The Dalai Lama

by Alexander Norman

  This extraordinary development meant that two of the individuals closest to the Dalai Lama were complicit in what, in the Chinese view, was the establishment of a treasonous organization that went against the Tibetan leader’s publicly proclaimed policy of cooperation with China. It also meant that the Lord Chamberlain had a link, via the rebels who were in regular contact with Gyalo Thondup in Kalimpong, to the CIA itself.

  By early summer, the agency had taken charge of the six Tibetans recruited by Gyalo Thondup. Following a suitably cloak-and-dagger journey via Bangladesh (then East Pakistan), the six men were delivered to the Japanese island of Saipan. There, to their collective astonishment, they were met by the Dalai Lama’s eldest brother, Jigme Norbu, and a Kalmyk lama by the name of Geshe Wangyal, together with a small team of CIA instructors.*

  Their leader was Roger McCarthy, a gregarious thirty-year-old whose previous assignment had been to train Lao intelligence service personnel for operations in North Vietnam. He was delighted to be able to report to his seniors that, whereas the Lao had a disturbing tendency to hold hands when frightened, the Tibetans were “brave, honest and strong . . . Basically, everything we respect in a man.” Fearless of heights, the trainees quickly gained proficiency as parachutists. It was mastering the complexities of Morse code that was to prove the more challenging component of the training program. They would have to transmit using a script devised by Geshe Wangyal. Since none of the trainees were strong writers even in their native language, the results were never very satisfactory.

  By late autumn, the six men were judged ready for infiltration. They would operate as three two-man teams, dropped in different locations, each team equipped with a cache of weapons and supplies. The air drops were successful (though one of the Khampas was unable to jump and had to enter overland), and by December, two of the agents had reached Lhasa, where they obtained an audience with the Lord Chamberlain. He took a close interest in the two men’s stories, but when they asked for a message from the Dalai Lama formally requesting assistance from America, he demurred in the idiom characteristic of Tibetan protocol and was “completely non-committal.”

  It seems not unlikely that the Dalai Lama was informed of the CIA’s direct involvement in Tibet toward the end of that year but, for fear of implicating him, only in the most general terms. We might nonetheless ask whether, if a workable military solution had been available, the Dalai Lama would have supported it. Yet even had the United States decided to intervene on a massive scale, as it had in Korea and would in Vietnam, it is hard to see him being more than a bystander in any event.

  Following successful insertion of its first batch of agents, whose chief task was to establish communications with Chushi Gangdruk, the CIA elected to step up its support. This was in spite of an inauspicious start. When some subordinates went to brief John Foster Dulles, the agency director, he began by asking where Tibet was, “gesturing in the direction of Hungary” on his wall map. It was decided, nonetheless, that the agency would no longer train agents—of whom there were to be more than 250 by the time the program was closed down a decade later—in Japan. Instead, there was to be a dedicated facility in the United States, close to the unprepossessingly named town of Leadville, Colorado. Formerly a prisoner of war camp for German soldiers captured in Africa, Camp Hale was chosen both for its remoteness and for its harsh climate. It was snow-covered for much of the year, while its mountainous terrain and its altitude, at over nine thousand feet, was ideally suited to the Tibetan training program, code-named “ST CIRCUS.”

  At this point, the Dalai Lama’s eldest brother left the program and took up a teaching post at Columbia University, while Geshe Wangyal returned to his home in New Jersey, where he set up America’s first Tibetan Buddhist center in a converted garage. But while Jigme Norbu no longer played an active role in the program, the venerable prelate remained on the books, taking a weekly train to Washington. There, in an agency safe house, its refrigerator well stocked with beer (which Geshe-la, as he was known, drank “to ward off colds”), he would attempt to decipher the often garbled Morse code messages received, via a rebroadcast station on Okinawa, from the teams on the ground in Tibet.

