What, though, of his legacy to the world itself? Arguably his most significant contribution has yet to be widely appreciated. For many, if not most, the word “compassion” is synonymous with empathy. If, however, the Dalai Lama’s relationship with Chenresig, Bodhisattva of Compassion, is to be taken seriously, it surely follows that the Precious Protector’s whole life is, in an important sense, an object lesson in the meaning of compassion. And it turns out that, on this view, there is more to being compassionate than is ordinarily supposed.
Considering his life’s work, we see that, for the Dalai Lama, compassion consists first and foremost in generosity—not just generosity in the sense of gift giving, though even in this sense he is generous to a fault. His immediate gift of the prize money that accompanied both the Nobel and the Templeton awards is testimony to this. It should also be mentioned that he has made numerous—often substantial—donations to charities around the world for such causes as disaster relief. All royalties from his many books (over two hundred separate titles in all, several of them million-sellers) are paid directly into one of several charitable foundations that he has caused to be set up. Beyond this, he is also personally generous. He recycles gifts as a matter of course, but has been known to make cash gifts and interest-free loans to family and friends—and not exclusively to Tibetans. When the New Zealand–born Theosophist known throughout Dharamsala affectionately (if also somewhat fearfully) as Auntie Joyce needed full-time care at the end of her life, having for decades volunteered her secretarial service to the government in exile, it was the Dalai Lama who, hearing that she was in want, settled her bills. He is also notoriously generous with his time, often inconveniencing himself by extending both public talks and private audiences in order to answer questions. Yet from a Buddhist perspective, his generosity is made manifest most forcefully and most valuably through his service to the Buddhadharma: the countless talks he has given, the thousands of teachings and initiations he has granted, the tens of thousands of rituals in which he has participated and ordinations he has conferred.
While generosity in this sense of serving others through furthering appreciation and understanding of the Buddhadharma represents the full flowering of the Dalai Lama’s compassion, it is also important to recognize that there are other—indispensable—aspects to his exemplification of the virtue of compassion. If it is right to say that the Precious Protector’s whole life can be seen as living out what it means to be compassionate, we see that it also embraces the virtue of prudence in practical matters. Looking back on his life, we see that it meant, for example, not becoming involved either in the CIA’s operations in Tibet or in the Chushi Gangdruk resistance during the 1950s and 1960s. At the same time, his living out of compassion did not cause him categorically to prohibit their endeavors. Similarly, it has not precluded a certain pragmatism, as, for example, when he acquiesced in India’s request to send Establishment 22 to war in Bangladesh—however much it pained him to do so.
It is also clear from the Dalai Lama’s biography that compassion entails a willingness both to compromise and, where appropriate, to exercise resolve. Giving up the quest for independence for Tibet is an obvious example of a judicious compromise, while his fidelity to Buddhist doctrine is testament to his resolve. The Four Noble Truths are not open to negotiation. Nor are the basic Buddhist insights into the ultimate nature of reality: the doctrines of karma, of dependent origination, of emptiness, and, as a corollary of these, of no-self. But if defending what is a priori may not demand much in the way of effort, there are times when being compassionate entails holding the line in the face of determined opposition. Thus compassion is clearly related to courage. With respect to the Shugden controversy, it would have been easy to make concessions. Instead, the Precious Protector has risked his entire reputation in defending what he judges to be the correct position in regard to the deity—not for his own good, but for the good of all. Less obviously, but just as important, the Dalai Lama also shows, in his dealings with the protectors, that being compassionate means upholding the truth of the supernatural realm. It is not the case, in his view, that Buddhism can be stripped of the supernatural or that the protectors can be dispensed with. The Buddhadharma cannot simply be reduced to ethics and mindfulness meditation, notwithstanding the paramount importance of both right conduct and inner calm. Helping others to see this is, again, part of what it means to be compassionate—even if it is true that the Dalai Lama does not emphasize protector practice among neophyte Buddhists.
