In Exile From the Land of Snows (45 page)

But no matter how bad things were in the countryside, conditions in Tibet’s prisons were far worse. Here, hidden from the outside world, lived a race apart—including at one time or another one out of every ten adult Tibetans.

I
N THE WINTER
of 1959, Dr. Tenzin Choedrak, one of the Dalai Lama’s four personal physicians, lived in Yabshi House, the residence of Tibet’s first family. Having served as the Dalai Lama’s physician for three years,
he had become a close friend of the young ruler’s family, almost half of whom remained in Tibet. The atmosphere at Yabshi House, though, was burdened by anxiety over the growing revolt. In its midst Dr. Choedrak remained undecided on what role he should play—unsure whether the Chinese would help Tibet and then leave, as they said, or whether the congenial facets of their occupation were a facade designed to conceal some unspecified but inevitably harsher form of domination. Finally, when Khampa refugees poured into U-Tsang with stories of atrocities and forced collectivization, he resolved to support the revolt. During the March 10 demonstrations, he met with colleagues from Mendzekhang and representatives of all the major religious institutions in the Norbulingka. There he put his name to a document (later valuable to the Chinese in making arrests) which, declaring Tibet independent, swore its signatories to fight for freedom.

Late on the night of March 19, 1959, Tenzin Choedrak woke to the sound of artillery as the PLA bombardment of Lhasa began. Yabshi House was less than a quarter of a mile away from the Potala and directly in line with incoming rounds from Drib, a village on the far side of the Kyichu. Donning a layman’s
chuba
and pants, he retreated from his room near the front gate to the main house, where no one knew that the Dalai Lama himself had already fled.

On the afternoon of March 22, the day Lhasa capitulated, Chinese troops arrived at the compound. Without warning they fired a field gun, destroying the gate that led to the main house and called for those within to surrender. Four of the sixteen people in the house decided to walk out to meet them. As they stepped through the front door, they were killed by machine-gun fire—having neglected to raise their hands. Soldiers armed with machine guns then stormed the building. While some guarded the remaining Tibetans, the rest ran through the house, shooting at each storage trunk, closet, cupboard and bed, throwing grenades into the toilets and finally emerging to riddle the outhouses with bullets. Families who rented apartments in the Yabshi compound, thirty people in all, were brought to the main house and locked in a windowless room without light on the first floor. The following morning they were permitted to relieve themselves, and were then locked in once more. That evening, a Chinese officer informed the group through a translator that they had been selected for “studies,” an expression all believed to be a euphemism for execution. With two soldiers before and behind, they were marched through the compound’s demolished gate and down the empty road leading to the edge of the city. Here they were deposited in a small room in Tsarong House, the private home of one of Tibet’s great popular leaders, Wangchuk
Gyalpo Tsarong, which had been requisitioned by the PLA as a collection point for prisoners. Dr. Choedrak stayed there for two days, incarcerated with other prisoners in the room once lived in by Heinrich Harrer. During this time, he received no food or water. More than once he heard bursts of machine-gun fire mowing down those who tried to escape. As his second night began, his group was summoned and marched in a new detail to PLA headquarters. There, he was brought to a maximum-security prison, originally built by the Chinese to hold their own people: two stockades surmounted by barbed wire, the outer corners of which were capped with guard towers manned by sentries. Each quad housed 350 prisoners, in 12 30-man cells facing the central courtyard; the northeast quad contained additional isolation cells.

Relieved of their watches and jewelry, the Tibetans were manacled—some merely in handcuffs, others, like Dr. Choedrak, in foot-and-a-half-long leg irons. The irons were so cumbersome that Dr. Choedrak had to untie the cloth laces of his boots and loop them around the bar, lifting it each time he took a step.

