Why Are Mongolian Babies Swaddled So Tightly?

🌟This article is translated from None of Your Business School (不相及研究所). Founded in 2018, None of Your Business School (不相及研究所) is a Chinese self-media brand that explores the kinks and odds of China’s ethnographic and chorographic cultures (and subcultures, more often) through curious, humane eyes.

(translation: Kat)

(NOTE: The Mongolians mentioned in this article refer to the Mongolian ethnicity in China.)

To be a good Mongolian mother, you must first master the art of binding. Even before the baby is born, the grandmother begins her mentorship.

“You’ve got to tie the baby like you’re tying hay,” she’d say. “That’s how I tied up your husband back in the day.”

It sounds a bit cruel, yes — but that’s how life begins for the Mongolians: bound tight. Before their children learn to crawl, roll, run, or ride horses, they spend much of their infancy in an Ulugyi, the Mongolian cradle.

In some regions, it’s called the Kang cart (炕车), a name that already hints at its purpose. It may well be the most humane contraption on the grassland: a physical lullaby machine. Babies who grow used to it start yawning the moment they’re laid inside, eyelids heavy, limbs slack with peace. Some even fall asleep before the final knot is tied.

Every Mongolian mother is a master of rope craft — a quiet artisan of swaddling. Their technique is honed by practice and intuition. If there were an international competition for rope artistry, these women would surely dominate. After all, their “materials” are living, breathing human infants — delicate as milk foam. The trick is to wrap firmly but gently, silently but securely. A misjudged pull or a loud rustle can awaken the baby.

The Ulugyi has solved countless maternal headaches. Once the baby is placed inside and wrapped with red ribbons — left, right, left, right — and the knot is tied, serenity will descend upon the entire yurt.

Its shape, oddly enough, recalls the Poké Ball chamber from Pokémon: once the baby is placed within, an almost magical calm fills the air.

Experienced mothers know the routine by heart: how many wraps a few-month-old requires, how straight the legs should be pulled. Too tight, circulation falters; too loose, the baby kicks free. Even the thickness of clothing and the exposure of tiny shoulders are adjusted daily according to the weather, lest the child be steamed into a rash.

Veterans double up on protection by tucking a diaper beneath the baby’s bottom. The old Mongolian way is using warm sand freshly roasted over fire spread under the baby before wrapping — the whole process is like folding a rice dumpling.

“When I see that sand, I feel at home,” one mother said. “The elders always told us: the earth is our root — a child who touches soil stays healthy.”

“Every time I lay down the sand, I think of my father, sixty years old, carrying sand from two hundred kilometers away when I was pregnant.”

No matter the material underneath, the essence of the Ulugyi lies in the binding. Outsiders often consider it resemble an instrument of torture more than a cradle.

On social media, urban mothers post in horror: “Why you tie up a baby like that?” “If an adult slept bound like this, they’d suffocate!”

But in Inner Mongolia, people are unbothered.

“Eighty percent of us grew up like that,” a friend told me. “Look how tall and straight we turned out.”

For newborns, swaddling simulates the mother’s womb, preventing the startle reflex that awakens them mid-sleep.

“My husband was wrapped like that as a baby,” another woman laughed. “That’s why he still sleeps like a board.”

“My son too — he can’t fall asleep without being wrapped. Sometimes he falls asleep after just two shakes.”

“I was raised in the same way. The original design is meant to help adults put kids to sleep as they go out, and it keeps them safe when swaddled. Gradually, it has become a custom, complete with a cradle-entering ceremony. At first, when my mom suggested it, I refused. I thought restraining the baby would make them uncomfortable. But once I tried it, I needed to recall what I had said — it was surprisingly effective. It prevented startle reflexes while freeing up my hands. The baby slept longer, too, usually three hours or more. The only downside? A little stuffy.”

To Mongolian families, though, this is a combination of both tradition and science — a rhythm of life refined by generations: “Traditional doesn’t mean pseudoscience. People who reject it outright just don’t understand.”

The Ulugyi carries a symbolism as deep as its practicality. It’s made from a species of plant called Malus baccata, whose blossoms and fruit signify fertility and prosperity. The maker must be the respected elderly, with a healthy partner and grown children, embodying good fortune. Usually, the cradle is gifted by the maternal grandmother; if she doesn’t have a child, it’s taboo to give the cradle.

In some places, babies are placed into the Ulugyi seven days after birth. The occasion is marked by a “Cradle Feast” or “Basket Blessing Ceremony,” where relatives gather to rub butter over the wood for luck.

For girls, a mirror is hung at the head; for boys, it would be a tiny Mongolian knife.

Centuries ago, nomadic families moved with the seasons, and babies spent more time in their cradles than in their mothers’ arms. The Secret History of the Mongols even records in its 60th chapter:

“When Genghis Khan was nine, Jochi Qasar (Genghis Khan’s second younger brother) was seven, Hachiun Alchi (Genghis Khan’s third younger brother) was five, Temüge (Genghis Khan’s youngest brother) was three — Temülün (Genghis Khan’s sister) was still in the cradle.”

The Ulugyi was, in a way, the first shared device on the grassland (without the hassle of scanning a QR code first). It passed naturally between families: one finished with it, another borrowed it. Years later, it might circle back, bearing new generations. Some Ulugyis have held fathers and sons, brothers and sisters.

The Mongols, as people like to say, are an ethnicity on horseback. Last year, children still lay bound in the Ulugyi, but this year, suddenly, they mounted on a horse. From the yurts of the grasslands to apartments in the city, that wooden cradle has rocked generation after generation into peaceful sleep.

Batu, now a grown man, remembers lying in his Ulugyi until he was four. Each night, he would drift off to the soft sway of the cradle, quiet enough to hear the wind crossing the grasslands.

“Our family’s Ulugyi has now passed on for three generations. Its predecessor was ruined during the struggle sessions (批斗大会) in the 60s. ” —from a Mongolian reader.