The Dalai Lama

by Alexander Norman

  Although the Chinese understood that the imposition of reform was likely to provoke revolt, especially in Kham, the initial response on the part of the peasantry, the mi ser (literally, and for no clear reason, the golden-headed ones), was in fact sullen acceptance. No doubt it was a boon to them, on the one hand, to be relieved of their debts and the obligations of the old system. On the other hand, the psychological impact was immense: a whole layer of meaning had been torn from the world. Despite the hardship, there had been a sense of worth in the fulfillment of one’s obligations and the promise of recompense in future lives. Nonetheless, there was little direct resistance and no uprising until the PLA demanded that the Khampa people hand in their guns. It was this, and not the land reforms, that initially precipitated open rebellion.

  Matters came to a head when the Chinese demanded that the monks of Lithang Monastery in Kham, together with the local nomad population, surrender their weapons. At this time the monastery held around six thousand monks, most of whom were armed, as was the entirety of the surrounding population, said to have constituted a hundred thousand households. Both the nomad chieftain and the monks agreed that under no circumstance were they prepared to do so. It was indeed the monks who were foremost among the volunteers when the decision was subsequently made to attack the Chinese administrative office adjacent to the monastery. On a snowy day in March 1956, the assault began with the Khampas charging the Communist Party headquarters and setting it on fire. Somewhere between two and three hundred party workers, including a number of local recruits, were killed in the ensuing battle.

  Many similar outbreaks of violence occurred elsewhere in the district, with hundreds killed and wounded and terrible revenge exacted against collaborators. According to a Chinese report (doubtless somewhat exaggerated but nonetheless not wholly implausible, given the fate of the Christian missionaries): “If someone supported the CCP [the Chinese Communist Party] . . . with their heart, they would cut out his heart. If someone read materials distributed by the CCP, they would cut out his eyes. If someone listened to the CCP, they would cut off his ears. If someone raised his hand to support the CCP, they would cut off his hand.” With surprising ease the Khampas took control not just of Lithang but of a large number of Chinese outposts in the region. It could not be long before the Chinese counterattacked, but, being more familiar with banditry than with conventional warfare, the Khampas in the meanwhile confined themselves to looting whatever arms and armaments they could lay their hands on. When the counteroffensive came twelve days later, the insurgents were quickly driven back. Most made straight for the monastery, which, with its high defensive wall, did at least offer some protection.

  Rather than engage in a lengthy siege, the Chinese began tunneling underneath the monastery. Unfortunately for them, the tunnel was discovered. As the Chinese emerged from it, they were “stabbed to death before they even had time to take out their guns.”

  How the Buddhist tradition, as it developed in Tibet, regards warfare and other forms of violence is not widely understood. It is a given that all intentional killing is wrong, and there is no Buddhist just war theory as such. But one of the Jataka Tales, a compendium of stories about the previous lives of the Buddha, tells how once he was traveling in a boat when he discovered that a crew member intended to kill all five hundred passengers. Because the passengers were all holy men on the verge of Enlightenment, the Buddha foresaw that the killer, if successful, would incur the penalty of 100,000 eons in hell. He therefore killed the man to spare him this fate, at the same time facilitating the Enlightenment of the five hundred. The moral here is that in extreme circumstances, violence may be justifiable in defense of the Buddhadharma. The proviso is that the one engaging in violence must do so out of correct motivation. As the Dalai Lama has said, where this obtains, and “where the motive is good and there are no other possibilities, then seen most deeply it [violence] is non-violence, because the aim is to help others.” Remarkably, in certain circumstances, killing, from the Buddhist perspective, can be seen as an act of compassion.

  From this, it becomes clearer why the Dalai Lama was taught not to oppose physical force actively in all circumstances. It also goes some way toward contextualizing the fact that, within the monasteries, breaking the vow of celibacy was considered a graver sin than killing a Chinese.

