The Dalai Lama

by Alexander Norman

  There was some force in the Indian argument that Pakistan’s suppression of the Bengalis was analogous to Chinese suppression of the Tibetans. There was also no denying that the Pakistani junta’s methods were outrageous. But in reality, the Dalai Lama had no option. This was a test of loyalty. It was a test that, should he fail it, could have disastrous consequences, the least of which would be disbandment of the SFF itself. With the greatest reluctance he therefore acquiesced in what can only be described as India’s dirty war. Regretfully giving the soldiers his blessing, he consented with only the forlorn caution that they should spare as many lives as possible.

  The move was not wholly unsupported by the Dalai Lama’s inner circle. Moreover, Trijang Rinpoché had close relations with many in the SFF. During the summer of 1970, he was to be found visiting the soldiers in Chakrata at the invitation of their commander. On succeeding days with the soldiers, the junior tutor granted them a number of tantric permissions—that is, permission to undertake specific practices—as well as a long-life initiation. There-after, he gave teachings, transmissions, and advice to individual companies and their commanders according to need.*

  By mid-November 1971, and three weeks before hostilities were formally declared, the Tibetans were airlifted to Assam. From there they were infiltrated by canoe into the jungle-covered Chittagong Hills. The plan, known as Operation Eagle, was that they would outflank Pakistan’s own special forces and head for the coast, ready to cut off any attempted retreat in the direction of Burma. Wearing unmarked uniforms and armed with Bulgarian assault rifles—this partly to disguise who they really were and partly to confuse the enemy—the Tibetans quickly overran the Pakistani position. “After that,” recalled Uban, “they were unstoppable.” It was for this action that they earned themselves the sobriquet “the Phantoms of Chittagong.”*

  On December 3, the Pakistani air force launched what was billed as a preemptive strike against India, as a result of which, as Trijang Rinpoché noted, for the next two weeks “everyone lived in a state of anxiety.” In retaliation, India officially declared war. By the sixteenth it was all over thanks largely to the SFF: the Pakistani army was routed, and General Uban was a national hero. “And do you know why Unit 22 was so successful?” he asked afterwards. “Their reputation preceded them. The very idea of Tibetans struck terror in the hearts of the Pakistanis. They heard Unit 22, and the whole bloody world was running away!” As for the Tibetans themselves, “their morale—you should have seen—sky high! They felt they could take back Tibet tomorrow.” When he came subsequently to write a memoir of the campaign, Uban dedicated his book to “the gallant officers and men of the SPECIAL FRONTIER FORCE, who made the supreme sacrifice of their lives, braving dangers beyond the call of duty and blazing immortal trails in the history of righteous wars waged against oppression and for the freedom of all mankind.”

  Victory in Bangladesh was a massive boost to morale for the Indian army generally, and hugely important for the SFF as a demonstration of both its effectiveness and the loyalty of the Tibetan refugees to India. It also demonstrated that, well-armed, well-trained, and well-led, India’s clandestine Tibetan army was an extremely potent force. Unfortunately for the Tibetans, because their participation in the war was unofficial—so secret, in fact, that most of the Indian Eastern Army command was unaware that they had already been operating behind enemy lines for three weeks when the war began—there could be no official recognition of their contribution. Instead, all who participated received a bounty of around 500 rupees, but there were to be no medals, nor any commendations for bravery. When the impossibility of official acclaim became apparent, there was immense disappointment in the ranks. Fearing, perhaps, that dismay at being overlooked might lead to disaffection and from there to open dissent, Uban contacted Dharamsala. The outcome was as welcome as it was unprecedented. The Dalai Lama announced to a parade of the entire unit that, having a few days to himself, he wanted to pay them a personal visit. It was he himself who led the inspection at their base in Chakrata in June 1972.

  Although this is the only time that the Dalai Lama is known to have visited the soldiers, that he did not disapprove of the Special Frontier Force is suggested by the fact that his younger brother subsequently became one of its officers.

