The Dalai Lama

by Alexander Norman

  Inside the palace grounds, government officials began to fear that the people would attack the Chinese. Yet it was not so much the Chinese who were the object of the crowd’s wrath as it was themselves: the ruling class.

  No one remembers at what point violence erupted, or what tipped the people over the edge, but the first sign of serious trouble came when a Tibetan official wearing a PLA uniform arrived in a Chinese jeep and sought entry to the palace compound. Knocked unconscious by a flying projectile, he escaped being stoned to death only by the reaction of his driver, who swung the vehicle around and took him straight to the Indian medical mission for treatment. But then, when a group recognized a junior monastic official who, having arrived that morning wearing his monk’s robes, was now observing the crowd dressed in white shirt, slacks, a Chinese hat, and a white face mask of the sort often worn by the enemy, they lost all restraint. Some said that he was carrying a pistol, others a hand grenade. He probably wasn’t, but they beat him to death all the same.

  Just as Mao had predicted, the masses were at last revolting violently against the reactionary upper strata, albeit not for oppressing them. It was because they were seen to have betrayed the Dalai Lama.

  Even as the crowd exploded with bloodlust, many of the highest-ranking members of the government were at that very moment being sumptuously entertained within the Chinese barracks. As planned, they had gone independently in the expectation of the Dalai Lama’s joining them later. After a splendid meal, those present, including the two tutors, were entertained with a film while the laymen played mahjong and the youngsters took to the dance floor.

  The Kashag meanwhile, realizing that they had lost control, were concerned above all that the Chinese should not become involved. As soon as it became clear that the Dalai Lama could not safely leave the palace, it was agreed that three senior ministers would present themselves to the Chinese leadership and explain the situation. On arrival, they were met by children lined up along the path into the camp holding greeting scarves and flowers. Clearly the Chinese were unaware of the gravity of the situation and were still expecting the Dalai Lama. On hearing the news, the general exploded with rage, accusing the ministers of orchestrating the uprising themselves. He then warned them that there was no point in pinning their hopes on the Khampa rebels: “Don’t forget that we beat the Guomindang, who had an army eight million strong! The Party is showing forbearance. Think it over carefully!” He finished by telling them they must keep the Dalai Lama safe, track down the conspirators, compensate the dead official’s family, and bring the murderers to justice.

  In the meantime, a group of representatives of the crowd was admitted to the Ceremonial Hall of the Norbulingka. Some called noisily for independence; others wanted to negotiate a new agreement with the Chinese; all were concerned for the Dalai Lama’s safety. No clear leaders came forward, and the meeting broke up in disarray.

  By 4 P.M., most of the demonstrators had left the precincts of the Norbulingka and were now marching through the Barkor, the pilgrim’s route that circumambulates the Jokhang Temple, chanting and shouting variously:

  Tibet has always been free!

  Chinese Communists out of Tibet!

  Down with the Seventeen Point Agreement!

  Tibet for Tibetans!

  That evening, General Tan sent the Precious Protector a personal letter advising him to stay where he was—presumably so that he could claim that the PLA had been in charge of the situation all along. When the messenger arrived with the letter, he found the Dalai Lama “sitting anguished, with his head in his hands.” The Tibetan leader replied apologetically the following day to the effect that he would have liked to have attended the show but had been prevented by “reactionary, evil elements” who were “carrying out activities endangering me under the pretext of ensuring my safety,” adding that he was “taking measures to calm things down.”

  But if the Dalai Lama was genuinely hopeful that these “reactionary, evil elements” were going to return to their homes and continue life as normal, it was a forlorn hope. The next day, armed militia began to build barricades along the road leading to the palace. Machine-gun posts were erected and manned not just by the Khampa militiamen but also by members of the Tibetan army who had taken off their PLA uniforms and insignia. In addition, armed volunteers congregated at the main gate of the Norbulingka to augment the official guard. The Chinese, meanwhile, deployed extra troops along the main road.

