It did not take the Rinpoché long to conclude that he could better serve his people by resigning the abbacy and using his position as brother of the Dalai Lama to try to win support for Tibet among the countries of the free world. In the meantime, he advised the Precious Protector to go into exile without delay. The Communists would show their true colors before long, and it was essential that the Dalai Lama be out of harm’s way. They had even suggested that he, Taktser Rinpoché, should kill the Dalai Lama if he showed signs of resisting Tibet’s liberation! With these shocking words, the Dalai Lama’s eldest brother left Lhasa for Dromo accompanied by their mother.
Following a few days later, the newly enthroned leader made it his business to talk to as many ordinary people as he could. Passing himself off as a young official, the Dalai Lama succeeded in having a number of eye-opening conversations. Because he was a member of a large caravan, there was no danger to his person, but for ordinary people, traveling in Tibet was fraught with danger, not just from the elements, which might at any moment unleash their fury, but from bandits who would often attack smaller parties. These conversations, he noted later, gave him further insight into the “petty injustices of life suffered by my people,” and he “resolved as soon as [he] could to set about making changes to help them.”
If the Dalai Lama himself found reasons to be grateful for this unsought departure from his capital, many of those whom his traveling party encountered en route were distraught. On one occasion they passed by a large group of young monks. The Dalai Lama, dressed in layman’s clothes, went unnoticed, but his tutors following behind were besieged. As Trijang Rinpoché recalled: “It was heartbreaking . . . The monks surrounded us on all sides, throwing scarves and money left and right. Openly weeping, they held onto the reins of our horses and would not let us go.”
The Precious Protector arrived at Dungkar Monastery on January 2, 1951. Dromo, lying some three hundred miles southwest of Lhasa and situated in the valley said by locals to be the most beautiful in all Tibet, was famous for its wildflowers and gurgling mountain streams—and for the bears that roamed its forests; many of the region’s woodcutters were horribly disfigured from encounters with them. The Dalai Lama’s stay there offered welcome respite from the tense atmosphere prevailing in Lhasa, and he quickly resumed his “usual routine of prayers, meditation, retreats and study.” This included “retreats on single-deity Vajrabhairava, Eleven-Face Avalokiteśvara, and the inner practice of protector Kālarūpa,” all of them meditation yogas* associated with the Diamond Path of Anuttara tantra, into which the Dalai Lama had recently been initiated.
According to its proponents, the Diamond Path originates with what is known as the Third Turning of the Wheel, which the Buddha is said to have enacted when he preached to an audience of bodhisattvas. Some say this occurred during his earthly ministry, others that it took place in one of the Buddha realms. It was not, however, until the eighth century that any historical evidence for the tradition begins to emerge. This takes the form of a body of esoteric literature emphasizing the individual practitioner’s inward Buddha nature. Crudely put, the path to Enlightenment becomes primarily a matter of clearing away the accretions and obstructions of accumulated karma to reveal the already enlightened state in which, in fact, all sentient beings subsist.
With their emphasis on elaborate ritual and on highly structured meditative practices, the tantras are considered the most powerful weapons in the spiritual practitioner’s armory. They are also the most controversial. Many—including the majority who follow the Theravada tradition—do not accept the tantras at all, arguing that they are pseudepigrapha: writings that falsely claim authority. Nonetheless, they are central to Buddhism in the Tibetan tradition and were by now part of the Dalai Lama’s daily practice. They are held by their proponents to be a method of transmuting the mind in such a way as to realize the innate (already enlightened) Buddha mind that all beings have seeded within them—though it is also well understood that they should be taught only by appropriately qualified teachers, and then only to a minority of students. It is often said that tantra is akin to the kiss of a beautiful woman with teeth like the fangs of a snake.
