Tibetan Foothold (12 page)

Tonight we heard the President’s United Nations’ Day speech to the nation – a truly inspiring effort, free of the usual platitudes. I’ve always known of Dr Radhakrishnan as a most remarkable man, though I’ve never read anything of his, and this speech revealed a most delightful personality as well as a brilliant brain.

Now autumn has really come, though not in our blazing way. Going for my swim this afternoon I noticed that many mosses and ferns have turned to golden brown, a few yellowed leaves are being shed and a magnificent crimson creeper is flowing through the branches from tree to tree. Himalayan orchids – the only one of the variegated wild flowers that I can recognise – are still flowering, but otherwise there is the familiar sense of nature relaxing and growth ceasing. There are more of the small snakes, of which I had seen only one before, and
birds are also more numerous. Superb eagles are following the flocks down from the heights, and this afternoon two of them were visible below me as I walked along the high path to the pool. They went sailing easily along the course of the river, all grace and effortless power. The goat, sheep, kid and lamb traffic was dense on this hitherto deserted path, and once I had to wait, before crossing an insecure moraine, to allow hundreds of the creatures to pass first. When I reached the pool and plunged in the water was so icy that for a few moments I couldn’t breathe: yet on emerging after about ten minutes I found the air-temperature adequately warm and even today my hands didn’t turn blue, as they so often do at home after swimming in water far less cold than this.

Early yesterday morning Oliver and I took a meningitis case down to the Civil Hospital in Lower Dharamsala. For such purposes the camp has the use of a station-wagon, presented to His Holiness by one of the Canadian charities, and as we were being driven slowly down the winding road we saw three young hill-men walking through the trees. One of them had his head roughly swathed in a blood-soaked bandage and was being half carried by the others, so we stopped to take them on. The injured man sat in the front, his companions got in behind, and as we continued towards the hospital we achieved a complicated feat of multi-translation. One of the hill-men told our Tibetan driver, who speaks Hindi but no English, what had happened. Then the driver told a fellow-Tibetan, who speaks a little English but no Hindi, and finally, through him, Oliver and I heard the sad story.

At dusk on the previous evening the injured man had been attacked by a bear while collecting firewood at the edge of the forest some quarter of a mile from the camp. After being violently knocked down he at once picked himself up and attempted to run away – but this further enraged the bear, which promptly levelled him again, severely mauling his face, neck and head. (Seemingly bears always go for the jugular vein.) Luckily the poor chap lost consciousness at this stage and the bear, presuming him dead, made off. Soon after, he came to and dragged himself home, where his wife bathed and bandaged the appalling gashes. But it was then too late to begin the long walk to the
hospital, so the patient spent a night of agony before setting out at dawn with his friends’ assistance. One is repeatedly astounded by the powers of endurance of these frail-looking peasants. Today we heard that the patient is making good progress, though without plastic surgery he will remain dreadfully disfigured for life.

For the past week a European family – father, mother and three children – has been living in the Dak-bungalow in Lower Dharamsala and visiting the camp daily. One of their children is Lhamo, a Tibetan girl who was ‘adopted by post’ and sent from Dharamsala to their home in the south of India three years ago. She is now aged five and their own children are aged six and four. Curiously enough Lhamo is the first sulky, unfriendly Tiblet I’ve ever met, though the family background to which she was transferred couldn’t be better – a happy young couple, deeply interested in and sympathetic towards Tibet in a remarkably balanced way, children who are genuinely fond of their adopted sister and a Tibetan ayah, strict but kind, who is supposed to keep Lhamo in touch with her own religion, language and culture. Everything here favours successful integration in a Western family, yet so far the experiment seems to be a failure and the parents are now considering the adoption of another Tiblet (our Sonam Nobo?) to see if this might help sort Lhamo out. The family plan to stay here for three weeks to give the child a chance to
feel
Tibetan, but obviously the whole thing is a devastating muddle from her point of view. However, some slight advances have been made this past week, during which she has spent all day with the other Tiblets. One of Lhamo’s ‘things’ concerns language; at home she stubbornly refuses to speak Tibetan though her ayah has ensured that she can understand it. But here, when the family firmly abandon her on the compound each morning, she must speak her own language if she wishes to utter again before evening; and I notice that she is gaining in fluency each day, as she prays, eats and plays with the rest. (Her mother shows a rare lack of fussiness in permitting her to partake of camp food: very few Westerners would encourage this degree of re-integration.) In other respects too – less self-importance and more laughter – this policy of amalgamation is paying dividends. Incidentally, it’s interesting to
observe how unquestioningly the other Tiblets have accepted the return to the fold of a comrade who has so obviously attained a privileged position from the material point of view.