Unprepared for the inundation of prisoners following the revolt, the PLA took six days to classify Dr. Choedrak’s group (with subsequent detainees this classification was performed immediately). Members of the upper classes—lamas, physicians, government workers and traders—were kept in the maximum security prison, the others were sent to the Norbulingka. Those who remained soon realized they had been singled out as prize prisoners, the core of the alleged “reactionary clique.” Once informed that the “local government” had been dissolved, they were told that, as its chief “running dogs,” criminal charges would be preferred against them. It was then announced that the first duty of every prisoner was to “study” so as to acknowledge his crimes. The initial question asked was: “Who fed you?” The correct answer: “The people—whom I exploited.” To reveal his “crimes,” each prisoner was compelled to dictate an autobiography from the age of eight—a process that lasted a month. Thereafter, seven months of study, self-criticism and
thamzing
followed—their goal to elicit a confession of crimes and a sincere adoption of Communist ideology.

In essence, the procedures mirrored those imposed on the population at large. In prison, however, they were conducted with far greater rigor. Dr. Choedrak’s case was, moreover, exacerbated by two incidents. One morning while washing his face in the prison lavatory, he found himself next to a fellow physician from Mendzekhang. Though guards stood all around, he seized the chance to relate a piece of news he had just heard.
It was May, and the Dalai Lama’s arrival in Mussoorie had been reported in a Chinese newspaper seen by some prisoners. “There’s no need to worry now,” Tenzin Choedrak whispered to the doctor. “Gyalwa Rinpoché—the Precious King—is safe in India. Soon the truth will come out.” Under the pressure of
thamzing
, the man reported the comment to the Chinese. Meanwhile, as struggle sessions got underway in his own cell, Dr. Choedrak proceeded to make an even more serious mistake. Three of the five friends with whom he had exchanged anti-Chinese sentiments in the past were in the prison. Observing how the smallest incident was elevated into a crime, he wrote to warn the men to avoid mentioning their conversations. Though he delivered the notes undetected all three were later caught and under pressure identified Dr. Choedrak as the writer. Following this discovery he was immediately put on trial, accused of being an accomplice of Gyalo Thondup, who, according to the Chinese, had masterminded the revolt, on the behest of Taiwan.

The trial began early in June. An officer, accompanied by two adjutants carrying pistols, entered Tenzin Choedrak’s cell, leaving a sentry armed with an assault rifle just outside the door. The officer motioned his assistants to one side and ordered Dr. Choedrak to sit in the middle of the room, surrounded by his fellow prisoners.

The few episodes of
thamzing
already witnessed by Tenzin Choedrak had been gruesome. They included an interrogation device peculiar to the Communists, which was worse than that used by the Kuomintang during its occupation of eastern Kham. The Nationalists had merely tied a prisoner’s hands behind his back and then to a rope around his neck. The new technique was considerably more complex. The rope was first laid across the front of the prisoner’s chest and then spiraled down each arm. The wrists were then tied together and pulled backwards over the man’s head. Next the rope-ends were drawn under either armpit, threaded through the loop on the chest and pulled abruptly down. Immediately the shoulders turned in their sockets, wrenching the prisoner in a grisly contortion without, though, strangling him. The pain from this torture was so great that a man would invariably lose control of his bowels and bladder.

Dr. Choedrak’s trial began with questioning. He was asked about his life in Choday Gonpa, the monastery he had lived in before attending medical school. He replied matter-of-factly that he had studied religion. “What were your thoughts though? You must have had bourgeois tendencies?” the officer asked. Not comprehending precisely what a “bourgeois tendency” was, Dr. Choedrak was unable to respond. As the questioning progressed, however, his silence turned into willful intransigence. The
Chinese, he realized, had singled him out for a specific purpose: to defame the Dalai Lama’s character. To avoid
thamzing
, the officer informed him, he would have to detail every element of the “Dalai’s plots”—the comings and goings at Yabshi House, what foreigners Gyalo Thondup was in contact with and the exact nature of their discussions. Furthermore, he continued, though the Dalai Lama posed as a religious man, it would have been apparent to Dr. Choedrak, of all people, that, in reality, he was a thief and a murderer who also had affairs with women—in particular, his own eldest sister, Tsering Dolma. Expected to verify the accusations, Tenzin Choedrak continually replied that, as medical officer to the Tibetan leader, he saw the Dalai Lama only briefly each day at dawn to read his pulse. “To denounce His Holiness with these lies was unthinkable,” the doctor explained. “For us Tibetans he is like our parents, our very own heart. Who could say such things?”