  Though the crowd outside the Norbulingka on the eleventh was not so large as it had been the previous day, inside there was turmoil, with the people’s representatives again gathering. Like them, most of the younger government officials were in favor of repudiating the Seventeen Point Agreement and demanding the restoration of Tibetan independence. At this point, however, the Dalai Lama himself intervened, summoning the entire group of about seventy. The Chinese general had not, he explained, compelled him to accept the invitation to the dance performance. Moreover, he was “not in any fear of personal danger from the Chinese.” They should, therefore, “stop holding these meaningless gatherings, which would only bring trouble.” In view of this unexpected intervention, it was agreed that the protests should from now on be conducted not outside the Norbulingka but at Shol, the settlement at the foot of the Potala.

  A second, more threatening letter from General Tan reached the Dalai Lama later that day. “The reactionaries have now become so audacious that they have openly and arrogantly engaged in military provocations,” he declared. “The Tibet Military Command has sent letters, therefore,” to the Kashag, “telling them to remove all the fortifications . . . immediately. Otherwise they will have to take full responsibility themselves for the evil consequences.” The Dalai Lama duly ordered his ministers to ensure that the fortifications were removed, with the—perhaps predictable—result that they were instead strengthened. In his reply to General Tan on the twelfth, the Dalai Lama could nonetheless claim that he had ordered “the immediate dissolution of the illegal people’s conference and the immediate withdrawal of the reactionaries, who arrogantly moved into the Norbulingka under the pretext of protecting me.”

  Meanwhile, the Tibetan Work Committee cabled Beijing to say that “the Tibetan people had formally arisen and severed ties with our Party leadership and would henceforth strive for ‘Tibetan Independence.’” It went on to claim that a “reactionary plot” was afoot to abduct the Dalai Lama. Although Mao himself was out of the capital on a visit to Wuhan, Beijing replied immediately to the effect that it was “a very good thing” that “the Tibetan elite has revealed its treasonous, reactionary nature. Our policy should be to let them run rampant, encouraging them to expose themselves even further. This will justify our subsequent pacification.” Accordingly, the committee should “gather every available scrap of evidence of our adversaries’ reactionary, treasonous activities” while continuing to court the Dalai Lama himself. Mao was clearly aware of a plan whereby the Precious Protector might withdraw from Lhasa. Nonetheless, he took the view that his departure would do “no harm.”

  Following this directive, the PLA began to reinforce their positions in and around the city and to obtain accurate ranges for their artillery—all this against the moment when orders came from Beijing to suppress the rebellion. But no special preventive measures were put in place to thwart any possible withdrawal of the Dalai Lama.

  On the twelfth, the protesters duly moved to Shol, where, in an event that has been commemorated annually ever since, the women of Lhasa—under the leadership of an aristocratic mother of six who, for her crime, was subsequently executed by firing squad—had already gathered in the thousands to stage their own demonstration in favor of independence. Several ministers attended the people’s representatives meeting that also took place that day, cautioning them that the Dalai Lama was suffering from the turmoil: “He looked haggard and was refusing to eat or speak, and kept sighing to himself.” Again, no consensus was reached. The crowds of armed militia remained in
place outside the Norbulingka, while inside, in fulfillment of Mao’s suspicion, a plan to “snatch the egg without frightening the hen” (that is, to extract the Dalai Lama without alerting either the protesters or the Chinese) began to be put together by Phala, the Lord Chamberlain. This had long been contemplated as a possibility but, following the advice of the oracles, now became a reality. As a first step, Phala dispatched messengers to the two CIA operatives whom he had spurned earlier, calling them urgently to Lhasa.

  On March 14, the Kashag issued an order for businesses to reopen and for the people to lay down their arms and to desist from drinking alcohol and from quarreling with the Chinese. Although this edict was ignored, it does seem to have contributed to a slight easing of tension in the city. The situation down at the Norbulingka remained chaotic, however, with large numbers of Khampa militia still in place, though they remained without any clear leadership.

