Connecting with Otzi the Iceman

Otzi's mummified remains
©South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology

Haunting discoveries of mummified remains centuries to millenia old have made headlines for years. The extremely well-preserved head of the Tollund Man (~4th century BCE) sports a face that looks more like the man is sleeping than deceased. And the three child mummies of Llullaillaco (~15th century CE) maintain plump flesh and full heads of hair.

Additionally, facial reconstructions have put a very recognizable face on our prehistoric ancestors. These reconstructions are lifelike and reintroduce a glimmer of humanity onto what were once generic human skulls.

The reconstruction of Otzi the Iceman--a natural mummy discovered in the Otztal Alps on the border between Austria and Italy--conveys the same feeling of nearness I experience in viewing a poignant portrait. Despite being separated from Otzi by around 5,300 years and over 5,000 miles, I can’t help but feel that I’ve seen his face or some approximation of it hundreds of times in my life.

Most recently, some researchers discovered that Otzi may have at least 19 living male relatives. The shared genetic link was discovered by comparing Otzi’s DNA with a small pool of current male residents of the area.

A fully realized reconstruction of Otzi
©South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology

Whether the research can be conclusively interpreted to prove that even one of those men is actually a descendent of Otzi has me wondering what it would be like to see the remains of and look into the face of an ancestor from over 5 millenia ago?

When I look into recreations of Otzi’s face, I see a depth of human history that artifacts created by humans twice as long ago can not convey. And if he were my ancestor, how could I help but feel an even stronger connection to him?

What if in Otzi’s face, I saw traits of my grandfather? My father? My self? My child? I could no longer imagine him as some anonymous ancient nobody.

I would question the common notion that my prehistoric ancestors were somehow less intelligent than my contemporaries. Otzi looks like my family and my family is as smart as I. How could Otzi be intellectually inferior to me, when his brain was the same size and structure as my own?

As a relative, how would I feel knowing that the prevailing theory of Otzi’s death is that he was ambushed and killed by other humans? Without any sort of familial connection, that idea already saddens me. Of course, it also plausible that Otzi was the John Wayne Gacy of his time and region. Still, those eyes--eyes that are only an approximation formulated by a computer program--speak of kindnesses and love and human connections.

Knowing his last two meals were two different kinds of meat and an herb bread evokes images of some members of his community grinding grains, chopping herbs, making a dough, roasting meat. Were these meals shared with family and friends or taken for the journey and eaten alone? Did Otzi eat his last meal with those that killed him?

Otzi’s tattoos may indicate he suffered from joint pain. When my ankles pop or my back aches, am I experiencing a pain Otzi knew too well? Is that pain the result of a genetic condition or abuse? If abuse, is the abuse the result of a genetic condition that caused us both to misuse or not properly take care of our joints?

Otzi wore sophisticated clothes and carried a number of tools and other equipment with him. How similar are Otzi’s flint and pyrite to the iPhone in my pocket? While miles away in terms of usefulness for wilderness survival, Otzi and I would share the same notion of needing these tools before wandering away from home.

Otzi was only 9 miles from what may have been his home near modern-day Vinschgau Valley. What sent him out? Had he been gone for long? How long before his family and his community stopped awaiting his return? They likely never found his body and may never have known he had been ambushed. Did one of Otzi’s sons await his return and mourn when Otzi was presumed dead? Could that feeling of loss carry through the bloodline?

When I look at Otzi, he illustrates a humanity undetermined by modernity or postmodernity. But he wore well-crafted shoes. He carried a valuable copper axe. Did Otzi come from a community that exalted him? Did Otzi have a network of friends that traded with him? Did he craft these things himself?

When Otzi considered the journey that would become his last, what did it mean to him? One theory postulates that Otzi was a shaman and he travelled to his final resting place to carry out his duties. Was Otzi traveling to do his duty? Was he looking for mineral deposits to trade? Was he being driven out of his community?

Is it possible Otzi was a rolling stone? Had he found life in his community tiresome and decided to move on? Considering that 19 potential living male relatives still live in the area, that is unlikely. Otzi probably felt the same lifelong connection to the land that his far-distant grandsons feel.

When I see Otzi, I see reason to project my own hopes and aspirations and fears and desires onto my ancient ancestors. Sure, many of those things are products of culture, but isn’t it possible that my ancestors’ fears and my own have connective tissue? Isn’t it likely that my own ancestors desired something resembling fairness and equality for all in their community?

I’m not sure. I’m not sure we would ever find common ground. If I were to meet one of my ancestors from 5,300 years ago, he might look nothing like me. He might not have anything resembling my intelligence. He might only think of food and sex.

But when I look at the face of Otzi, I begin to feel more strongly that our advancements in technology and scientific progress have done very little to change whatever it is that sparks behind our eyes and connects us with our shared humanity.