When we take seriously the claim that the Precious Protector is the earthly manifestation of Chenresig, we see also that compassion is, in many respects, a conservative virtue. Not that the Dalai Lama himself can be pigeonholed as a conservative. His advocacy of democracy in the political sphere and his ecumenism in the religious sphere make this plain. So too does his consideration of women. The Dalai Lama has been a staunch supporter of the recent introduction of the geshema degree for nuns, even though he has made clear that the tradition is such that women cannot actually be ordained. It is also true that some lighthearted comments about the need for a possibly female future Dalai Lama (not ruled out entirely, although a necessary condition of full Enlightenment is that the individual is male) to be attractive caused disappointment in some areas. Similarly, the Dalai Lama’s encouragement of science as part of the monastic curriculum shows his commitment to the betterment of the world through technology. He has often said that if he had had to choose a career other than monasticism, he would have wanted to be an engineer.
Another vital feature of the Precious Protector’s exposition of compassion is his insistence that it is not pompous. As anyone who has had the privilege of meeting him knows, the ever present smiles and the irrepressible laughter are wholly unforced. One is reminded of Chesterton’s remark about there being “some one thing that was too great for God to show us when he walked upon our earth and I have sometimes fancied that it was his mirth.” In contrast, the Dalai Lama, having plumbed the depths of consciousness through his daily meditation practice, shows no such restraint.
But if there is one thing above all that the Dalai Lama shows, it is that compassion is the fruit of bodhichitta, the determination to work unstintingly for the Enlightenment of all sentient beings—all humans, gods, demigods, animals, hungry ghosts, and denizens of the hell realms. It is this aspiration that finally determines the Dalai Lama’s conduct: his every thought, word, and deed. All his teaching, all his writings, all his public talks, all his media appearances and interviews with journalists, all his charitable works, all the rituals in which he participates, all the divinations he undertakes, all his private prayer and meditation, even all his political endeavors are expressions of this single aim. By teaching and by example, his ultimate goal is to help others understand the way things really are and thus to set them on the path to liberation. It turns out that, in this, his wish to help people overcome ignorance and to cease grasping at the existence of a substantial self, the Dalai Lama is a much more radical figure than is generally supposed. And yet to miss this is to miss the whole point of his ministry. Unlike the Christ who taught selflessness, the Buddha taught self-lessness. The Dalai Lama wants us to understand that, ultimately, there is no self and no other, indeed no Dalai Lama, no Precious Protector, no Tibet—that in the end there is only the magical play of illusion.
Afterword and Acknowledgments
One of the biggest challenges in writing this book was having to confront the yawning gap between the Tibet of historical record and what might be called the Facebook image of Tibet. What strikes us most forcibly about the Tibet of historical record is, echoing the words of Johan Huizinga, the great Dutch historian, writing of the European Middle Ages, the “violent tenor of life” that characterizes it. As we have seen, justice was often summary and, by modern standards, cruel. Offense was easily given and easily taken, meeting all too often with revenge, while grudges might be borne for centuries, given new life every so often by a ferment
of religious belief. Yet the fact is there have always been two Tibets. On the one hand, there is Tibet as it is perceived by the tradition, a tradition expressed in the culture and customs of the people but also grounded in the landscape, the flora and fauna of the roof of the world. On the other, there is Tibet as it is perceived from outside the tradition.
The Tibet that tradition sees is one where, whatever the failings of individual men and women—and none would wish to say that the blinding of Lungshar or the murder of Reting Rinpoché was anything but iniquitous—theirs was a society that nonetheless prized and often practiced compassion. From the perspective of the tradition, the existence of the monasteries and the dedication of the people to their religion is all the proof that is needed, since to practice the Buddhadharma is to be compassionate. With respect to Tibet as it is seen from outside, there is a greater variety of opinion. To some, Tibet before the Chinese takeover of the middle years of the twentieth century was the “wisdom heart of the world,” its emptiness was “sacred space,” its people were “guardians of a storehouse of spiritual treasures” whose religion was an “inner science” while they, as its practitioners, were “exponents of sacred technology.” To others, it was simply and without remainder a “hell on earth” where the masses “groaned under the tyranny of serfdom.”