  Back in Dharamsala, the Precious Protector was quick to resume his spiritual training under the direction of the two tutors. From Trijang Rinpoché, he received a number of permissions, “starting with the common torma initiation and the exclusive Cittamani Tara, together with the most secret Heart Absorption Permission,” in return for which the Dalai Lama offered his junior tutor “the permissions of the seventeen emanations of Four-Faced Mahakala, Robber of Strength . . . including Split Faces, Striking the Vital Point and Secret Accomplishment,” but excluding, for reasons not specified, the “Entrusted Black Brahman.” From Ling Rinpoché, too, the Dalai Lama received, “a very special Cittamani initiation.”

  A year later, the Precious Protector was finally permitted by the Indian government to undertake a six-week, eleven-country tour of Europe during the autumn. This was a welcome development. Not that it was a wholly altruistic move on the part of Prime Minister Gandhi. Against the background of America’s thawing relations with the PRC, we might reasonably suspect that unleashing the Dalai Lama was her way of reminding the world that India should not be forgotten amidst the euphoria of rapprochement between the superpowers. It can also be read as a reward for the Dalai Lama’s cooperation in the Bangladesh war.

  17

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  “Something beyond the comprehension of the Tibetan people”: The Yellow Book and the Glorious Goddess

  The prospect of his forthcoming trip to the West was a matter of great encouragement not just for the Dalai Lama but for Tibetans generally. Yet while arrangements were being put in place for the now thirty-eight-year-old Dalai Lama’s eleven-country itinerary, there occurred a series of events that were to have shattering repercussions both within the exile community and in Tibet.

  The first indication of trouble came on the day when the Dalai Lama arrived to consecrate a new statue in the main temple in Dharamsala. To the contemporary reader, the consecration of a statue might seem an unremarkable event, but that would be to ignore the central place that iconography occupies within the Buddhist tradition—as indeed it does in non-secular traditions generally. Gombojav Tsybikov, the Buryato-Russian explorer who visited Lhasa on the cusp of the twentieth century, described how pilgrims would pay a fee to place their own images in the presence of the Jowo, the “self-arisen” statue of the Buddha brought to Tibet in the seventh century by King Songtsen Gampo’s Chinese princess bride. Its monk attendants would also sell the bodies of mice that, having gorged themselves on the barley offering made to the statute, had died in its presence. Their meat was considered especially efficacious for expectant mothers facing difficult births. On the occasion in question, the statue was of Padmasambhava, the Lotus-Born—one of the greatest spiritual heroes of the Tibetan Buddhist tradition and, furthermore, the key figure within the Nyingma tradition.

  An initiative of the Dalai Lama himself, this project was intended by him to rectify a mistake made during the 1950s. At that time a leading Nyingma master had petitioned the Kashag to have a statue of the Lotus-Born consecrated in the Jokhang Temple as a defense against the Chinese. Significantly, this statue was to portray the sage in the form of Nangsi Zilnon, Overcomer of Obstacles, and it was to be positioned facing east. Although the Kashag accepted the proposal for a statue, when it was erected it was not in the correct form, and it faced south. The dedication now of a statue in the correct form and facing in the right direction in Dharamsala would thus correct the earlier failure.* Another aspect of the undertaking was the Dalai Lama’s wish to foster unity among the different schools within the Tibetan tradition. The Lotus-Born is venerated by a large percentage of Tibetans, irrespective of sectarian affiliation, and is thus a unifying figure. Right from the beginning of the exile p
eriod, it had been clear to the Precious Protector that the survival of the Tibetan people depended on their coming together as a community. One of his first acts on arrival in Dharamsala had been to convene a meeting of the sen-ior-most representatives of each of the different Tibetan religious traditions. Urging them “to fulfil the . . . welfare of all Tibetans,” the Dalai Lama set the tone for increased cooperation among the different schools. Similarly, his founding of the Institute of Buddhist Dialectics in 1973 was another major initiative designed to further his ecumenical vision. Open to students of all backgrounds, the institute sent a clear signal that it was the Mahayana tradition in general, rather than any particular school within it, that was important.

