The Dalai Lama

by Alexander Norman

  There have also been several occasions when a portion of the Dalai Lama’s supporters have been disappointed by the choice of events that his advisers have arranged for or encouraged him to attend. His appearance on the Australian Master Chef TV show was a case in point. Another was his appearance at Glastonbury Festival in Britain. In the latter case, however, the Dalai Lama did say that he had enjoyed himself—despite being kissed on stage by singer Patti Smith, to the outrage of many Tibetans. Unless, however, we are prepared to say (as indeed the Chinese do say) that the approbation of dozens of world leaders who have welcomed him, numerous chancellors of universities who have conferred honorary degrees on him, and each of the (certainly hundreds and probably thousands of) mayors and community leaders who have made civic awards to the Dalai Lama—to say nothing of the millions of ordinary people who have been encouraged by and have drawn inspiration from the Dalai Lama—has been, in every single case, misinformed and misguided, it would be hard to argue that these occasional lapses tell us more about the man than his many successes. And even those who do hold a negative view must acknowledge the Dalai Lama’s fidelity to his role. After all, what was to stop him as a young man from forsaking his robes and gravitating to the fleshpots of the free world?

  It is true nonetheless that the Dalai Lama has attracted the ire of some commentators in the Western media. One such was Christopher Hitchens, who criticized him for, among other reasons, seeming to support India’s testing of thermonuclear weapons. Furthermore, he has drawn dismay in some quarters for suggesting that Europe is for Europeans and that, while migrants should be welcomed, they should plan to return home to build their countries as soon as they are in a position to do so. Some have accused him of exploiting his audiences, of being a “ham,” as one put it, and the “crowd-pleaser to end all crowd-pleasers.” Against this, others have noted that he often makes a point of addressing and embracing the mentally disturbed, including those who seem likely to be violent, who attend events at which he appears. Besides, the Dalai Lama has been known to make artless remarks that have, on occasion, deeply offended people. On a visit to Norway, he once pointed to a teenaged girl and told her, giggling, that she was “too fat.” These are hardly the actions of a “ham.” The Dalai Lama has also been criticized for some of his friendships. His affection for George W. Bush (who painted the Dalai Lama’s portrait) causes difficulty for some. His personal regard for Nancy Pelosi perhaps causes difficulty for others. Yet his unaffected charm and evident humanity have won him countless admirers.

  As to the future, while it is clear that, functionally, the Dalai Lama’s retirement from his leadership role is genuine, it remains to be seen whether his reforms will survive him. It is not impossible to imagine an ambitious future incumbent of the office—or, perhaps more likely, a weak successor manipulated by ambitious staff—re-appropriating political power. This is a particular danger should the Precious Protector “manifest the act of passing away” sooner rather than later. It would be surprising to learn that he has not had exactly the same thought, however. From what he has said about his succession, besides repeating that there will be a Fifteenth Dalai Lama only if that is the wish of the Tibetan people as a whole (which, undoubtedly, it will be), he has made clear that, as one of a number of options, he is already considering the possibility of appointing a successor while still living, by identifying a ma de tulku. This is an incarnation appointed when the previous incumbent remains alive.

  Usually the procedure for anointing such an incarnation entails an elderly lama declaring that the bodhi which resides with himself has been identified as residing with someone younger, usually a disciple or spiritual friend, though sometimes an assistant or even (somewhat less plausibly) a relative. The one so named then occupies the lama’s position within both the spiritual and the temporal realms, taking on all property, tithes, and title of the one making the appointment while the incumbent himself retires, often moving to a hermitage and going on permanent retreat. One huge advantage of success in identifying and confirming the new Dalai Lama in this way is that it would greatly complicate any attempt on the part of the Chinese authorities to interfere in the succession. Should this not come to pass, however, and should the Dalai Lama not appoint his successor personally, it is certain that the traditional methods of identification will be used, and in anticipation of his death outside Tibet, the Dalai Lama has made clear that his incarnation should also be sought outside Tibet. It is even rumored that Palden Lhamo, the Glorious Goddess, has been invited to move her residence from the visionary lake in Tibet to another lake, somewhere in Ladakh.*

