The Dalai Lama

by Alexander Norman

  After crossing the river and traversing the plain that lay between it and the mountains, the party faced a steep climb. At about three o’clock the following morning, the Dalai Lama and his companions took a short rest at a small farm, where they drank tea and regrouped. After little more than an hour, they pressed on. Just as dawn broke, they approached the crossing point between the Tsangpo and the next valley. It was at this point that they noticed how, in the confusion of the night, the horses’ tack had been mixed up. The finest saddles and bridles were worn by the shaggiest ponies, while the best horses were adorned with the meanest of harnesses. This provided a welcome opportunity for some hearty laughter as they toiled the remainder of the distance to the pass, reaching it at around eight o’clock in the morning. The Dalai Lama recalls how, at the top, he turned around and looked at Lhasa, praying for a few minutes that he would one day return.

  Shortly after the Precious Protector and his companions had begun their descent into the next valley, all those government officials who had not left with the Dalai Lama arrived at the Norbulingka for the customary morning tea ceremony. It was only then that the majority learned of the Precious Protector’s escape. The news was received with a mixture of shock and relief that the Dalai Lama was out of immediate danger. In the letter he had written, the young leader put four junior ministers in charge of the army, giving them the task of negotiating with the Chinese. Should they refuse to do so, the ministers “must deliberate profoundly amongst [themselves] and come to an agreement about whether to fight or to use other methods of resistance.” No immediate decision was reached, however. Some called for war at once. Others, equally overoptimistic, advocated talking with the Chinese while overseas assistance was sought. In any case, it was decided not to release the news of the Dalai Lama’s departure for the time being, as the day was astrologically inauspicious.*

  The Chinese meanwhile acted on the new orders from Beijing and moved to seal off the Ramagang ferry. But this was their only important military initiative of the day. Even on the morning of the nineteenth, General Tan can be seen cautioning his commanders to maintain a defensive posture. “We should not be the ones to fire the first shot,” he declared. It was only in the evening that he decided on battle. Having contacted Beijing to confirm definitively that the Dalai Lama had fled, Tan issued a warning to his troops that a rebel attack was likely to occur at any moment. In fact, what actually happened was, when a PLA patrol ignored a challenge by rebels stationed close to the ferry, the Khampas opened fire. It was this that gave the Chinese the pretext they were looking for. At just after three o’clock on the morning of March 20, the “pacification” of Lhasa began.

  Among the targets was the Norbulingka, which came under fire from “countless guns and cannons.” The devastation was wholesale. As the day dawned, “from left to right one saw nothing but the bodies of animals and people . . . Throughout the city, Tibetans gave their lives—soldiers and civilians alike.” The resistance coalesced around the now seventy-one-year-old Tsarong, a war hero during the time of the Great Thirteenth. His headquarters, set up at the base of the Potala, was well defended, but was no match for the heavy guns that the Chinese quickly brought to bear. After bombarding the palace, Chinese troops soon overwhelmed the assortment of militiamen and their leader.*

  How severe the bombardment really was is hard to determine. Tibetan eyewitnesses suggest that it was prolonged and indiscriminate, killing many thousands. Inevitably Chinese reports say that the “rebellion” was put down at the cost of very few lives. Two Communist-sympathizing English journalists who visited Lhasa three and a half years later claimed to have seen no evidence of any damage to the Norbulingka.† It was what followed the crushing of the rebellion that was in many ways more significant. And about this, there is much less doubt.

  The Dalai Lama was completely unaware of what was happening. For his part, he hoped that, when it became known that he had left, the crowds would disperse and life in Lhasa would return to normal. The Chinese would have no reason to attack. In the meantime, having walked for the better part of twenty-four hours, the Precious Protector and his party had by now spent the night in a small monastery, where he and his senior advisers held the first of what were to become nightly meetings.

  Although the evacuation of the Norbulingka had been several days in the planning, the exact route taken—one of dozens possible—was determined only at the last minute and on an ad hoc basis. To begin with, rather than head due south, taking the shortest route, they followed the Shugden oracle’s injunction to head in a southwesterly direction. Not only did this take the escape party through country that was impassable to motor vehicles, but also it kept them in territory that was entirely under partisan control. The PLA had concentrated its forces at the main strategic settlements and on the roads running between them. Yet although Chushi Gangdruk forces held the countryside, there was concern about possible attacks from the air. It was reassuring, then, that the weather at this time of year made aviation challenging while the mountainous terrain further increased the level of difficulty for aerial pursuit. Mercifully, too, the Chinese had very limited air assets at this time, and it was not until they were almost at the Indian border that the refugees saw an aircraft at all.

  The fact that the Precious Protector had left before word came back from the Indian consulate that he and his entourage would be welcome in India meant that the Dalai Lama was uncertain whether Nehru would permit them to enter the country. One alternative they considered was the state of Kachin in northern Burma (today’s Myanmar), where a small community of Tibetan villages stood high up in the borderlands. If, however, he was to proceed to India, there was also some doubt as to whether to take the shorter route via Bhutan or to go directly. But for the time being, the priority was to get as far from Lhasa as possible.