Before breakfast today a message came from the Palace summoning me to that formal audience which His Holiness grants to all those who work with Tibetans. Inevitably, I spent the rest of the morning looking forward to meeting the man who represents that aspect of Tibetan life which most attracts, repels or bewilders foreigners.

The majority of Tibetans do not themselves understand why the Dalai Lama means what he does to them, yet their feeling for him is their strongest corporate emotion; he is more revered than was ever the greatest saint in Christendom and more loved and deferred to than the greatest king. This relationship between the man and his people, which has little to do with the personality of the individual Dalai Lama, is a singular development of certain Mahayana Buddhist beliefs and Tibetans never think of His Holiness as a mere man.

It is an absurd over-simplification to refer to the Dalai Lama as Tibet’s ‘god-king’ and the popularity of this term reveals our necessarily limited understanding of Eastern philosophy. Within Tibet itself the equally limited understanding of the peasants has had much the same effect; by them His Holiness is regarded as being, personally, a god in the simplest sense of the word. But few things are simple in Buddhism, and the educated Tibetan interprets his ruler’s position very differently, regarding him as a vessel which contains the Spirit of Chenrezig, a being who out of compassion for all living things has waived his right to Nirvana and remains on earth, through repeated incarnations, to help the less fortunate attain a spiritual state which will make them also worthy of Nirvana.

It would be very pleasant if one could accept this straightforward and
touching account of the Dalai Lama’s function and forget the endless political intrigues which simmered, bubbled, and occasionally boiled over as a result of the unique method of choosing a new Dalai Lama. Before the Communist invasion Tibet was a peaceful country where an exceptionally likeable people lived frugally yet contentedly: but the facts compel us to admit that this was despite, rather than because of, the peculiar status of its ruler.

In 1640 Ngawang Lobsang Gyatso became the first Dalai Lama to assume both spiritual and temporal power over the whole of Tibet. During his lifetime the building of the Potala was begun, and one of his government ministers, Senge Gyatso, concealed his death for some years in order to complete the building of the Palace, and then chose his successor. This choice proved unfortunate, since the sixth Dalai Lama was the Tibetan Borgia: in between love affairs he wrote what is almost the only romantic poetry in the language, instead of applying himself to a study of the scriptures. After he had been slain by the Mongols no effective ruler succeeded until the late nineteenth century. Then Thupten Gyatso, the Thirteenth Dalai Lama, reached his majority and this great man reigned wisely until 1933, restoring his country’s
de
facto
independence.

Only the most pig-headed idealist could ignore the consequences of the Tibetan system of seeking out a child, bringing him to the Potala and having him grow up there under the exclusive guidance of a Regency Council who may justly, if not reverently, be referred to as the ruling clique. Human nature is human nature, even in Tibet, and the political opportunities offered by such a system were frequently found irresistible; this is proved by the mysterious deaths – between 1805 and 1874 – of four young Dalai Lamas as they were about to assume power.

Even when the Dalai Lama survives this dangerous stage the extent of his actual power remains questionable since so much depends on the calibre of his mentors and on their training of the young man who, at eighteen, becomes – at least theoretically – such a power in the land.

If he sincerely believes in himself as the vehicle of the Spirit of Chenrezig it is beyond our imagination to grasp the effect of this belief on a Dalai Lama’s mind and emotions. But if he does not entirely believe in
himself the suspicion that he is being used to perpetrate a colossal hoax must have a profoundly horrible influence. It is unlikely, however, that many Dalai Lamas have doubted their function; to argue otherwise is to imply that one of the world’s greatest religions is no more than a cynical conspiracy. As they grew to maturity these men were securely
surrounded
by the customs and rituals of a purely Lamaist environment and, though we tend to confuse the ignoring with the rejecting of religious principles, it is obvious that genuine faith co-existed with corruption and power-grabbing in the court – as it did in the Renaissance Papal Courts. However, one doubts if any Dalai Lama, suddenly confronted by the sceptical, analytical twentieth century, could retain his conventional faith in his own status. Essentially he might well remain a truly devout Buddhist, but he is bound to experience
considerable
conflict on the issue of his personal position. And this, it seems, is exactly what has happened to the Fourteenth Dalai Lama.