Nonetheless three prisoners in Dr. Choedrak’s group chose—after receiving
thamzing
—to support the Chinese. Becoming “activists,” they turned on the others and were rewarded by removal from the cell. If found to be lenient during subsequent struggle sessions, they were pointedly asked: “Are you breathing from the same mouth as this man? Are you wearing the same pants?”: questions sufficient to keep them in the forefront of the attacks. Thus, Dr. Choedrak knew his time for
thamzing
had come when, after a few more days of interrogation, the PLA commander singled out the activists one morning for praise: “You have been doing very well, it’s commendable.” he said. “But today we must get to the bottom of this reactionary nest. You should question Tenzin Choedrak very closely. You must find the truth.” Shortly after the day’s questioning began, the officer stared at the activists, whereupon one stood up and said, “If you continue to lie like this, it will only lead in one direction, the dark way. So for your own sake, you’d better tell us everything you know.” As he spoke the others grabbed Dr. Choedrak, and tied his arms across a long board in a variation of the method that had previously been used. Trailing the rope off either end they pulled Tenzin Choedrak’s arms tight while his questioner demanded in a shrieking tone that he denounce the Dalai Lama for having committed incest with his sister. When Dr. Choedrak refused, the man took off one of his shoes and started beating him across the face. This was the signal for the other cellmates to join in—which, under the careful scrutiny of the guards, they did—pulling the doctor’s hair and ears, spitting in his face and pummeling his head. The pain in his arms was so great that Dr. Choedrak began to scream but only when his legs gave way and he collapsed did
the officer call a halt. After a short rest, the beating began again, repeating the pattern throughout the morning. Finally, completely numb, his face and body bleeding, swollen and covered with black welts, Tenzin Choedrak heard the officer conclude the session. It had lasted four hours. Once he was untied, placed back in handcuffs and leg irons, the Chinese officer spoke directly to Dr. Choedrak. “If you reveal the truth and admit what the Dalai Lama has done, your future will be bright. This need never happen again. You will be released,” he said. “Now remember what your friends have asked you today and think it over well.” With that, Dr. Choedrak was removed from the cell and taken to the prison’s northeast quad where he was thrown into isolation.

When he recovered, Dr. Choedrak found himself in a dark room, four by eight feet, with a small, barred window, high in one wall, and a six-inch-square hole for receiving food. On the mud floor lay a straw mat, a discarded PLA overcoat and a bucket for relieving himself. He had been in prison for two and a half months. He was to spend the next four in isolation—the remainder of the summer of 1959. Throughout, an inviolable routine governed his existence. In the morning, kitchen workers opened the hatch by the door and as best he could, in irons and cuffs, he got to his feet, stuck his bowl out and received a small steamed bun together with some rice and a vegetable. After eating, he was required to sit on the mat and think over his crimes for the entire day. He could not lie down or rest, as periodically, the door of the food portal would snap back and the eyes of a Chinese guard appear, making sure that he was visibly pondering. His only relief was a brief glimpse of sky and breath of air on the evening walk to the toilet. In reality, Dr. Choedrak’s thoughts were confused and depressed. After the pain of the beating wore off, he fell into a stupor, staring for hours at a time at the stone walls, convinced that he would soon be executed. He imagined the rows upon rows of people on either side of him, all locked in the dark, waiting to die. At night his dreams were a chaotic mix of memories: his childhood, medical studies and practice blended with scenes from his arrest, prison life and the beating. When he woke, he found his only hope in wishing for death. Suicide, though, even if he had devised a method, was ruled out. A monk from Namgyal Monastery had killed himself by jumping into the Kyichu River when the prisoners had been taken out to bathe. But this was an exception. Like most Tibetans Dr. Choedrak dreaded the results of suicide even more than present suffering, no matter how great it became. As he said, “With so many life forms in this world and so few people, it is extremely hard to be born as a human being. So if you destroy this precious human life, we believe it is very
sinful. It is like having a sack of gold and without utilizing it, just throwing it into the river. According to Buddhist teachings, if you do commit suicide, you will have no hope of being reborn in a human existence for at least five hundred lives.”