  According to some accounts, the fighting in the capital continued for a full six days. The Chinese claimed the rebellion, as they characterized it, was suppressed much more quickly, after which it was only a matter of determining who the ringleaders were. All those deemed to have taken part in the uprising were taken prisoner—certainly many thousands of individuals, of whom large numbers were later to die in custody. Of those who survived, those labeled class enemies remained in prison at least until the death of Mao in 1976, while those judged to have committed crimes against the party and the Motherland were transported to the provinces, where they were enrolled in forced-labor gangs. Their task: the construction of the Workers’ Paradise that Tibet was destined to become.

  For all who were not known to support the Chinese, the next decade and more was a time of unremitting hardship, pitiful rations, hard labor with inadequate clothing and minimal rest, and repeated thamzing, or “struggle sessions.” This was a form of public humiliation during which the accused were forced to confess to crimes in front of an audience who would then abuse them verbally, and sometimes physically. This served as a prelude to punishment and “reform.” In addition, victims were sometimes dressed in the most ludicrous attire. A famous photograph shows an aristocrat dressed in ceremonial brocades further adorned with women’s underwear and topped with a dunce cap on which the various charges against him were written. Typically, too, the accused would have their hands tied behind their back in such a way as to force them to bend double with their arms straight out behind in a position known as “the airplane.” By day, teams of prisoners were forced to compete with one another, singing “patriotic” songs extolling the virtues of Chairman Mao and the Communist Party. In the evening there were interminable classes devoted to the exposition of socialist doctrine. For those who showed a lack of enthusiasm, further torments were meted out through either solitary confinement or other struggles. To make matters worse, there was the ever-present danger of other prisoners, intent on improving their own lot, making accusations against their fellows.

  Especially harsh treatment was reserved for the sangha, whether as members of the government or simply as people who
had taken up arms against the Chinese. Though religion was tolerated while the Dalai Lama remained nominal head of the Tibetan administration, now it was held in official derision. Prisoners caught saying prayers were routinely beaten. The dire prophecy given by the Great Thirteenth had begun to be amply fulfilled.

  But this was not yet an understood reality for the Dalai Lama. Five days out from Lhasa (though still little more than sixty miles), the Precious Protector was intercepted by the two CIA agents for whom the Lord Chamberlain had sent, bringing with them a radio, a mortar, and a consignment of rifles, handguns, and ammunition; their arrival was a welcome boon. There had been an American airdrop within the last month, and the Khampa fighters could now be equipped with weapons adequate to their determination to protect the Dalai Lama. Most of these were natives of the area surrounding Trijang Rinpoché’s monastery. It was the monks of this foundation who had dealt so harshly with the Catholic missionaries earlier in the century. Fiercely loyal to their homeland—which for them was Kham and not Tibet—most would perish in subsequent fighting with the Chinese. But although their natural suspicion of the Lhasa government—intense to the point of hatred, easily aroused—remained intact, it counted for nothing now that the Dalai Lama himself was in danger. Fortified by their belief in the protection of Dorje Shugden, they ate little, slept little, and lived in daily peril not just from the enemy but also from the weather, often with nothing but the rough sheepskin clothes they stood up in as protection against the elements. These were hard men who lived hard lives.

  Yet it can also be said that the Dalai Lama and all those traveling with him showed their hardiness. Although the distance from Lhasa to the Indian border where they crossed is only around a hundred miles as the crow flies, the route they ended up taking was a particularly arduous one, with a large number of mountain passes. There were frequent snowfalls, and for most of the time, temperatures were well below zero. Given that the Precious Protector’s habitual exercise was little more than the occasional stroll through the park surrounding the Norbulingka, it was a considerable achievement.

  At this juncture, the Dalai Lama hoped that he might still be able to establish a headquarters somewhere inside Tibet that was close enough to the border in case of dire need. But when his party was intercepted by a posse of horsemen who brought news of the bombardment of Lhasa, it became obvious that exile was the only plausible option. In direct confirmation of this, a letter from one of the Dalai Lama’s secretaries in Lhasa followed soon after. This made plain the full extent of the horror that had befallen the capital. Evidently the hoped-for negotiations were mere wishful thinking. Plans were immediately put in hand for a formal repudiation of the infamous Seventeen Point Agreement. This, it was decided, would take place at Lhuntse Fort several days hence. Accordingly, it was there, on March 26, 1959, and in a grand ceremony attended not only by the governor, the abbots of eight local monasteries, and the Dalai Lama’s entire entourage but also by several thousand people from the local area, that the Dalai Lama, having metaphorically torn up the treaty, reestablished his own independent government with the fortress as its temporary capital.

  The fact that the fort was actually situated in eastern Bhutan meant that the proclamation of the Dalai Lama’s new government here would cause diplomatic difficulties in the future. The Indian border official who later received the Dalai Lama was certainly most surprised to hear of this excursion into Bhutanese territory, for although ethnically Tibetan, Bhutan was, as it remains, an independent sovereign state,* its borders protected by the Indian government.

