reading on other kinds of fences, see Zoljargal E’s visual anthropology essay:
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You are overthinking this. Wood was milled using Russian sawmills and they are all the same. They produce boards that are all the same length and dimension to make transport and storage easier. Flip this and imagine a Mongolian Anthropologist going to somewhere in the west and getting into a deep dive about the universal shape of egg cartons.
To think about the Russian connection (milled boards seems quite reasonable) is exactly why I tried to look at early 19th century photos. Hard to imagine Czarist boards being shipped throughout Mongolia, no? And photos show these fences that early.
A deep dive by a Mongolian anthropologist into the shape of egg cartons would be quite welcome, I’m not sure what you’re trying to say here.
What I am saying is that sometimes things in Mongolia happen merely for practical reasons. Going back into the 19th century it is probably even more likely that there were even few mills with equipment even less diverse so of course you would get the same thing spread across the country. Just as there is now, there were probably rules and regulations for how things were to be made and built. Mongolians followed those standards. The fences, as they are everywhere, are defining a boundary. In population centers where there are more and more strangers, there is a greater tendency to want to define a boundary and protect against strangers who may be robbing, trespassing etc… Mongolians are just people like you and me and they do things for the same practical reasons as you and I would. If you want to understand what drives Mongolian thought and practice, spend time living with Mongolians in situations where the nomadic culture evolved and then in the urban centers where people migrated to. The answer to these deep questions suddenly become very obvious.
Just because there are practical reasons for a phenomenon or explanation that seem “very obvious”, doesn’t mean that the phenomenon doesn’t beg an explanation. Of course, what you say about the availability of construction materials is true, but Russian-manufactured boards are not the only available answer to defining boundaries. And they are not the only answer in all regions of Mongolia, including those far away from Russia, yet the fences are near-ubiquitous.
Note that I entirely agree that thinking about cultural practices and rural-urban links is of obvious interest in this context, but conversations about fences that I’ve had have also frequently pointed to herder hospitality as being anathema to the notion of keeping strangers out, thus making fencing a somewhat unlikely cultural practice.
It is a somewhat unlikely cultural practice for a nomadic herder. But once one goes from nomadic herder to city dweller the culture changes. Now the boundary is a necessity that has no evolved experience. So the first example of the necessity is adopted and this is copied and repeated. Lets go back to the ger. With the exception of tourist versions, there are not too many variations. There is no room for experimentation and error when it comes to survival and a mobile tent as a home in Mongolian conditions is critical. Use what works, repeat. Now back to fences- use what works and what is available. There is some creative expression on the gate design and painting patterns, but that is it. There is no need to waste resources when there are very limited resources in the first place. Why experiment with a boundary if the risk is an intruder can get in and steal something? Use what works.
Regarding eggs, egg cartons and the carrying of eggs from the point of sale: https://mongoliafocus.com/2025/09/on-egg-cartons-in-mongolia/
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