It was now clear to the meanest intelligence that as no outside help was forthcoming, Tibet must surrender. Everyone began to pack up. Aufschnaiter and I knew that our hour was come and that we had lost our second home. The thought of departure was bitter, but we knew that we must go. Tibet had treated us with hospitality and had given us tasks to perform into which we had put our whole hearts. The time during which I had been privileged to give lessons to the Dalai Lama had been the best of my life. We had never had anything to do with the military activities of Tibet, as many European newspapers asserted.
The Dalai Lama began to be anxious about our personal prospects. I had a long conversation with him, as a result of which it was agreed that I should now take my leave as I had long planned to do. This would give me greater freedom of movement and allow me to slip away without comment. In a few days, the Dalai Lama was to move to the Potala, where for the time being he would have no time for my lessons. My plan was to travel first to South Tibet and visit the town of Shigatse, after which I should go on to India.
The ceremony at which the Dalai Lama was to be declared of age was imminent. The government would have liked to hurry it on, but the propitious date had to be determined by the omens. At the same time, it was of pressing importance to decide what was to be done with the young ruler. Was he to remain in Lhasa or to flee? It was usual, when difficult questions had to be decided, to be guided by the conduct of previous Incarnations. It therefore seemed relevant to remember that, forty years ago, the thirteenth Dalai Lama had fled before the invading Chinese and that things had gone well for him thereafter. But the government could not undertake singlehandedly to make such a critical decision. The gods must have the last word. So in the presence of the Dalai Lama and the regent, two balls of kneaded tsampa were made, and after being tested on a pair of gold scales to ensure that they were of exactly the same weight, they were put in a golden basin. Each of these balls had rolled up inside it a slip of paper: on one of these was written the word “yes,” and on the other “no.” Meanwhile, the State Oracle had hypnotized himself and was performing his dance. The basin was placed in his hands, and he rotated it with ever-increasing speed until one of the balls jumped out and fell on the ground. When it was opened, it was found to contain the “yes” paper, and so it was decided that the Dalai Lama should leave Lhasa.
I had postponed my journey for a while, for I wished first to know the Dalai Lama’s plans. I hated leaving him in these unhealthy times, but he insisted on my departure and consoled me by saying that we should meet again in the south. The preparations for his own flight were being hurried on, but great secrecy was maintained to avoid alarming the people. The Chinese were still some hundreds of miles to the east of Lhasa and for the moment were not moving, but it was feared that an unexpected advance might cut off the Dalai Lama’s chance of escape to the south.
The news that the ruler was getting ready to leave was bound to leak out. The fact could not be concealed that his private treasures were being taken away. Every day, caravans of heavily laden mules were seen leaving the town in the charge of men of the bodyguard. Consequently, the nobles hesitated no longer and began to move their families and treasures into safer places.
Outwardly, life in Lhasa followed its normal course. It was only by the shortage of means of transport that one noticed that many people were keeping back their pack animals for their own purposes. Market prices rose a little. Reports came in of the gallant deeds of individual Tibetan soldiers, but it was generally known that the army was routed. The few units that still held their ground were soon obliged to yield to the enemy’s superior tactics.
In 1910, the invading Chinese had plundered and burned when they came to Lhasa, and the inhabitants were paralyzed by the fear that these outrages would be repeated. Nevertheless, it is fair to say that during the present war, the Chinese troops had shown themselves disciplined and tolerant, and Tibetans who had been captured and then released were saying how well they had been treated.
17
I Leave Tibet
I left Lhasa in the middle of November 1950. I had been hesitating about going, when an opportunity of securing transport made up my mind for me. Aufschnaiter, who had originally intended to accompany me, hesitated at the last moment, so I took his baggage with me, leaving him to follow a few days later. It was with a heavy heart that I left the house that had been my home for so long, my beloved garden, and my servants, who stood around me weeping. I took with me only my books and treasures, and left everything else to my servants. Friends kept dropping in with presents, which made my going harder. It was a small consolation to think that I would see many of them again in South Tibet. Many of them still firmly believed that the Chinese would never come to Lhasa and that after my leave was over I would be able to return in peace. I did not share their hopes. I knew that it would be long before I saw Lhasa again, so I bade farewell to all the places that I had come to love. One day I rode out with my camera and took as many photos as I could, feeling that they would revive happy memories in the future and perhaps win the sympathy of others for this beautiful and strange land.