  Later that day the Dalai Lama again consulted Nechung. The deity counseled him to try to “keep open the dialogue with the Chinese.” Presumably this was what lay behind the Precious Protector’s careful reply to General Tan’s third letter, received on the fifteenth. The general (actually the letter was drafted by Deng Xiaoping in Beijing) suggested, “If you think it necessary and possible to extract yourself from your present dangerous position of being held by traitors, we cordially welcome you and your entourage to come and stay for a short time in the Military Area Command.” The Dalai Lama responded by thanking him for his concern and accepting the offer: “In a few days from now when there are enough forces I can trust I shall make my way in secret to the Military Area Command. When that time comes, I shall first send you a letter.”

  It could easily be argued that the Dalai Lama was being disingenuous here, but the truth is that, even now, he had not yet fully made up his mind what to do. One might also argue that this was the moment for the young Dalai Lama to exercise true leadership, to set aside his own safety and take charge of the situation himself. Yet this would be to misconstrue the whole Tibetan tradition. As we have seen already, the celebrated figures of Tibetan history are not those who renounce their own safety and take on the external enemy. Rather, they are spiritual heroes who renounce the world in order to take on the internal enemy: ignorance. Those who look within the Tibetan tradition for a Saint Louis of France or a Richard Coeur de Lion will do so in vain. Caught between the Scylla of taking the rebel side and facing down the might of the Chinese and the Charybdis of taking the Chinese side and facing down the ire of his own people, the Dalai Lama did precisely what the tradition expected of him. He did nothing. Instead, he continued his practice as usual. He had to wait until either the situation resolved itself or the deities instructed him clearly on what he should do.

  This they did, perhaps as late as the fifteenth or even the sixteenth when, having consulted with the Kashag, the Dalai Lama again sought their advice. This time, besides Nechung, the oracles of Gadong, Shinjachen, and Shugden were invoked too. Not in person, to be sure: apart from the medium of the Nechung oracle, who had come to the Norbulingka, the others remained in their own residences. A trusted intermediary was sent in each case. The answer was unanimous. The Dalai Lama should leave as soon as possible. In the case of the Shugden oracle, there was, in addition, an explicit instruction as to which route to take out of Lhasa. If the Dalai Lama followed this instruction, he was promised that neither he nor anyone else in his entourage would come to the least harm. The oracle gave one further stipulation: “Someone bearing the name of Dorje must travel at the head of the victor’s party, confidently wielding this sword.” Having uttered these words, the medium faced in the direction of Ramagang to the southwest, loosed an arrow, and performed a ritual dance, gesturing with the sword. For his own part, the Dalai Lama himself performed a divination in front of the miraculous speaking image of the Glorious Goddess, Palden Lhamo, who duly concurred.

  By now all arrangements were in place: horses had been dispatched to the other side of the Kyichu River, which stood a little over a mile away; food had been prepared by a team of monks from Sera working under canvas in the palace grounds; the Khampa militia had been alerted; the CIA agents had been found and briefed. Within the palace itself, the gate security was warned that a truck might at some point need to go out to the Potala in order to collect ammunition from the armory. If that happened, it was to be let straight through; no need to check inside.

  When, on the afternoon of the seventeenth, two loud explosions rent the air within the palace grounds, there was a moment of panic. It was too late! The Chinese were already attacking! But when nothing further was heard, and there was no sign of enemy activity, the consensus of the security detail was that these must be ranging shots. An attack might not have begun, but it was surely imminent. There was no time to lose. The Lord Chamberlain sent an official to the Indian consulate to inquire whether Nehru would grant the Dalai Lama asylum should the need arise. Concurrently, a party of officials was dispatched to the treasury, where, we are told, they withdrew a large gold brick, fifty gold elephant coins, forty gold Tibetan coins, two golden crab figurines, a golden goblet, and 141,267 Indian rupees for immediate expenses. The overture to the consulate was less immediately fruitful. By the time the answer from India came back in the affirmative, the Precious Protector had been gone forty-eight hours.