  But if the Precious Protector has, potentially, settled the question of what form the Dalai Lama institution will take in the future, and if he finds a way to finesse the succession problem (though understanding full well that the Chinese are sure to anoint their own “official” candidate), there remains at least one important obstacle to securing his ultimate vision. While he wishes the Dalai Lama to be an inclusive figure, able to speak for all Tibetans irrespective of their regional origin (whether they hail from Ü-Tsang, Kham, or Amdo), and irrespective of which denomination they belong to, the Shugden challenge remains. What this amounts to, practically speaking, is the age-old question faced by all ancient institutions under pressure from events in the world: whether to turn toward it and risk annihilation, or whether to turn away and retreat to first principles, or some version thereof, in the hope of weathering the storm until a full-scale revival can be brought about. As we have seen, the outcome of the contest between these two impulses, the one represented by Shugden, the other by Nechung, has yet to be finally settled, and the problem remains a thorn in the Precious Protector’s flesh.

  Let us suppose, however, that the present Dalai Lama lives, as he has suggested he might, to be well over a hundred, and that he succeeds both in implementing his vision of the Dalai Lama institution as a unifying force for all and in settling the question of his succession. What are the prospects for his people?

  It is difficult to be optimistic. The Chinese Communist Party’s policy of economic expansion as a means of preserving its position has been an outstanding success. It has shown that liberal democracy is by no means an inevitable entailment of capitalism. On the contrary, the panoptico-Leviathan state the party has created looks very much able to face down any merely ideological challenge to its existence. What it cannot assimilate, it will surely destroy. Thus China’s ascent as a world superpower looks set to continue into the foreseeable future, while, just as the party’s planners forecast long ago, fewer and fewer countries will dare risk their trading relations with China for the sake of a few million Tibetans.

  Indeed, this is already happening. The Dalai Lama has been refused visas to South Africa and Botswana. As early as 2008 the British Foreign Office ceased (after more than a century) to recognize China’s suzerainty over Tibet and instead acknowledged Tibet as an “integral part of China.” For the foreseeable future, and assuming no radical change in attitude on the part of Beijing, it looks certain, therefore, that Tibetans will continue to face political and cultural subjugation in their own homeland. It is an open question how long this can be sustained before the notion that the Tibetan people might one day be emancipated ceases to have real meaning. It might well have passed already. If this is true, the further question is whether the culture can survive. This is really the question of whether Tibetan Buddhism is able to do so. Here, too, the signs are not all encouraging. The religious impulse among Tibetans in Tibet seems undeniably to be declining as young people concern themselves more with this life than the next. Although the combined population of the Three Seats in exile today is said to equal their historic numbers, with upwards of twenty thousand monks in residence, numbers are down from their peak a decade or so ago, partly a result of the fact that China now prevents easy migration from Tibet, but partly because it is less and less usual for families to send children to the monasteries as a matter of course. A further worry is wh
ether the tradition can again produce individual practitioners of the stature of, for example, the Dalai Lama’s tutors.

  As for the prospects of a full restoration of religion in Tibet under Chinese rule, unquestionably the biggest impediment to this is the tradition’s association with the idea of Tibetan independence. For the Precious Protector, however, the survival of the Buddhadharma in Tibet is more important than nationhood. He clearly hopes that with the Dalai Lama institution decoupled from government, it will cease to be a focal point for nationalism. Whether or not this translates into a less political sangha within Tibet remains to be seen. But there are reasons to be cautiously optimistic for the survival of the tradition on other grounds. The growth of interest in religion generally, and in Buddhism in particular, is one of the most important, if also one of the least documented, features of modern China. We are compelled to rely on anecdotal evidence, but it seems clear that a major revival is under way. To take one example, the mixed-sex monastic settlement at Larung Gar in a remote part of Kham was home, until recently, to around forty thousand monks and nuns living consecrated lives. In 2016 the authorities ordered that this be reduced to just two thousand nuns and fifteen hundred monks (the disparity in numbers being perhaps a reflection of the perception that women religious are less likely to cause trouble than their male counterparts), and demolition of many dwellings began soon after. At the time of writing, the exact status of Larung Gar is unclear. But what is known is that, both at its height and now, approximately half the numbers were, as they remain, made up by ethnic Chinese.