  By 1958, while the Precious Protector redoubled his efforts to master the scholastic curriculum, and while the Chinese kept as low a profile in Lhasa as was consistent with having around ten thousand troops in the vicinity, Kham was in open revolt. How bad things were can be seen in what came to be known as the Xunhua Incident of spring 1958, when seventeen PLA soldiers were killed and, in reprisal, 435 rebels, with a further 2,499 taken prisoner. In the crackdown that followed, many “monastery religious personnel” were targeted for especially harsh treatment and “paraded before the masses as living teaching materials.” This was just one incident among hundreds that occurred throughout Kham and Amdo during this period.

  To make matters worse for the Khampas and Amdowas, the collectivization of farming was so ineptly handled that food shortages became increasingly serious. Recently released records give some indication of the severity of the situation, in which, for instance, fully a third of the population of Namthang township died of starvation at this time, while another third fled. The party officials responsible for implementing reform made sure not to reveal the severity either of the famine or of local resistance, instead sending reports that grossly distorted the picture of what was actually happening. Thus, one local party secretary could report to Beijing that, during 1958, “we took a great leap forward in all aspects of socialist construction” even while many herdsmen were reduced to scavenging for edible plants.

  The Chinese were beginning to be alarmed at the levels of local resistance. Already there had been a (staggering, considering the small size of the population) total of 235,000 troop deployments across the three provinces since the PLA’s arrival in Lhasa in 1951. The realization, from captured matériel, that the rebels had foreign backing was further disquieting. And while the Chinese could be confident in their overwhelming numerical superiority, Mao was concerned that if control of the eastern provinces was lost, even temporarily, his policy of gradual reform in central Tibet would become unworkable. He therefore hailed the opportunity that rebellion afforded, declaring the news of its outbreak “excellent . . . the greater the disturbance the better.” This was all that was needed to justify a merciless campaign against the resistance movement.

  Following the CIA’s supply drops, Chushi Gangdruk began to show its potential, producing a significant number of small tactical wins over the PLA—an outpost overrun here, a convoy attacked and halted there. But when Gompo Tashi, the Chushi Gangdruk leader, took his men into central Tibet on an ambitious raid against Damshung Airport to the north of Lhasa, they were forced back when the Chinese deployed spotter planes and field artillery against them. Besides lack of arms—there were more volunteers than rifles to go around, and many were armed with nothing more than knives, swords, and ancient flintlocks—the rebels suffered from poor communications and ineffective leadership. At least half of their number had been recruited from the monasteries, and few had any concept of military discipline. Moreover, here in central Tibet the terrain was against them. Forced onto the open plains, they were easy targets from the air.

  With rebellion now spreading out of Kham and into the so-called Tibet Autonomous Region, the National Assembly looked on in growing dismay. So long as their collaboration with the Chinese continued, they were secure. What little support they had from the people depended on being able to claim that, without their protection, things would be worse. Yet many, especially the junior members, felt that the Khampas were showing the way.

  It was precisely at this moment of escalating violence that, at the end of the year, the Dalai Lama quit the Norbulingka for a tour of the Three Seats. At each of them in turn he would be publicly examined by way of preliminary to the final debates for the award of his geshe degree. These final debates were scheduled to take place at the Jokhang during the forthcoming Monlam Great P
rayer Festival. His first stop was at Drepung, where the Precious Protector led a prayer assembly to which the monastery responded by offering him a long-life puja. Just as this was about to begin, a monk fell into a spontaneous trance, channeling one of the protector deities, and made an offering of mendel trensum, a most auspicious occurrence.* Having debated with Drepung’s most able scholars and satisfied the community as to his proficiency, the Dalai Lama progressed to Sera, where he was challenged on Nagarjuna’s famously difficult text Verses on the Fundamental Wisdom of the Middle Way.

  The final stop was Ganden. Remarkably, a short film showing highlights of the Dalai Lama’s performance there may be found on the Internet. In crackling black and white, the footage can only gesture toward the magnificence and solemnity of the occasion. Notice the entrance of the Dalai Lama into the monastery, flanked by two men, one lay, the other monastic. See how, in holding their hands, he holds also one end of the offering scarves draped around their necks. In being supported by them, he also leads them: they are bound to him as if by a silken yoke. We do not need to know the precise meaning of this to understand that something of great profundity is being enacted here.