If, at first sight, the tradition’s view of itself is unjustifiably optimistic, neither of these outside perspectives stands up to scrutiny either. Although doubtless many suffered at the whims of their masters, there is scant evidence that the majority considered their way of life hellish. What came afterwards was more nearly hell. Furthermore, it is clear that the Dalai Lama, the very personification of the Tibetan tradition, was himself intent on the abolition of feudalism from early on. Equally, the historical record shows that the two-dimensional characterization of Tibet as a land of monks meditating in the mystic fastness of the Himalayan Mountains while the laity lived in serene harmony with one another and with nature is completely untenable. Neither extreme serves the cause of the Tibetan people, who, if they are to be served at all, would profit most from a sober analysis of their grievances and sufferings.
Moreover, if we content ourselves with saying that the truth lies somewhere in between, there is a danger of overlooking the way in which both the Tibetan tradition and the Dalai Lama himself radically challenge contemporary society. In a way, we could call this the challenge of the natural world to the scientific world. From the perspective of the tradition, the existence—and willingness to use—not just weapons of mass destruction but weapons that kill indiscriminately seems a disastrous state of affairs. A society that would permit, let alone condone, such a thing must be barbarous in the extreme. Similarly, the fact of what, from the perspective of the tradition, is nothing less than infanticide being practiced on an industrial scale (the millions of abortions carried out annually) seems atrocious beyond imagining, while, at the other end of life, the treatment of the elderly and infirm, abandoned in nursing homes outside the family, seems heartless and ungrateful. And the mechanized slaughter of untold numbers of animals on a daily basis looks obscene. From a contemporary standpoint, these seem normal and rational solutions to the challenges of modern living. Yet against these features of the modern world, the occasional and always to be regretted failings of individuals in the history of Tibet look, from the perspective of the tradition, altogether easier to forgive.
I have to thank a large number of people for their help over the years that this project has been under way. First and foremost, I would like to thank His Holiness the Dalai Lama himself for kindly inviting me to stay at the SOS Tibetan Youth Hostel during December 2014 so that he might be available to answer the great many questions I had for him at the outset of this work. Subsequently, the Dalai Lama generously met with me on several occasions, culminating in a lengthy interview granted on what was supposed to be a day of complete rest in April 2019. This should not be taken to imply that I had the opportunity to clear up every doubt or query, or that this is in any sense an authorized biography. Nevertheless, I can claim to have had well in excess of my fair share of access to the Dalai Lama during the writing and research of this book.
Ippolite Desideri, the eighteenth-century missionary to Tibet, notes that, as a generality, the Tibetans he met with were “kindly, clever, and courteous by nature.” This is certainly true of all those of the Dalai Lama’s compatriots who so generously gave of their time to help me with this project. In particular, I should like to mention and thank Mr. Tendzin Choegyal (Ngari Rinpoché), Yangten Rinpoché, Mrs. Rinchen Khando, Mr. Tenzin Geyche Tethong, Dr. Thupten Jinpa (who read and commented on parts of the manuscript: I was especially gratified that he “really enjoyed” the last chapter), Mrs. Namgyal Taklha, the late Mr. Rinchen Sadutsang, Mrs. Sadutsang, the late Mr. Tsering Gongkatsang, the late Mr. Tsewang Norbu, Professor Samten Karmay, Mr. Paljor Tsarong, Mr. Tenzin Namgyal Tethong, Mr. Jamyang Choegyal Kasho, and, especially, Mr. Tenzin Choepel—each of whom gave invaluable support and generously helped whenever asked.
I also thank Mr. Jeremy Russell for answering questions and pointing the way whenever I asked; Mr. Aniket Mandavagane for his insights from his position as Indian government liaison officer to the Dalai Lama; Dr. Jianglin Li for sharing unpublished material and entering into a lengthy correspondence about the Chinese occupation of Tibet during the 1950s; Mr. Ralf Kramer for many discussions, for sharing his encyclopedic knowledge of sources and where to find them, for his help with obtaining many of the images in this book, and for his work on the bibliography and notes; Dr. George FitzHerbert, in particular for sharing his paper on Tibetan war magic; Professor Ulrike Roesler for several introductions; Professor Mel Goldstein for sharing sources and unpublished material relating to the Dalai Lama’s escape from Lhasa and kindly entering into a lengthy correspondence about these; and Dr. Jan Westerhoff for an illuminating discussion about Indo-Tibetan logic. From within the walls of academia, I am indebted above all to Professor Robbie Barnett for his acute reading of, and corrections to, substantial parts of the text. He saved me from many mistakes.