If the tantras are controversial within some Buddhist circles, another matter of controversy among Tibetans more generally also dates from this time at Dromo. It was here that the Dalai Lama formed a close connection with Dorje Shugden, the deity popularized by Phabongka Rinpoché during the time of the Great Thirteenth. At the deity’s request (speaking through an oracle), the Precious Protector composed a prayer in his honor titled “Melody of the Unceasing Vajra.” Structured as a classical “seven-limbed” invocation, the “Melody” pays homage, makes verbal offerings, confesses the supplicant’s faults, rejoices, requests the deity to turn the wheel of the dharma, requests that the upholders of the dharma not pass into nirvana before all sentient beings pass beyond suffering, and ends, finally, with a dedication. As it turned out, in forming this connection with Dorje Shugden, the young Dalai Lama unwittingly implicated himself in a contest that was to explode violently more than four decades later.
In the meantime, the Dalai Lama’s most pressing task was to respond to the Chinese demand that he send negotiators to Beijing to ratify an agreement for the “peaceful liberation of Tibet.” It was finally decided that Ngabo, the former governor of Chamdo, together with a small delegation that included the Dalai Lama’s brother-in-law, should proceed to the Chinese capital.
Arriving toward the end of April 1951, the Tibetans were met at the railway station by Zhou Enlai, Mao’s second in command, amid great fanfare. The result of the ensuing negotiations over the future status of Tibet was, of course, a foregone conclusion. The Communists had already prepared the document they wanted the Tibetans to accept. In response, the Tibetans presented a list of points they wished to discuss with their counterparts. The first point they took issue with, against the Communists’ claim, was the suggestion that the Dalai Lama was under the heel of foreign imperialists. Whatever the Chinese might suppose, there was no imperialist influence or power in Tibet. Harrer and Aufschnaiter were by now gone; Richardson was back in Scotland; Ford was a prisoner of the PLA; and Reginald Fox, also a radio operator, had gone with his Sikkimese wife to India.
The Chinese stood firm. It was made clear to the Tibetans, as one delegate expressed the matter, “that if they were so arrogant as to refuse to accept that Tibet was part of China, then they could all go back home any time they pleased.”In that case, a single wireless message would be sent to the PLA and it would advance immediately on Lhasa. Responsibility for any loss of life that occurred would be on the Tibetans’ shoulders and theirs alone.
Could the Tibetans have called the Communists’ bluff? Perhaps. On the one hand, had they done so, there could have been no pretense that what followed was a “peaceful liberation.” On the other hand, Mao had made clear that Tibet must be taken whatever the price in diplomatic terms, and Ngabo and the other members of the delegation were well aware of the fact. They concluded that they had no option but to accept. The Seventeen Point Agreement for the Peaceful Liberation of Tibet was signed and sealed* in the Great Hall of the People in Beijing on May 23, 1951.
Throughout the discussions leading up to the signing of the agreement (which many Tibetans maintain is no such thing because it was signed under duress), the Tibetan delegation was in radio contact with the Dalai Lama’s court in Dromo, so the outcome cannot have come as a surprise to them. Yet in his autobiography the Dalai Lama recounts that the first he knew of the provisions of the seventeen points was when he listened to the Tibetan-language news broadcast on Chinese radio that evening. From this it is obvious that, as still only a fifteen-year-old boy, he was not informed of every detail of what was being said and done in his name. It is also a reminder that even in those most difficult days, the Dalai Lama’s spiritual life took priority over his worldly responsibilities.†
The question that faced the Dalai Lama and his court now w
as whether they should return to Lhasa or cross over the border into Sikkim and from there to India. It was a relatively easy journey, a matter of a few days only. For the time being, there was no way the Chinese could prevent such a move. But although the government of India had begun by saying that it would grant the Dalai Lama asylum if requested, by this time it was much less clear that he would be welcome on Indian soil.
To add to the young leader’s dilemma, a meeting between his minister for foreign affairs and an American government official had yielded the information that if the Dalai Lama would publicly repudiate the Seventeen Point Agreement, the United States would be sympathetic to the idea of supplying armaments to oppose by force the Chinese occupation of Tibet.