  From Ganden, the Precious Protector moved to Tsal Gungthang, a small monastery built in the twelfth century which lay on his way back to Lhasa. Though it would be completely destroyed within a few years, his stop there provided an opportunity for the Dalai Lama to take a few days’ rest before returning to the pressure cooker that the capital had become. No sooner had he settled in than word came from the Chinese that Chushi Gangdruk had struck again. Many PLA soldiers had been killed. If the Dalai Lama and his government did not accept responsibility for ensuring that the attacks ceased forthwith, the Chinese would take forceful action. As Trijang Rinpoché noted in his autobiography, the news disturbed the Dalai Lama greatly and he returned to the Norbulingka in a “troubled state of mind.” It is testimony to the efficacy of the young leader’s meditation practice that, in spite of the mounting pressure on him to act, he was able nonetheless to concentrate on preparing for the final element of his geshe exams. The Panchen Lama meanwhile cabled a message to Chairman Mao assuring the Great Helmsman of his own best endeavors to suppress the rebels.

  The Dalai Lama’s final examination was to take place during early March 1959. As usual, the monks of Drepung assumed responsibility for civil obedience, and the entirety of the local population was involved in the great liturgical events that would culminate on March 10 by the Western calendar. More than ever before, the Lhasa valley was full of tents, with tens of thousands of visitors coming from near and far. News of the rebels’ successes contributed to the febrile atmosphere, with the crowds partly festive and partly terrified of what might happen next.

  The Dalai Lama’s chief of security concluded that with tensions running at such a level, it would take little to spark a riot. Accordingly, it was announced that the Dalai Lama was feeling a little unwell and the public talk that, by tradition, he gave on the first day of the festival had been canceled, along with the customary evening procession to view the butter sculptures. This had an electrifying effect—precisely the opposite of what was intended. People began to fear for the Dalai Lama’s safety. It was at this time, during the Gutor festival marking the close of the year, that the Chinese issued him an invitation to attend a performance of a visiting dance troupe as soon as his examinations were over. Without giving the matter much thought, he accepted.

  The Precious Protector had something very different on his mind than entertainment. He had performed well at the Three Seats, but what lay before him was an event at which he would contend with more than a dozen specially chosen scholars representing different monasteries throughout Tibet for almost ten hours in four different locations within the Jokhang Temple precincts. This was no mere formality. His reputation as an academic would depend on his performance that day.

  When it came, he defended his understanding of Pramana in the morning, of Madhyamaka and Prajnaparamita in the afternoon, and of Vinaya and Abhidharma in the evening. There is no record of the exact questions put to him, but they would have covered all the basics—colors, definitions, comparisons, existents versus nonexistents, and the like—as well as more abstruse subjects pertaining to dependent origination and the two truths. What is on record, though, is that the Dalai Lama did not merely acquit himself well; he established himself—magnificently—as one of the finest debaters of his generation, a reputation that underpins his authority in monastic circles to this day.

  Recalling the event years later, the Dalai Lama noted, in splendidly ornate prose, how the “cream of scholars” debated with him on “the difficult points in the vast and profound classical texts,” while Ling Rinpoché, to whose credit the Dalai Lama’s performance would redound, watched “with close attention.” Subsequently, recalled the Dalai Lama, “the nectar of [the Precious Tutor’s] words in expressing his pleasure . . . developed in me a great youthful fountain of joy.” Similarly, Trijang Rinpoché noted his deep satisfaction at watching the Precious Protector “wither the creeping vine of audacity of those who were so arrogantly proud of their learning.” It was, all agreed, a most praiseworthy performance.

  The Dalai Lama was now free to enjoy the remainder of the Great Prayer Festival. Yet it was becoming increasingly obvious that something momentous was in the offing. The Chinese thought so too. They were convinced the government was “hatching a plot.”