Recently His Holiness helped to draft the new Tibetan Constitution with its revolutionary clause naming him as ‘The Chief Executive of the Government and the Religious Leader of the Tibetan People … subject to the deprivation of his powers in the highest interest of the State’. This clause can only be interpreted to mean that the Tibetans must no longer look upon the Dalai Lama as an incarnation of Chenrezig, since no human authority could deprive a Bodhisattva of his powers. Among the ordinary refugees the promulgation of the Constitution caused horror and grief and it was repudiated by them as being totally unacceptable. Then the tragic irony of the whole situation became apparent, for the Constitution also guarantees democracy based on the tenets of Buddhism – and the first result of ‘democracy’, if it were in fact operating among the Tibetans, would be a vigorous denial of the State’s right to interfere with the absolute power of the Dalai Lama. As Miss Loïs Lang-Sims has written: ‘… this is but one aspect of the total
impasse
in which the Tibetan community now finds itself.’

At 2 p.m. His Holiness’s car arrived to bring me to the Palace – a courtesy term used to describe the big British-built bungalow where the Tibetan ruler has lived since 1960. A strong guard of the Punjab Armed Police is on duty here night and day, patrolling the grounds and
environs and checking the credentials of every visitor. It was 2.25 by the time my passport had been dealt with, innumerable forms filled in, a phone call made to the Palace to ensure that someone of my name really was expected and the various sentries satisfied. Then, punctually at 2.30, Mr Sonam – His Holiness’s chief interpreter – conducted me into the presence of the Dalai Lama.

Where someone of His Holiness’s stature is concerned there are probably as many different versions of the man as there are people who meet him; unavoidably one has one’s instinctive personal reactions. One also has certain preconceptions and it would be untrue to say that I met the Dalai Lama with an open mind; all my conversations with those who knew him had led me to expect an outstanding individual – not necessarily likeable, but certainly a Personality. Instead I found myself talking to a simple, pleasant young man, who has the gracious manner and lively humour of the average Tibetan but who failed to impress me by any unusual qualities – apart from a total lack of egotism, which by our standards is remarkable enough in the circumstances.

On meeting some High Lamas one spontaneously recognises them as deeply religious men, yet with the Dalai Lama I had no awareness of being in the presence of an ascetic whose life is centred on things spiritual. This is not to imply that His Holiness’s life is otherwise centred; it may merely be that he is as yet too immature to convey such a feeling to others.

However, half an hour’s conversation convinced me that here was a ruler whose chief concern would always be the welfare of his people – though unfortunately he showed no sign of an intellectual ability equal to the enormous task of solving their present problems. But I was also becoming increasingly aware of a certain tension in the atmosphere. I felt that the Dalai Lama was constantly on his guard, that he was unsure of himself in dealing with foreigners and that he was continually attempting to gauge my reactions to him. One can only pity the vulnerability of this sensitive young man, who is so often exposed to the relentless scrutiny of a world either politely sceptical or impatiently contemptuous of the values which he represents.

The weather today made me feel quite homesick. This morning the sky was overcast and dark, with a late autumn stillness and a chilliness in the air. Then, after lunch, the rain started and it’s been a brute of a day ever since – icy gale winds are blowing sheets of sleet across the
compound
at the moment. Obviously these conditions greatly increase the sufferings of undernourished children, and it’s heartbreaking to see the Tiblets all purple and shivering as they snuggle up to you for warmth. They still go barefooted and are wearing the same wretched scraps of clothing given them during the summer. Their bedding too is
hopelessly
inadequate, despite the announcement recently made by Mr Jamieson (Director of Operations at the UN High Commission for Refugees at Geneva) that if all the relief supplies sent to India had been distributed there should now be one and a half blankets available for every Tibetan refugee.