While the representatives of the Three Seats present in Dromo were united in their wish to see the Dalai Lama return to Lhasa, many of the government’s lay officials were of the view that he should seek exile, if not in India, then elsewhere. Both Sri Lanka (then Ceylon), because it was a Buddhist country, and America, because the Dalai Lama seemed likely to be welcome there, were discussed as possibilities. In his absence, once a suitable place in exile could be determined, a military campaign would be fought with such assistance as might be forthcoming from the United States and from the Chinese Nationalists in Taiwan, who had also indicated their interest.
Among supporters of this view were the recently laicized Taktser Rinpoché (known henceforth as Jigme Norbu) and the Dalai Lama’s second-eldest brother, Gyalo Thondup, who had just returned from China to Tibet. Perhaps the most surprising advocate of armed struggle was, however, the Lord Chamberlain, Phala, recently appointed after Lobsang Samten’s retirement on health grounds following a stress-induced breakdown.*
On the one hand, the Dalai Lama believed what his eldest brother told him about the Chinese in Amdo and could see the imminent fulfillment of his predecessor the Great Thirteenth’s prophecy. On the other hand, he was mindful of China’s proximity and vast superiority in terms of numbers and military might, no matter that, as Gyalo Thondup later wrote, “the US [seemed] so great and powerful that it could make almost anything happen.” Without firmer assurances of help from outside, the Precious Protector concluded that he had better return to Lhasa. The deities concurred, though to the consternation of many who felt certain that for the Dalai Lama to return to Lhasa would be to walk straight into a trap. Appalled, one minister even demanded to see inside the second dough ball used in the divination to ensure that it didn’t have the same answer written inside.
It remained only for the Precious Protector to meet with General Zhang Zhinwu, Mao’s personal emissary, who arrived in Dromo shortly afterward. In his autobiography the Dalai Lama describes watching the general and two aides-de-camp approach the monastery through his binoculars: “three men in drab grey suits.” Their meeting was, he notes, “coldly civil.”
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Into the Dragon’s Lair: The Dalai Lama in China, July 1954–July 1955
Just before his departure from Dromo, the Dalai Lama received a secret letter from Heinrich Harrer. The Austrian had been in contact with the American embassy in Delhi. The United States government had confirmed that it wished to assist the Dalai Lama, and Harrer urged his young friend to abscond to India. This, he suggested, might be done by adopting any one of three possible stratagems. The Dalai Lama could choose a small group and leave unannounced at night; Harrer himself could come to Dromo in disguise to escort him; the third alternative was to rendezvous at a designated spot where a light aircraft would pick him up. But although they were given due consideration, none of Harrer’s proposals was adopted. This assurance of American support was welcome, but too much was uncertain and there was little concrete to go on. The Dalai Lama thus departed Dromo for Lhasa on July 22, 1951.
En route to the capital, the Precious Protector stopped several times to give teachings. When, at one of these, the vajra (a ritual hand implement symbolizing the irresistible force of a thunderbolt) that he was holding slipped from his fingers and fell into the folds of Ling Rinpoché’s robes, “many present remarked that this was an extraordinary thing to happen and were convinced that it was a very auspicious sign,” he later recalled. It demonstrated clearly the depth of the link between guru and chela, between teacher and pupil. And in the light of this happy event, there can be little doubt that all were convinced the decision not to go into exile had been the right one.