  Following the Lithang uprising, the Chinese army command made known that it was nonetheless prepared to offer a negotiated settlement. If the rebels surrendered and handed over their weapons, there would be no reprisals. While discussions over this proposal were taking place, two aircraft dropped bombs on the mountainside adjacent to the monastery. This was to alert the rebels to what would happen if they rejected the offer. Though determined not to surrender, the Khampas could see that holding out against aerial bombardment was out of the question. They decided therefore to take their chances and flee during the night. The first few parties of escapees were successful in breaking out undetected, but it was not long before the Chinese realized what was happening. According to one Tibetan survivor, by this time “the Tibetans were going out like sheep and goats; and the Chinese had automatic weapons, so they killed a large number of people.” Even so, a few, including the young Khampa chieftain, held out to the bitter end. Carrying his weapon above his head, he finally surrendered to the Chinese commander, only to draw a pistol from his chuba and shoot the man dead before being killed himself.

  When news of the carnage reached Lhasa, the Dalai Lama was appalled beyond words. What upset him most was a photograph of the damage to Lithang Monastery. That anyone would resort to aerial bombardment against people who could not defend themselves defied belief. Aside from harming the combatants, what about the collateral damage to innocent people—to elderly monks, to animals and other sentient beings, and to precious religious artifacts? The very idea was beyond comprehension. Realizing what had happened, he later wrote, “I cried.”

  The Dalai Lama’s immediate response to the catastrophe of Lithang was to demand a meeting with the senior Chinese general resident in Lhasa at the time, telling him, “How are Tibetans supposed to trust the Chinese if this is how you behave?” At the same time, he sent first one, then another personal letter to Chairman Mao. That these went unanswered told him all he needed to know about the reality of the assurances Mao had given in Beijing. The letters do not survive, and it is not clear that they were even delivered. In desperation, he entrusted yet another letter to Phunwang, who was to deliver it by his own hand. This too was similarly unacknowledged.

  A second offering of the Kalachakra tantra, timed to coincide with the opening sessions of the Preparatory Committee, may have relieved the gloom to some extent. It certainly provided a morale boost for the audience, whose faces were “filled with awe” and “shone with happiness,” as one official recalled half a century later. But it was the unexpected news, brought by the maharajah of Sikkim, that Nehru himself had followed up on his plan and written to the Chinese government on behalf of the Dalai Lama to invite him to attend the forthcoming Buddhjyanti celebrations, which really lifted his spirits. The maharajah found the Dalai Lama “anxious to leave,” while the invitation had put the Chinese in a quandary. The danger on one side was that the Dalai Lama would become a powerful spokesman for Tibet abroad. On the other, preventing him from going might endanger the nonaggression pact assuring “cooperation for mutual benefit” into which China and India had entered in 1954. In the end, they responded by saying that he was too busy to accept.

  Deeply disappointed, the Dalai Lama left Lhasa to pay a visit to Reting Monastery, where, accompanied by his two tutors, he conferred novice vows on the young reincarnation of his former senior tutor, Reting Rinpoché. At the time, Reting Monastery was the repository for some famous relics, including its founder’s robes and the Indian texts he had used over nine hundred years ago. There were also some letters written in the great Tsongkhapa’s own hand. As the founder of the Gelug school, Tsongkhapa had a special place in the D
alai Lama’s heart. Yet while the visitors were delighted to find these relics still intact, they were dismayed to discover that the monastery was in large part ruined. Atisha’s reliquary stupa had been robbed of its gilding and precious stones, there were bullet holes in many of the statues, and piles of rubble lay all around. Evidently no attempt had been made to clear up the debris from the destruction wrought during an attack on government troops following the ex-regent’s arrest ten years earlier.

  On returning to Lhasa from Reting, the Dalai Lama learned of an unexpected development. Following Nehru’s intervention, Mao had executed a U-turn on the proposed trip to India, and the Dalai Lama was informed that he would be permitted to go after all. Although Mao took the precaution of scheduling two consecutive visits to India by Zhou Enlai during the time the Dalai Lama was to be in the country, the Chinese made the further decision not to send a large delegation to accompany the Precious Protector. As Deng Xiaoping—later to emerge as Mao’s successor—wrote, this was to be “a test” for the Dalai Lama. Mao meanwhile spoke candidly of the risks this entailed at a meeting of the Communist Party Central Committee: “It must be anticipated that the Dalai Lama may not come back, and that in addition, he may abuse us every day, making allegations such as ‘the Communists have invaded Tibet,’ and that he may go so far as to declare the ‘independence of Tibet.’” Yet the prospect held no terror for Mao: “Shall I feel aggrieved at the desertion of one Dalai? Not at all . . . What harm will his departure do to us? None whatsoever. He can’t do more than curse us.”