  Religious revivals are one thing of which, historically, the Chinese authorities have been extremely wary. The White Lotus Rebellion, followed by the Taiping Rebellion—both of them inspired by charismatic religious leaders—were important factors in the demise of the Qing dynasty. Given this, the likelihood is that there will continue to be friction between state and sangha in both Tibetan- and Han-dominated territories. Already recognition of new incarnations is technically forbidden, and at the time of writing, there are severe restrictions on the activities of the monasteries generally.

  As for the thought that the present, or a future, Chinese leader might experience a Constantinian-style spiritual conversion (Constantine being the fourth-century Roman Emperor who became a Christian): while intriguing, the reality is that such a turn of events would be unlikely to have much impact. Even Chairman Mao was unable invariably to dictate terms to the Politburo. And while it is not impossible that the party could tolerate a Buddhist premier, what it could not tolerate is any move that threatened its grip on Tibet. It is, therefore, hard to imagine a Chinese president inviting the Dalai Lama even for a short visit to his homeland. That said, there does appear to have been a moment (though later denied) in 2014 when the Dalai Lama and the general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party (and thus paramount leader of China), Xi Xinping, might have met. It is believed by many Tibetans that Xi’s wife is a practicing Buddhist and that he himself is personally sympathetic toward both Buddhism and the Dalai Lama, perhaps on account of the fact that his father was stationed in Tibet during the 1950s. While the Chinese leader was on a visit to Delhi, the Dalai Lama’s office contacted the Chinese embassy to see whether a personal meeting between the two men might arranged. It transpired that Xi was willing. But, allegedly after an intervention by the Indian government, the meeting did not in fact take place. Yet even had it done so, it is difficult to imagine any radical change of policy on China’s part.

  If it is true that China is unlikely to make political concessions with respect to Tibet, the question that must be faced is whether there is any realistic hope for the survival of a distinct Tibetan identity. Of course, dynasties come and go, but so too do whole peoples. The Celts dominated western and central Europe for perhaps a thousand years before the coming of the Romans. The Phoenicians were earlier and lasted longer. The Aztecs are a more recent people that once flourished and have since disappeared. It is not wrong to fear, as the Dalai Lama fears, for the long-term future of the Tibetan people under such a regime as the Chinese have brought into being. There is nevertheless one entity that has shown itself consistently able to endure harassment, persecution, and even genocidal hatred: the human spirit itself. Here we might think of that of the Jewish people, who for so much of their history have been persecuted. If the experience of the Jews, whose endurance has been underpinned by religious faith, is anything to go by, the prospects for survival of the Tibetan people look more secure, especially given leadership by an individual who eschews the ordinary inducements of the world—the fame (which the present Dalai Lama has shown himself entirely willing to give up over the Shugden controversy) and the fortune (there is little doubt the Dalai Lama would be content with nothing more than a room in which to meditate) which are the perennial temptations of those in power. Indeed, the Dalai Lama’s own spirit—his life-force, his character, his resolve in the face of overwhelming odds—shows that where unshakeable faith meets with wholehearted renunciation of self, human beings are capable of surmounting even the most abject circumstances. (This, surely, is the secret of the Dalai Lama’s personal magnetism: the aura that he exudes, at all times and in every circumstance, of an absolute conviction, rooted deep within a tradition that is itself both rich and profound, a conviction that is yet worn lightly and grounded in a generous—and palpable—good-naturedness.)