The Dalai Lama returned home to an emotional welcome. Only the presence of the PLA’s General Zhang and his staff marred the occasion. When, however, an advance guard of six hundred Chinese troops arrived two weeks later, people began to grow seriously alarmed. A rumor flew around that the soldiers wearing gauze face masks, of which there were a number, were human flesh eaters. The subsequent arrival of the main body of troops—more than seven thousand—precipitated a complete collapse of morale. There could no longer be any doubt that Tibet was lost. Almost overnight the population of the capital increased by 50 percent, though no provision had been made for them. Also, while the soldiers camped outside the city, many of the senior ranks, together with party officials, demanded rooms and offices within Lhasa itself. At once the price of both food and accommodation rocketed, to the grievous discomfort of the poor—though to the private satisfaction of the aristocracy, who were quick to seize the opportunity for profit. By releasing small quantities of grain at a time, local landowners, who had ample supplies (grain kept for many years in the Tibetan climate), were able to ensure that prices remained high. The Chinese were nonetheless “incredibly over-generous,” according to the resident Indian mission officer, and, paying in silver with dayan (the old Nationalist currency), “in a short time . . . spent prodigal sums.”
To be fair to them, the Chinese were well aware of the need not to overburden the populace and immediately began planting underutilized land outside Lhasa. But if this was in itself objectionable to Lhasans, what made it vastly more so was the use of “nightsoil”—human feces—to fertilize the crop. To the Tibetans, this was an abomination.
The first concern of the Chinese was to build a garrison for their army and, at the same time, to establish a supply chain that would enable it to be provisioned with men and matériel from army headquarters in southwestern China. This required a road link to Chengdu, work on which began at once. As for governance, Tibet’s new masters were content to allow the Tibetan National Assembly to continue to function. With regard to the Dalai Lama, he would continue to be recognized as head of state. But, understanding that his chief responsibility was to continue his education and deepen his spiritual practice, the Precious Protector himself played little direct part in the drama unfolding beneath the steep walls of the Potala.
Another communication addressed to the Dalai Lama personally and sent indirectly from the US embassy in India declared that America was “willing to help Tibet now” and would welcome a public repudiation of the Seventeen Point Agreement, in which case it would support an appeal to the United Nations and both assist with any application for asylum and help arm a resistance movement. But while this was taken as evidence of America’s continued goodwill, the offer was not acted on. From his own perspective, if he was to lead his people, the Dalai Lama must first earn their respect in his capacity as a lama, and the best place for him to do that was in Tibet. To this end, rather than immersing himself in any kind of political resistance to the Chinese, he requested instead that his senior tutor initiate him into the mysteries of the Kalachakra, considered by many to be the most powerful of all the tantras. This required that Ling Rinpoché undertake a qualifying retreat during the winter in preparation for conferral during the forthcoming New Year of the Water Dragon (1952).
The Dalai Lama’s political role was in the meantime delegated to the two tsit tsab he had appointed the previous year. This did not prove a very satisfactory arrangement. As one aristocrat recalled many years later, the two chief ministers “refused to respond positively to the Chinese�
�� no matter what the circumstances and instead invariably “challenged and confronted them in an angry and adversarial manner.” For several months, General Zhang put up with this, mindful that his main responsibility was to “make harmonious relations and eliminate hatred between nationalities.” But the formation of a grassroots opposition movement, the Tibetan People’s Association (TPA), which began to demonstrate publicly against the Chinese presence, meant it was only a matter of time before the general lost patience. When he finally did so, it was for the surprising reason that the two tsit tsab had taken the side of the TPA against the Tibetan government. If there was one thing still less pleasing than the presence of the Chinese to most of the aristocracy, it was expressions of dissent against themselves by the masses. The TPA’s demonstrations amounted to a repudiation of the government’s policy of appeasement and (profitable) collaboration with the Chinese. Moreover, to the aristocracy, the TPA’s agitation seemed guaranteed to provoke the Chinese, to say nothing of the danger of harm to their own interests. For its part, the main concern of the TPA itself was the likely injury to religion if the Chinese remained. Yet paradoxically, it did not have the support of the monasteries, which were also nervous about antagonizing the Chinese. When, therefore, an angry General Zhang demanded that the tsit tsab be dismissed and the TPA proscribed, the two chief ministers had no one to speak for them.
The Dalai Lama Page 16