  When the day of consecration of the new statue arrived, the Dalai Lama was surprised to see far fewer monks and nuns attending than he would have expected. On making inquiries, he learned that a recently published book had caused many to boycott the ceremony for fear of supernatural consequences. The book, An Account of the Protective Deity Dorje Shugden, Chief Guardian of the Gelug Order, and of the Punishments Meted Out to Religious and Lay Leaders Who Incurred His Wrath, better known simply as The Yellow Book, had been written by a well-regarded student of Trijang Rinpoché. Little more than a pamphlet—it was originally intended as a supplement to a longer work by Trijang himself—the book opened with an ominous dedication: “Praise to you, Protector of the Yellow Hat tradition, you who grind to dust great adepts, high officials and laymen alike.” There followed a list of well-known individuals who had allegedly incurred the wrath of the protector Dorje Shugden for having polluted the pure teachings of the Gelug tradition by venerating objects and individuals associated with other schools or by adopting their practices—particularly those of the Nyingma sect. Among these were many familiar figures of the regency period, including Reting Rinpoché, the former regent, along with Lungshar, whose eyes were put out, and Trimon, a chief minister who lost his mind toward the end of his life.

  The word Nyingma means simply “ancient” and is applied to those teachings, lineages, and practices that came to Tibet with the first diffusion of Buddhism, roughly from the seventh to the ninth centuries. This was the time of the religious kings, of whom there were three, each considered a manifestation of Chenresig. Following the apostasy of a later monarch, who persecuted Buddhism to the brink of extinction, Tibet endured a Dark Age for two hundred years before a second diffusion of Buddhism began during the eleventh century. This revival was undertaken by a number of sages working independently of one another and to whom can be traced the later different traditions—the Kadam (from which the Dalai Lama’s Gelug school is derived), Sakya, Kargyu, and Jonang traditions.

  Within the Buddhist tradition generally, the authority of a given lineage—the lineage being the teacher-to-student relation through which a set of teachings and practices is transmitted—is derived from the ability to trace it back to its origin with the Buddha. This is complicated, particularly in the Mahayana tradition, by the fact that certain of the most highly accomplished masters are said to have received a particular teaching or practice directly, often in a vision of the Buddha, even though they were not his contemporaries. Suffice it to say that some purists hold that all those lineages that claim to derive from the Lotus-Born and the first diffusion of Buddhism in Tibet were in fact broken during the Dark Age and subsequently corrupted. The Lotus-Born’s devotees (who make up perhaps a third of the monastic community and an even higher percentage among the laity, for whom adherence to a single sect is less important) believe, however, that many of the lineages brought to Tibet by the Lotus-Born did in fact survive. They hold, moreover, that the Lotus-Born is a manifestation of a fully enlightened being, a “second Buddha.”

  What is known about the Lotus-Born apart from what the Nyingma tradition says about him is scant. Contemporary records show only that he came to Tibet during the reign of Tibet’s second Dharma King and that he was involved with the foundation of Samye, the country’s first monastery, toward the end of the eighth century CE. They also tell us that he was expelled from Tibet on the orders of the king and, moreover, that the Lotus-Born foiled an attempt to murder him as he left the court. But the records have nothing to say about his real importance. They do not tell us about the prophecy he uttered on his banishment, to the effect that, in future, the divisions in Tibet would be not between believer and nonbeliever but between the followers of the doctrine themselves. As to the fifty-six years some say that he spent in Tibet following his official banishment, the contemporary records are completely silent. Yet it is to these years that his most important work is said to belong. Secretly, silently, the Lotus-Born waged war on Tibet’s indigenous deities, subduing them and binding them over as protectors of the faith. These he put under the command of a certain Pehar, a deity whom he persuaded to leave his abode on the Mongolian steppes to take up residence as the chief protector of Samye Monastery.

  Why this is so significant is that it is Pehar who speaks through Dorje Drakden, muse of the Nechung oracle. Pehar himself is a fallen angel. Many eons ago, during an incarnation as a Brahmin priest, he succumbed to the charms of a beautiful girl. For seven days and seven nights they made love in the temple where he lived. Outcast thereafter, Pehar was reborn first in the hell realms, then again as a human being, destined to wander the world homeless until he died. He was then reborn the son of a minor deity, and it was in this incarnation that he took up his vocation as a local god among the Uighur peoples of Central Asia. Why precisely Pehar was chosen by the Lotus-Born to come to Tibet is unclear. But he later emerged as the most important of the dharma protectors. How this came about is significant to our story because it connects the time of the Great Fifth Dalai Lama to the present day.