The sky was overcast when I embarked in my little yak-skin boat, which was to take me down the Kyichu as far as its junction with the Brahmaputra. This six-hour river journey saved me a ride of two days. My baggage had gone on ahead of me by road. My friends and servants stood on the bank and waved to me sadly. As I took a snapshot of them, the current caught the boat, and they were soon out of sight. Floating down the river, I could not keep my eyes off the Potala; I knew the Dalai Lama was on the roof looking at me through his telescope.
On the same day, I caught up with my caravan, consisting of fourteen pack animals, and two horses for me and my servant. The faithful Nyima had insisted on accompanying me. Once more I was on the march, up hill and down dale, over mountains and passes, till after a week we reached Gyangtse, on the great caravan route to India.
Not long before, one of my best friends had been appointed governor of the region. He received me as a guest in his house, and here we celebrated the accession to the throne of the Dalai Lama, which was kept as a feast day throughout Tibet. The news of this event had been circulated throughout the country by runners. New prayer flags fluttered over all the roofs, and for a short time the people forgot to think about the dismal future, and danced and sang and drank in a burst of old-time happiness. At no time had a new Dalai Lama inspired so much confidence and hope. The young king stood high above all cliques and intrigues, and had already given many proofs of clear-sightedness and resolution. His inborn instinct would guide him in the choice of his advisers and protect him from the influence of scheming men.
Alas! as I knew, it was too late. He had come to the throne at the very moment when Fate had decided against him. Had he been a few years older, his leadership might have altered the history of his country.
During this month I visited Shigatse, the second-largest town in Tibet, famous for the great monastery of Trashilhünpo. There I met a number of friends anxious for news from the capital. In this place people thought less about running away, as the cloister was the seat of the Panchen Lama.
This high Incarnation had been for generations supported by the Chinese as a rival to the Dalai Lama. The present incumbent was two years younger than the Dalai Lama. He had been educated in China and proclaimed in Peiping as the rightful ruler of Tibet. In reality, he had not the slightest claim to this position. He had legal rights in the monastery and its lands, but nothing more. It is true that in the ranking of the Living Buddhas, Ö-pa-me stood higher than Chenrezi, but in fact the first Incarnation had originally been only the teacher of the fifth Dalai Lama, who, out of gratitude to him, had declared him to be an Incarnation and given him the monastery with its enormous benefices.
At the time of the selection of the last Panchen Lama, there had been a number of candidates. One of the children was discovered in China, and on that occasion the Chinese authorities had refused to allow h
im to be taken to Lhasa without a military escort. The Tibetan government had been unable to resist this proposal, and one day the Chinese simply declared this child to be the true Incarnation of Ö-pa-me and the only rightful Panchen Lama.
They had thus dealt themselves an important card in their game of politics with Tibet and intended to make the best possible use of their trump. The fact that they were Communists did not prevent the Chinese from making violent radio propaganda in favor of his religious and temporal claims; nevertheless, he had few supporters in Tibet. These were mainly inhabitants of Shigatse and the monks in his monastery, who saw in him their chief and wanted to be independent of Lhasa. These people awaited the “Army of Liberation” without fear. It was, indeed, rumored that the Panchen Lama would make common cause with the Chinese. There is no doubt that the people of Tibet would be glad to have his blessings, for as the Incarnation of a Buddha, he is held in high honor. But even if he were forced upon them by the Chinese, the Tibetans would never recognize him as their ruler.
This position is uncontestably reserved for the Dalai Lama as the Incarnation of the patron god of Tibet. So it came about that, when the moment arrived to play their trump card, the Chinese failed in their attempt to impose the Panchen Lama as ruler on the people of Tibet. His authority is limited, as formerly, to the Monastery of Trashilhünpo.