We’re going to have an interesting, but I should think exhausting, weekend, as a staggering number of visitors are expected tomorrow; viz. the Menteths from Simla, with Jenny Westropp, an English SCF nurse who also works there; Mr and Mrs Burke, SCF representatives from Canada; Sigrid Arnd, representing the Swiss Tibetan Homesteads; Mrs Freda Bedi, who runs the Young Lama School at Dalhousie; Mr Peters, head of the Indian YMCA and M. and Mme Neufe, from Switzerland. M. Neufe is head of the YMCA World Organisation for Refugees and is therefore the chief VIP of the lot, as the YMCA has, to date, done more than anyone else for this camp. That makes a total of ten VIPs and the odd thing is that their simultaneous arrival here is a coincidence. However, from the camp authorities’ point of view it’s a convenient coincidence; those ‘improvements’ in the children’s
conditions
which are habitually faked to impress VIPs need not now be repeated too often. The present hustle to smarten things up all over the camp would be amusing if it were not enraging. It’s a pity that VIPs are too ‘I’ to arrive unannounced and see for themselves the true state of things, before going home to write their reports.

Mrs Tsiring Dolma is becoming more and more difficult to deal with. Last week I had a flaming row with her when she most unjustly attacked Doris and Jill in my presence, and today it was SCF’s turn to struggle with her incomprehensible attitudes.

The Menteths and Jenny are to take nine of our most delicate children to fill vacant places at Stirling Castle, and it so happens that among these is a very weakly eight-year-old orphan boy, nicknamed ‘the doctor’s friend’. (He and Oliver are as attached as Cama Yishy and I.) One of the camp rules is that no orphan may be transferred elsewhere and one of SCF’s rules is that no child over the age of five may be admitted to their Simla Homes; but naturally when Oliver explained that Tsiring Thondup’s chances of survival would be increased by a removal to Simla the Menteths agreed to make an exception to their rule and the next step was to obtain a similar concession from Mrs Tsiring Dolma. Then the fun started. The Menteths, Juliet, Jenny, Oliver, Mrs Tsiring Dolma, Mr Phalla, an interpreter and myself sat together in our little room for over an hour having what began as a discussion and ended as a verbal free fight. Mrs Tsiring Dolma made outrageous accusations against SCF but the Menteths showed superhuman restraint by not losing their tempers and doggedly attempted to keep the conversation on a reasonable level for Tsiring Thondup’s sake. One could hardly describe us as ‘arguing’ since there was really no basis for argument; Mrs Tsiring Dolma simply repeated at regular intervals ‘There is a rule that no orphan can leave the camp and we cannot break our own rules.’ I asked three times whether the rules or the children were of prime importance but that tiresome question was ignored. In the end Mrs Tsiring Dolma won the unfair contest; she has absolute control over the children here and the issue had never really been in doubt. When she left poor Oliver was nearly in tears, Stuart was swearing like a trooper, Pauline looked exhausted and for the first time I saw Juliet’s composure show signs of cracking.

The most obvious explanation of this incident is also the most uncharitable one, but knowing Mrs Tsiring Dolma as we now do it
must be considered as a possibility. Undoubtedly she has compensated herself for the loss of the nationwide power she enjoyed in Tibet by asserting her authority here beyond all reasonable limits and as she clearly resents higher standards of living being provided for Tiblets elsewhere our argument today that Tsiring Thondup would be more likely to survive in Simla must have infuriated her.

This whole incident illustrates some of the typical hazards met with in the world of Tibetan officialdom. One can’t help feeling on occasions that there must be powerful motives, of which we are completely ignorant, behind certain baffling and apparently stupid Tibetan attitudes. Actually we know too little about these people even to begin to
understand
why they act and speak as they do. In the present case there could be alternative (or complementary) reasons to the one already suggested as an explanation of Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s unco-operativeness. For instance, Tsiring Thondup may be an Incarnate Lama (it’s strongly rumoured that some of our children are) or there could be other grounds, more convincing than his orphan state but unimaginable to us, why he should not be moved to Simla. But the Tibetans, maintaining their traditional xenophobic policy, are always reluctant to clarify these situations. This is especially regrettable when so many of us are anxious to be given the opportunity to understand and would be willing, where possible, to adjust our demands to their outlook.