  During the sixteenth century, Pehar had a disagreement with the abbot of Samye Monastery. As a result, the abbot decreed that there was no need for the deity to be depicted in a new chapel then under construction. Incensed, the deity retaliated by manifesting as a boy who came to offer his services as a fresco painter. As recompense for his work, the boy asked only that he be permitted to paint a small monkey holding a stick of incense somewhere on one of the walls. The abbot agreed, the chapel was adorned with the customary religious scenes, and the boy departed. That night, however, Pehar slipped into the image of the monkey and, using the stick of incense, set the building ablaze.

  Realizing he had been tricked, the abbot had a demon trap constructed. These devices, still very much a feature of Tibetan Buddhist practice, consist of lengths of yarn stretched in an intricate geometrical pattern over a wooden frame, somewhat in the manner of a giant cat’s cradle. The demon is lured in by means of offerings and invocations, and then is unable to find a way out. The deity was subsequently caught, placed in a casket, and pitched into the river. Sometime later, the box washed up on the banks of the Kyichu about half a day’s journey from Lhasa, where it was seen by the Great Fifth—though whether in a dream or whether he was alerted to its presence by a third party is obscure. In any case, he ordered the box to be brought ashore, adding that on no account should it be opened. Remarkably, the farther the box was carried from its resting place, the heavier it became, until the monk deputed to the task could carry it no longer. Puzzled, he ignored the instruction not to look inside and opened it up. To his surprise, a pigeon emerged and flew into the branches of a nearby tree. Hearing of this, the Great Fifth admonished the monk and ordered that a shrine be built at the base of the tree. The shrine subsequently became incorporated into Nechung Monastery, and it was among the monks of this foundation that Pehar’s oracle began once more to manifest itself. The most important of the dharma protectors can thus be traced unambiguously back to the ministry of the Lotus-Born.

  On hearing of the existence of The Yellow Book on that day in Dharamsala, the Dalai Lama was deeply affected. Not only was this a public rebuke, and not only did it clearly insinuate that evil would befall him if he continued along his chosen path of rapprochement betw
een the different traditions, but also it was an insult to Nechung, who had sanctioned the admission of the Lotus-Born (in statue form) to the temple. It was one thing to hold reservations about the Dalai Lama’s policy of openness to the non-Gelug traditions—he was well aware that some did—but to publish what amounted to a loaded personal criticism without informing him in advance was an insult. The fact that the author was a member of the Dalai Lama’s inner circle and a heart disciple of Trijang Rinpoché and could therefore be assumed to have done so with the junior tutor’s full knowledge only made matters worse. Nor was this a trivial issue of dharma politics, as the violent events that ensued would show.

  The Dalai Lama thus had much on his mind when, during the fall of that year, he embarked on his trip to Europe.

  Apart from being an eye-opener, allowing the Dalai Lama to experience what, up until then, he had only heard about, the visit to Europe seems to have had less impact than might have been expected. The Dalai Lama quickly realized that the two hemispheres, East and West, were “not so different after all.” From contemporary media coverage of the visit, we learn that the Dalai Lama had been well briefed by the Indian government, which made clear that he was not permitted to engage in political activities but should confine himself strictly to religious matters. An interview on Dutch television shows him laughing at the questions of an interviewer trying to maneuver him into being indiscreet. Since his trip was entirely nonpolitical, he explained, he did “not want to spoil” it. In spite of this, he was nonetheless received by a number of political leaders, including both the president and the prime minister of Ireland. Among senior religious figures, he met with Pope Paul VI, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Aga Khan. And in London he was delighted to find a number of elderly ex-officials who had actually served in Tibet during the time of the British Empire and could speak Tibetan. But perhaps most important for the Dalai Lama personally was his meeting with the two hundred Tibetan children who had been adopted post-exile into Swiss families, though he was disappointed to find that most had lost their mother tongue. In view of this, he encouraged monks at the recently founded Rikon Monastery in nearby Zell to provide language classes for them.