During my trip to Shigatse, I took occasion to visit the cloister and found yet another large town inhabited by thousands of monks. I unobtrusively managed to take a few photographs. Among other curiosities I found in a temple a most impressive gilded idol as high as a house of nine stories, with a gigantic head.
The town of Shigatse stands on the Brahmaputra at no great distance from the monastery. It reminds one a little of Lhasa, being also dominated by a fortress. There are ten thousand inhabitants, among whom are to be found the best craftsmen in Tibet. Wool provides the staple industry. It is brought by caravans from the neighboring plains of the Changthang. Shigatse stands higher than Lhasa, and the climate is markedly colder. Nonetheless, the best grain in the country comes from here, and the Dalai Lama and the nobles of Lhasa get all their flour from this place.
AFTER A FEW DAYS, I rode back to Gyangtse. There my friend the governor was waiting to tell me the glad news that the Dalai Lama was expected to pass through Gyangtse before long. An order had come instructing all caravan stations to be ready to receive guests and to have the roads put in order—that could have only one meaning. I put myself at the disposal of the governor to assist in the preparations.
Plentiful supplies of peas and barley were stored in the caravansaries as fodder for the animals, and an army of workers collected to tidy and improve the roads. I went with the governor on one of his tours of inspection in the province. When we returned to Gyangtse, we learned that the Dalai Lama had left Lhasa on December 19 and was now on his way here. We met his mother and brothers and sisters on their way through Gyangtse—all except Lobsang, who was traveling with the king. I also met Tagtsel Rimpoche for the first time in three years. He had been forced by the Chinese to take an escort of Chinese troops and carry a message to his brother. The Chinese had gained nothing by this, and Tagtsel had not sought to influence the Dalai Lama. Tagtsel was very pleased to have escaped from the Chinese. His escort had been arrested, and the wireless transmitter that they carried confiscated.
The caravan of the Holy Family was a very modest one. The mother was no longer in her first youth and had the right to be carried in a palanquin, but she rode like the others and covered long distances every day. Before the governor and I rode to meet the Dalai Lama, the Holy Mother with her children and servants had continued their journey southward.
My friend and I rode for about three days along the Lhasa road, and on the Karo Pass we ran into the advance party of His Holiness’s caravan. Looking down from the pass, we could see the long column crawling up the road in a thick cloud of dust. The Dalai Lama had an escort of forty nobles and a guard of some two hundred picked soldiers with machine guns and howitzers. An army of servants and cooks followed, and an unending train of fifteen hundred pack animals brought up the rear.
In the middle of the column, two flags were waving, the national flag of Tibet and the personal banner of the fourteenth Dalai Lama. The flags denoted the presence of the ruler. When I saw the young God-King riding slowly up the pass on his gray horse, I unwillingly thought of an ancient prophecy that people sometimes used to quote under their breath in Lhasa. An oracle had long ago declared that the thirteenth Dalai Lama would be the last of his line. It seemed that the prophecy was fulfilling itself. Since his accession, four weeks had passed, but the young king had not taken up the reins of power. The enemy was in the land, and the ruler’s flight was only a first step toward greater misfortunes.
As he rode by me, I took off my hat, and he gave me a friendly wave of the hand. At the top of the pass, incense fires were burning to greet the young God-King, but an unfriendly clattering blast was agitating the prayer flags. The convoy moved on without delay to the next stopping place, where all was prepared and a hot meal was waiting for the travelers. The Dalai Lama passed the night in a neighboring monastery, and before I went to sleep I thought of him sitting in an unfriendly guest room with dusty idols for company. He would find no stove to warm him, and the paper-covered window frames were his only protection against storm and cold, while a few butter lamps provided just enough light to see by.
The young ruler, who in his short life had known no home but the Potala and the Jeweled Garden, was now forced by misfortune to learn something of the country he ruled. In what dire need he stood of comfort and support! But, poor boy, he had to raise himself above all his troubles and use all his strength in blessing the countless throngs who came to draw comfort and confidence from him.