There are many other people who have, over many years, helped shape my thinking on Tibet’s history and culture, but for more general discussions of a philosophical nature, I wish to thank in particular Mr. Stephen Priest; Dr. Ralph Weir (who was good enough to read and comment on the manuscript); Dr. Samuel Hughes; and Professor Benedikt Goecke. For his theological reading of the manuscript, I thank Mr. Nikolas Prassas.
Despite all this help, I am quite certain that there remain many errors. These I claim as my own.
Finally, for her assistance in sourcing photographs, I thank Ms. Jane Moore, while, for his readiness to share unpublished manuscripts, I am especially indebted to Mr. David Kittlestrom of Wisdom Books. For her unfailing and sorely tested patience, and for her critical acumen, I should like to thank my editor at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, Ms. Deanne Urmy.
For their patience I would also like to thank my wife and my children, Rosie, Edward, and Theo. Finally, I must single out my daughter for the insight expressed in the penultimate sentence of the last chapter.
The Fourteen Dalai Lamas
The First Dalai Lama: Gendun Drub (1391–1474) Posthumously recognized, he was one of the “heart disciples” of Tsongkhapa. Especially esteemed for his writings on the vinaya, he is nonetheless not so highly regarded as his contemporary Khedrup Je, who is associated with the Panchen Lama lineage.
The Second Dalai Lama: Gendun Gyatso (1475–1542) Noted especially for his spiritual songs, he referred to himself as a “mad beggar monk” and became abbot first of Tashilhunpo and then of Drepung Monastery. In terms of spiritual attainment, he is regarded as one of the most accomplished of the Dalai Lamas.
The Third Dalai Lama: Sonam Gyatso (1543–1588) The first Dalai Lama to be recognized in his lifetime but, because he was considered the reincarnation of Gendun Gyatso, who was himself accepted as the reincarnation of Gendun Drup, it followed th
at when Altan Khan bestowed on him the title Dalai Lama, he must in fact be the Third. It is largely thanks to his efforts that Mongolia became a major component of the Gelug establishment.
The Fourth Dalai Lama: Yonten Gyatso (1589–1617) A direct descendant of Genghis Khan, the Fourth is regarded as one of the least successful Dalai Lamas. He never learned to speak Tibetan well, and his spiritual attainments were negligible. According to a story heard by Tsybikov, the Russo-Buryat explorer, he died from poisoning.
The Great Fifth: Nawang Lobsang Gyatso (1617–1682) Unifier of Tibet under the government of the Ganden Phodrang thanks to the patronage of the Mongolian warlord Gushri Khan. An ecumenist who sought to engage each of the different schools within the Tibetan tradition, the Great Fifth was an initiate of many Nyingma practices, a matter of controversy during his lifetime and later. When he died, the event was concealed from the public for almost fifteen years while the Sixth Dalai Lama grew to maturity. It was the Great Fifth who established Nechung as state oracle.
The Sixth Dalai Lama: Tsangyang Gyatso (1683–1706) Refused to take monastic vows and lived as a layman. He is chiefly remembered for his love songs—and for bedding the daughters of most of the aristocratic houses of his day.
The Seventh Dalai Lama: Kelzang Gyatso (1708–1757) Criticized by the Fourteenth Dalai Lama for his narrowly sectarian bias, the Seventh Dalai Lama is nonetheless highly regarded both for his writings and for his spiritual attainments. It was during his reign that a relationship was forged with the Qing emperors.
The Eighth Dalai Lama: Jamphel Gyatso (1758–1804) Although fully ordained, the Eighth Dalai Lama was reluctant to assume temporal power, relying instead on his regent even when he came of age. It was during his reign that Tibet fought, and lost, a disastrous war against the Gorkhas of Nepal.
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