  Traveling overland by car via Shigatse, where he joined up with the Panchen Lama, the Precious Protector spent a short time at Dromo, the border town he had last seen in 1951, before continuing the journey on horseback, up the steep track that led to the Nathu Pass, before it plunged down into Sikkim on the other side. The carcasses of mules that had “probably perished from exhaustion” and “clusters of sinister-looking vultures” hopping among them that were a perennial feature of the Tibetan trade routes might have served as a prophetic warning of the fate that was to befall Tibet.

  India was a revelation, however. “People,” the Dalai Lama immediately saw, “expressed their real feelings and did not just say what they thought they ought to say.” The arrangements were, from his perspective, rather chaotic compared with the regimentation in China, but the enthusiasm of the people won him over. Everywhere he went, he was greeted by huge crowds of well-wishers, many of whom had traveled long distances just to get a glimpse of him.

  From the Indian point of view, the Tibetan delegation was something of a revelation too. The task of hosting them “was not made easier by the fact that the Lamas’ followers were explosively sensitive to the smallest niceties of protocol and were ready to draw daggers at the merest suspicion of a slight,” according to one Indian official. Another challenge was the Indians’ awareness that any “accident” that might befall the Dalai Lama would be hugely advantageous to the Chinese—a mishap that would be relatively easy to arrange and then to lay at the door of the Indian government. His security was thus a constant source of anxiety, exacerbated by the tumultuous enthusiasm shown for the Tibetan leader whenever he appeared in public. A glimpse of this can be seen in the newsreels shot during his visit and in the recollections of some of those delegated to look after him.

  Describing an occasion when he escorted the Panchen Lama to his quarters in Gangtok, Nari Rustomji* wrote:

  We had hardly passed the Palace gates before a crowd that seemed like the entire population of Sikkim lunged madly forward, man, woman and child, with arms vainly outstretched, for a touch of the vehicle we were travelling in. I seriously feared our station wagon would be overturned, but there was no remedy as the police, themselves devout Buddhists, were too overawed by the Presence [a common epithet used by Tibetans both for the Dalai and the Panchen Lamas] to dream of controlling the crowds. Coins, currency notes, ceremonial scarves, amulets came whirring through the windows . . . until at last we were compelled to close them in self-defence. Our security arrangements might have served well enough for common or garden mortals, but certainly not for the Living God, whose only protection now was his own divinity.

  With respect to the two lamas’ personalities, Rustomji, himself a Parsi (an adherent of Zoroastrianism), recalled his impressions in his autobiography: “I have often been asked whether I was ever aware of supernatural forces emanating from the Lamas’ presence. I have to confess that, for all the eager and excited anticipation of their divine immanence, they remained, for me, two very charming and sensible young men, of gentle and considerate manner, inquiring and vigorous mind and irresistibly attractive personality.”

  This attractiveness was, he also noted, not lost on some of their young female devotees, perhaps inspired by folk memories of the dissolute Sixth Dalai Lama. “It was,” he wrote, “evident from the homely talk” of some of his Sikkimese friends that

  there were many in Lhasa who were as carried away by the youthful charm of the Lamas as by their divinity, and they told us tales of some of their more passionate young friends whose secret purpose in seeking the Dalai Lama’s blessing was that they might be nearer the object of desire . . . Could it really be, wondered the belles of Lhasa, that the Dalai Lama could be utterly immune to feminine allure? It was a challenge to Venus which provoked them to higher endeavours. The Panchen, too, was not without his admirers. And wicked gossip whispered that the chinks in his armour were already showing through.

  But while the Panchen Lama’s susceptibility to female charms struck Rustomji, he noted that, though the Dalai Lama “had a delightful sense of fun . . . there was something not of this world, ethereal and ageless, in [his] expression that moved me the more deeply.”