  Diplomatic niceties notwithstanding, on hearing of the Dalai Lama’s proclamation from a report sent over the radio by the two CIA operatives that evening, American officialdom sent its congratulations together with the offer of help should the Tibetans have any specific requests. Told this, the Lord Chamberlain instructed the radio operator to ask whether an airplane might be sent in case of difficulty. Also, could the Americans kindly use their good offices to request asylum for His Holiness in India? A possible landing strip had in fact already been identified, as had a drop zone for supplies. As for the possibility of asylum, Nehru had already signaled his approval via the consulate in Lhasa, though neither the Americans nor the Tibetans were aware of this.

  After spending a second night in Bhutan, the Dalai Lama and his entourage rose before dawn on March 27 in order to tackle the steep track that would take them to the last Tibetan villages before the border with India. Disastrously, they soon became lost in a snowstorm. Having no goggles, they wasted several hours as they traveled in the wrong direction before they realized their mistake and were forced to retrace their steps. Once they were over the next pass, however, the weather improved, and they reached a small settlement where they halted in the late afternoon.

  The next day there was yet another pass to cross, and it was here that the Tibetans received the biggest fright of their journey. Just as they reached the saddle between the two valleys, they spotted a large aircraft flying at (relatively speaking) low altitude nearby. Though it was too far away to be certain of the type, according to subsequent analysis by CIA officers it was indeed “Chicom”—a Chinese Communist airplane. The Dalai Lama’s then twelve-year-old brother, Ngari Rinpoché, is, however, convinced that, given it had no markings, it must have been Indian, though there remains a strong possibility that it was in fact American. In any case, after a few fear-inducing seconds it flew off, leaving the Tibetans in enough doubt to ensure that they kept up the pace as they approached the last leg of their journey. Two days later they reached the village of Mang Mang, the last Tibetan settlement before the border. There, for the first time on the journey, and for his penultimate night in Tibet, the Dalai Lama slept under canvas, in a tent that leaked copiously from the rain that began to fall almost at once. After a damp and sleepless night, the Precious Protector contracted a fever, and it was decided he should remain in situ for one more day at least. Moving to the upper floor of a small farmhouse, he passed his last night in Tibet with, as he later recalled, cockerels crowing in the rafters above and cattle lowing in the stable below. On the thirty-first, he made the decision to press on. Too ill to ride a horse, the Dalai Lama mounted instead a more placid animal, a dzo, a cross between a yak and a cow. And it was on this humble form of transport that the Precious Protector, the Victor, Lion Among Men, Wish-Fulfilling Jewel, Ocean of Wisdom, earthly manifestation of Chenresig, Bodhisattva of Compassion, quit his homeland and crossed the border with India at two o’clock in the afternoon.

  15

  ✵

  Opening the Eye of New Awareness: Allen Ginsberg and the Beats

  Word of the Precious Protector’s escape spread swiftly around the world, but for want of information, the many news agencies taking an interest in the story were compelled to hold their breath. Ten days after the Dalai Lama disappeared from Lhasa, the Indian president sent an urgent letter to Nehru asking for a report. The prime minister replied, saying, “We do not yet know where the Dalai Lama is.” He was being decidedly economical with the truth. Thanks to the presence of the American-trained radio operators among the escapees, Washington—with the help of Geshe Wangyal—was able to monitor the party’s progress almost the entire way along its route. Nehru, second only to President Eisenhower, was informed the day before writing to the Indian president that the escape party had arrived safely at the border. But it would not do to broadcast the government’s intelligence capability owing to its links with the CIA.

  As for the press, there were slim pickings for the hundreds of reporters who converged on the remote tea-growing settlement of Tezpur in far north-eastern India. It was here, after resting a week in a remote town close to where he crossed the border, that the Dalai Lama was welcomed by the mayor and a large crowd of well-wishers immediately prior to entraining for Mussoorie, a further two days’ journey to the west. There were no interviews, not even for old friends like Heinrich Harrer, who had made a special journey. All that was to be gr
anted him and others was a short, moderately worded statement from the Dalai Lama (the text agreed to in advance with the Indian government) explaining briefly the circumstances leading up to his request for political asylum and thanking the people and government of India “for their spontaneous and generous welcome.” Following lunch with local dignitaries, the Dalai Lama and his entourage left for the station without further word. Despite the Tibetan leader’s temperate language, his words were immediately denounced by the Chinese. “The so-called statement of the Dalai Lama . . . is a crude document, lame in reasoning, full of lies and loopholes,” thundered the People’s Daily.

  Two days after leaving Tezpur, the Precious Protector reached Mussoorie, where Nehru had arranged for the Tibetan leader to stay at Birla House, the splendid country retreat of a family of wealthy industrialists close to the prime minister. On arrival, as indeed he had been all along the way, he was given an exuberant welcome by the local people.

  Almost the Dalai Lama’s first act on arrival was to preside over the requisite rituals “to invoke the commitment of the Dharma Protectors who had vowed to guard the teachings of the Buddha, in order to quickly pacify these troubling times in the world at large and specifically in . . . Tibet.” The deities had not been able to save Tibet, but at least they had kept the Dalai Lama safe.