His brother Lobsang, seriously ill with a heart attack, was traveling with the convoy in a litter. I was horrified to hear that the doctors had used the same rough methods on him as they do on a sick horse. On the day the convoy was to leave, he had lain in a swoon for several hours, so the Dalai Lama’s physician recalled him to life by applying a branding iron to his flesh. He told me later all the details of this memorable journey.
The Dalai Lama’s flight had been kept strictly secret. The authorities did not want to disturb the people and feared lest the monks of the great cloisters would do their utmost to deter him from his resolution. Accordingly, the high officials who had been chosen to accompany him were informed only late in the evening that the caravan would leave at two o’clock the next morning. For the last time, they all drank butter tea in the Potala, and then their cups were refilled and left standing as a charm to bring about a speedy return. None of the rooms that the departing king had inhabited was to be swept on the following day, for that would bring ill luck.
The column of fugitives moved silently through the night, proceeding first to the Norbulingka, where the young ruler stopped to say a prayer. The caravan had not been a day on the road before the news of the flight had spread right and left. The monks of the Monastery of Jang swarmed in thousands to meet the Dalai Lama. They flung themselves before his horse’s hoofs and begged him not to leave them, crying that if he went away they would be left without a leader, at the mercy of the Chinese. The officials feared that the monks would try to prevent the Dalai Lama from going any farther, but at this critical moment he showed the strength of his personality and explained to the monks that he could do more for his country if he did not fall into the hands of the enemy, and that he would return as soon as he had concluded a suitable agreement with them. After demonstrations of affection and loyalty, the monks cleared the way for the caravan to proceed.
News of the Dalai Lama’s approach soon reached Gyangtse. Small white stones were laid along the sides of the streets to keep away the evil spirits. Monks and nuns flocked from the convents, and the whole population stood for hours waiting to receive their king. Indian troops, stationed not far away, rode to meet the caravan
to do honor to the Dalai Lama. On arriving at all the larger places, the convoy took the form of a procession. The Dalai Lama dismounted and seated himself in his palanquin. We had got into the way of starting regularly soon after midnight to avoid the sandstorms that blew throughout the day over the unprotected plateau. The nights were icy cold. The Dalai Lama wrapped himself snugly in his fur-lined silk mantle and wore a great bearskin cap that covered his ears. Before dawn there were often fifty degrees of frost, and though the air was still, riding was a penance.
The Dalai Lama often jumped off his horse before his abbots could help him and hurried with long strides far ahead of the others. Naturally, all the other riders also had to dismount, and many corpulent noblemen who had never walked in their lives fell miles behind. For two days we rode through a blizzard, shivering in the bitter cold, and we felt the greatest relief when we had left the Himalaya passes behind us and descended into warmer, well-wooded country.
Sixteen days after leaving the capital, the caravan reached its provisional destination, the headquarters of the district governor of Chumbi. On arrival the Dalai Lama was carried in his yellow chair through the dense crowds into the governor’s modest house, which at once acquired the title of “Heavenly Palace, the Light and Peace of the Universe.” No mortal man would ever again inhabit it, for every place in which the Dalai Lama spent a night was automatically consecrated as a chapel. Henceforward, the faithful would bring their offerings there and pray for the god’s blessing.
The officials were lodged in the houses of the peasants of the surrounding villages and had to accustom themselves to doing without their usual comforts. Most of the soldiers were sent back to the interior as there was no accommodation for them in Chumbi. All the approaches to the valley were guarded by military posts, and only persons carrying a special pass could come in and go out. There was at least one representative of every government office in the Dalai Lama’s suite, and so a provisional government was set up, which observed routine office hours and held regular meetings. A service of couriers was established between Lhasa and the provisional government. The Dalai Lama had brought his great seal, with which he validated the decisions of the authorities in Lhasa. The messengers covered the distance between Lhasa and Chumbi at incredible speed, one of them performing the double journey (nearly five hundred miles over mountainous country) in nine days. The couriers, who were the only link between Lhasa and the outside world, brought the latest news of the Chinese advance. Later on, Fox arrived with his instruments and established a radio station.
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