  From the moment he set foot in the country until the day he left, eleven weeks later, the question at the forefront of the Dalai Lama’s mind was whether to return to Tibet, or was now the moment to seek asylum abroad? There were strong feelings in both directions among those closest to him. In favor of staying in India were his older brothers Gyalo Thondup and Jigme Norbu—the first already based in India, the second having flown in specially from America. Sitting up with them until midnight, the Dalai Lama recalled, “Their views really shook me.” Phala, too, the Lord Chamberlain, together with one of the former tsit tsab, took a similar line. On the other side were the four members of the Kashag and, less vociferously, the two tutors, while the representatives of the Three Seats were firmly in favor of returning to Tibet. Also of importance was the opinion of the people of Tibet, who could be assumed to favor his return. For them to be without the Dalai Lama was to be bereaved.

  From Sikkim, the Precious Protector flew to Delhi, where his first engagement was to lay flowers and a kathag at Rajghat, in honor of Mahatma Gandhi, whose memorial stands there. The experience affected him profoundly. “It was a calm and beautiful spot,” he later wrote, “and I felt very grateful to be there, the guest of a people like mine who had endured foreign domination.”

  The next few days in Delhi were occupied with official receptions at which he was greeted by almost every dignitary in the capital. Not only was the Dalai Lama still nominally a head of state, but also the Tibetan leader was something more than a mere political figure. For many Indians he was an avatar, a holy man without compare. Though they did not share his religion, they nonetheless eagerly sought darshan of him: a blessing and a glimpse of the divine.

  While he was in Delhi, the Dalai Lama met with Zhou Enlai, the Chinese premier, who was en route to a number of other Asian countries. As the Dalai Lama wrote in his autobiography, he found Zhou “as full of charm, smiles and deceit as ever.” Besides telling the Tibetan leader of Mao’s recent decision to delay reforms indefinitely in the Tibet Autonomous Region, Zhou assured him that if the Dalai Lama would care to accompany him back to Beijing, Chairman Mao would be glad to see the Precious Protector again and to allay in person any fears he might have. As for Gyalo Thondup and Jigme Norbu (both of whom
Zhou clearly suspected of agitating for the Dalai Lama to seek asylum abroad), should they happen to be short of funds, the Chinese embassy would be happy to supply the Dalai Lama with money to give them—though it would be better if he did not disclose its source. This last was a strange remark. For all his guile, it is clear that Zhou was a less astute judge of character than his adversary.

  Notwithstanding Zhou’s assurance that there would be no reforms in the Tibet Autonomous Region, it left untouched the question of what was to happen in Kham and Amdo. The violent struggle now firmly under way there was certain to continue.

  From Delhi, the Precious Protector traveled to Bodh Gaya, where, to his delight, he was able to spend several days conducting ceremonies at this, the most sacred of all Buddhist pilgrimage sites. A speech he made at this time is remarkable for its prescience. Noting that in one of the sutras, or scriptures, there is a prophecy made by the Buddha that 2,500 years after his parinirvana—or passing beyond suffering—the dharma would flourish in the land of the red-faced people, he explained that some held this to refer to its spread in Tibet, “but one scholar has interpreted otherwise. According to him the prediction refers to Europe.” What the Dalai Lama could not have imagined at the time was that it would be he, more than anyone else, who would bring this about. Instead, his attention was focused when, on the last day of his stay at Bodh Gaya, unexpected news came that Zhou would be returning to Delhi the following day and sought an urgent meeting with the Tibetan leader.

  At once the Dalai Lama sent a message to one of the young Tibetan government officials who had remained behind in Delhi. He was to leave immediately for the northeastern hill town of Kalimpong, where he was to discharge the medium of the Nechung oracle from his Scottish mission hospital bed, where he was being treated for arthritis, and bring him to Delhi the very next day. This was a tall order, given the distances involved and the as yet underdeveloped state of regional air links. Nonetheless, in spite of delays necessitating some frantic negotiation with airline officials and a frosty reception from the other passengers when they finally took their seats two hours after the scheduled departure, the Nechung medium and his two attendants successfully made it back to Delhi on time. It subsequently emerged that his advice was that the Precious Protector should now seek asylum.