  The festival concluded on March 4, and the next day the Dalai Lama left his rooms at the Jokhang to return to the Norbulingka. Back home, there were two immediate items on his agenda. The more important was a proposed visit to Beijing in the spring. It was rumored (correctly as it turned out) that Mao was planning to step down as president, and the Precious Protector was concerned about what the implications for Tibet might be. More immediately, there was the matter of his promised attendance at the performance of the Chinese dance troupe. When two Chinese officials came to offer congratulations to the Dalai Lama on attaining his Geshe Lharampa degree, they asked him to confirm a date. He suggested that either the tenth or eleventh of March would suit.

  In the meantime, in an outburst that further heightened the tension, a furious General Tan Guansen (temporarily in command of the PLA in Lhasa) addressed the Tibetan Women’s Association, shaking his fist and declaring that unless the Khampas ceased their rebellion, the PLA would “make short work of smashing all their monasteries to smithereens,” adding, threateningly: “There’s a piece of rotten meat here in Lhasa, and flies have been swarming in. We’ll have to dispose of the meat to get rid of the flies.”

  On the ninth, a Chinese official presented himself at the Norbulingka with a draft protocol for the events of the following day. Unusually, it did not mention arrangements for the entourage that invariably attended the Dalai Lama. Instead, those who were invited (including members of the Dalai Lama’s family) received individual invitations. But if this was arguably an excusable departure from established procedure, what followed was not. The Chinese declared that, since the venue was within the Lhasa garrison, there would be no need for the Precious Protector to be accompanied by his bodyguards. If the Dalai Lama must be accompanied, the Tibetans could send two or three personnel. They were to be unarmed, however. The choice, therefore, was whether the Precious Protector would travel from the Norbulingka by car, which the PLA would supply, along a route protected all the way into the headquarters by the PLA, or whether he would bring his own vehicle along a route protected by Tibetan security as far as the river crossing, at the other side of which lay the garrison, where the PLA would take over responsibility for the Dalai Lama’s security.

  Neither suggestion was acceptable. It was well known that the Chinese had abducted a number of high lamas and government officials in Kham following their attendance at some high-level event. Even if there was no intention to do so on the Chinese side—and there is no credible evidence of such a plan—there was no way that the people would let the Tibet
an government run such a risk.

  The chief of security returned to the Norbulingka, where he put the dilemma to the Lord Chamberlain and another official. Unable to decide what to do, they sought an audience with the Dalai Lama himself. In his autobiography, the Lord Chamberlain recounted how the Precious Protector responded. “Maybe this isn’t as serious as it sounds,” he said pensively. “Everything’s set for tomorrow, and it seems like a bad idea to cancel.”

  The three officials demurred. But the Dalai Lama insisted that it would be all right.

  There was nothing to be done now except carry out the Precious Protector’s wishes. In the first instance, orders were given for a hundred plainclothes security to mingle with the crowd the following day. Yet when word of the impending visit became more generally known, there was resistance from all quarters. Had not the Nechung oracle recently advised that the “all-knowing Guru” be told not to venture outside?

  The Lord Chamberlain sought another audience, this time to try to dissuade him from going; but the Dalai Lama insisted. It was too late, he said, to back out now.

  Faced with the Dalai Lama’s determination, a number of officials decided that it was their responsibility to stop him. When they left the Norbulingka that evening, they began spreading word that the Chinese intended to kidnap the Precious Protector. To this rumor was added the news that there had recently been increased activity at Damshung Airport. Also, a convoy of trucks was reported to have arrived recently at the Chinese garrison. It was obvious that these were going to be used to transport the Dalai Lama to the airport, and he would then be taken captive to Beijing—led off in chains, just as the Sixth Dalai Lama had been.*

  The following morning, crowds of people began streaming out of Lhasa in the direction of the Norbulingka. Government officials arriving for work found the road blocked and their way barred. By mid-morning thousands had gathered, and still they kept coming. It was believed by some that the Precious Protector had already been abducted, and rumor and counter-rumor only served to fuel the people’s passion. Whenever a minister’s vehicle left the compound, it was searched lest the Dalai Lama should be hidden inside by some traitor abducting him. Though clearly the crowd’s intention at the outset was simply to protect the Dalai Lama, as the day wore on, its mood turned to anger and bitterness. Cries of “Don’t sell the Dalai Lama for da yuan” (Chinese silver dollars) filled the air.