  The greatest threat to the Tibetan people is thus the same as the threat to the Dalai Lama institution itself: that the onslaught of the contemporary world proves too much for the individual who takes up the present incarnation’s mantle. So intimately connected is the Dalai Lama institution with Tibetan identity that it is impossible to think of this identity surviving long should the Dalai Lama himself (or, less plausibly but, according to the present incarnation, possible, herself) be less than fully rooted in the tradition and less than wholly committed to the role. Already there are signs of weakening within the Karmapa institution. One of the claimants to the title of Karmapa, in defiance of tradition, has married. The other has spoken of his battle with depression. And while the Dalai Lama institution has shown itself capable of enduring wayward behavior, as in the case of the lovelorn Sixth Dalai Lama, and even lack of direction over long periods, such as the century and more that elapsed between the demise of the Seventh and the coming of age of the Great Thirteenth Dalai Lama, it is doubtful it could survive a thoroughgoing apostasy—either of an individual Dalai Lama or of the people themselves.

  And yet, all this being said, even if there are just a few families surviving on the Himalayan plateau in the days and years following the collapse of the present Chinese empire—which, if history is any guide, must surely come—it is almost impossible to imagine them forgetting the One Who Looked Down with Compassion on their forefathers. Remembering this, will they not look for signs and wonders in nature and go searching for his face among the newborn children in their black horsehair tents, those miraculous emblems of human endurance against the wind and the cold and the depredations of ghost and demon, in the harsh uplands of the Land of Snows? This could happen after a lengthy hiatus and seems all the more likely when we consider the myth that is sure to be woven out of the achievements of the present incarnation.

  Consider the extraordinary reversal of ill fortune that the Fourteenth has brought about. When he was followed into exile by eighty thousand destitute refugees, one might have hoped, at best, for their rapid absorption into Indian society while the Dalai Lama himself went on to establish one or more small Buddhist centers either in India or elsewhere. For him to have presided over the establishment of a widely successful, broadly cohesive diaspora that numbers now perhaps a quarter of a million individuals scattered across the world, and besides this to have won for Buddhism in the Tibetan tradition a following numbering in the millions worldwide, is quite astonishing and certainly without parallel in the modern world.*

  Whereas fifty years ago the number of Tibetan Buddhist centers outside
Tibet —the first of them set up by the amiable beer-drinking CIA translator Geshe Wangyal—could be counted on the fingers of one hand, today there are certainly thousands. The present Dalai Lama has also established close links with Buddhist communities outside his own tradition such that his counsel and benediction are frequently sought by monks and nuns from Korea, Vietnam, Taiwan, Mongolia, Thailand, Japan, and even mainland China itself. Absent the leadership of the farmer’s son from Taktser, it is almost impossible to imagine such a state of affairs.

  It is arguably true that the upsurge of interest in Buddhism generally is only partly due to the Dalai Lama, and that it might have occurred anyway, but it seems overwhelmingly unlikely that it would have done so to the extent it has without the tireless work of the Precious Protector. It seems indeed, just as he foresaw, the Buddha’s prophecy that, two and a half millennia after his parinirvana, the teachings would flourish in the land of the red-faced people has been fulfilled, in large part through his own efforts. Beyond this, though, we can consider the contribution by the Dalai Lama to humanity’s growing familiarity with the concept of compassion. It is remarkable that, on the best measure available, the frequency of usage of the word “compassion” during the past half century has increased more than 200 percent in English, while in some European languages (German, for example) the increase has been substantially greater. In a way that was certainly not true half a century ago, compassion is now seen as a cornerstone of health care, as a goal of education, as a precondition of peace, and as of significance to the world of business. It is increasingly accepted that even prisoners merit being shown compassion. It is hard to imagine the preeminent position the virtue of compassion has come to occupy within public discourse without the Dalai Lama’s advocacy. This, too, is a towering achievement that will surely animate his memory within the tradition.