  As soon as darkness fell, the Lord Chamberlain’s plan was put into action. At approximately eight o’clock that evening, the Dalai Lama’s family—that is, his mother, his elder sister, and his younger brother—left the palace by the southern exit and made their way to the rendezvous on the south side of the Kyichu River. (His grandmother, aged over eighty, had to remain behind.) They were followed by the two tutors, who, together with the four members of the Kashag, lay down under a tarpaulin in the truck, which was supposedly on its way to collect ammunition from the Potala armory. The Dalai Lama himself was to leave on foot, accompanied by the Lord Chamberlain.

  The Precious Protector in the meantime explained the situation to a group of the people’s representatives, assuring them that his withdrawal was a temporary measure. He then wrote a brief letter to the Panchen Lama before making a final visit to the Mahakala chapel. Already the deity’s protection was being invoked by a group of chanting monks. As the Dalai Lama recalled later, “no one looked up although I knew my presence must have been noticed.” He then went forward and presented a khatag, a gesture that implied not just farewell but the intention to return. “Before leaving,” he added, “I sat down for a few minutes and read from the Buddha’s sutras,” stopping at a passage that spoke of the need to “develop confidence and courage . . . A few minutes before ten o’clock, now wearing unfamiliar trousers and a long, black coat, I threw a rifle over my right shoulder and, rolled up, an old thangka that had belonged to the second Dalai Lama over my left.” This was the image of the Glorious Goddess That Had Spoken. Then, slipping his glasses into his pocket, he stepped into the chill night air. Met by two soldiers, he was escorted to the main gate in the inner wall, where he was met by the head of the bodyguard. By his own admission, he was extremely scared.

  PART III

  Freedom in Exile

  14

  ✵

  On the Back of a Dzo: The Flight to Freedom

  It turns out that the Dalai Lama need not have been so frightened, at least with respect to the Chinese. Only days earlier, Chairman Mao had decreed that, should the Dalai Lama “and his cohorts” attempt to leave, “we should not attempt to stop them . . . We should just let them go, no matter where they are headed.” It is true that, earlier on the very day when he left, the Politburo, several of whose members had just returned from Wuhan, where Mao was quartered at that moment, had taken a different line—presumably on Mao’s orders. In an instruction communicated to General Tan, they called on him to “do everything possible to prevent the Dalai Lama from fleeing,” though this was qualified with the injunction that “should he succeed in doing so, it doesn’t matte
r.” Unfortunately for the Chinese, even if they wanted to fulfill the order to prevent the escape, it is clear that this latter instruction was not immediately acted on and, just as the deity had said, the Precious Protector did not encounter “the least harm.”

  The first leg of the journey was on foot to the stream that lay a hundred yards or so beyond the Norbulingka’s walls. This was crossed by means of steppingstones, which, the Dalai Lama recalled, “I found it extremely difficult to negotiate without my glasses. More than once I almost lost my balance.” On the far side, the Precious Protector was met by a contingent of heavily armed soldiers bringing with them a horse, which he mounted for the mile-and-a-bit ride to the Tsangpo River. At one point the Dalai Lama took a wrong turn in the dark, only realizing his mistake when he found himself alone. Thereafter, the Lord Chamberlain personally led his horse and did not let go of its bridle until it was light the next morning.

  At the river, the ferry stood waiting, a cumbersome raft with minimal steering which relied chiefly on the current to get across. While the horses and the majority of the militiamen boarded, the Dalai Lama and a smaller number of companions crossed in a yak hide coracle. On the other side, the rest of his party—numbering around eighty in all—were waiting. Fortunately, the night was moonless with low clouds and poor visibility, but even so, the escapees were terrified to see the flash of torchlight from the Chinese garrison only a few hundred yards away. At first sight, it seems remarkable that the Ramagang ferry, by which the Dalai Lama and his entourage made good their escape, was not patrolled by the PLA, even if the Chinese were not intent on preventing the Precious Protector from fleeing Lhasa. Yet, given their policy of allowing the Tibetan rebels free access to the city, the better to target them later, it is not so surprising.