Tibetan Foothold (13 page)

Another hazard, highlighted during this afternoon’s performance, is the problem of communication. The Palace interpreters are just as fluent as native English speakers, but one often senses that they are being slightly selective in their translations – particularly if home-truths are emanating from one or both sides. Personally I don’t blame them for this; if I were constantly in Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s company I’d be very careful indeed not to translate anything that might worsen her temper during the next twenty-four hours. And if they tone down some of her remarks I’m sure their motives are the best; they must be even more conscious than we are of her ‘difficultness’ and, being intelligent,
kindhearted
girls, they obviously don’t wish to see bad being made worse. However, none of this helps us to cope with the complexities of communication, which reflect not only the vast difference between two
languages, but between two modes of thought and standards of behaviour. Because national characteristics influence language there is room for misunderstanding – often absurd and occasionally tragic – even in conversation with Tibetans who speak English or German fluently.

This morning the weather paid its best respects to our invasion of VIPs and we enjoyed a crisp, sunny day after the storm. I noticed that one of the ‘improvements’ for the visitors’ benefit consists in the removal from their posts of our juvenile sentries. One evening, about a month ago, I registered the fact that for the past few days pairs of the older Tiblets had been sitting continuously at each of the three paths leading into the Lower Nursery – and the odd thing was that even at meal-times they remained ‘in situ’ and had their food brought to them. My enquiries about this curious phenomenon were met with embarrassed evasions: but of course we soon learned that Mrs Tsiring Dolma had instituted a system whereby throughout the entire nursery pairs of children were on guard at each approach during all the daylight hours, so that she might receive immediate warning if anyone entered the camp without her permission. Even when the bad weather came the unfortunate children remained – characteristically – true to their post and today was the first occasion on which the watch was relaxed.

Today Lhamo and her adoptive family left Dharamsala – in a sadly frustrated condition. Last week they decided, after considerable thought, to attempt to adopt Sonam Nobo (now renamed Tenzing Chockla by the Lamas) – not simply to provide Lhamo with a little Tibetan brother but also because they had, after a fortnight’s acquaintance, fallen
hopelessly
in love with the infant. Their intention was to care for and educate him, without separating him from Dubkay, whom they were also willing to ‘adopt’ and train as their chauffeur-cum-gardener. Everyone was agreed that for the sakes of all concerned this would be an excellent plan, and Dubkay, who has always been obsessively interested in cars, was thrilled to think that soon he might be learning how to drive and maintain one of these magic chariots.

However, in this set-up it’s one thing to seek permission for such a scheme and another thing to get it. Lhamo’s family are soon returning to Europe and ‘there is a rule’ that for the future no more Tiblets may be adopted by Western families. So that was that.

When the scheme was first discussed and I heard Dubkay approve, but say that the decision was Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s rather than his, my Western hackles rose instantly. Here was a man of thirty-one (my own age!) being offered a never-to-be repeated chance of advancement for himself and his son, yet not being free to accept it. In spite of personal misgivings about dispersing the Tibetan community and settling children in the West my immediate reaction was a standard European upsurge of fury and indignation; everything that matters most to us is outraged by such a curtailment of liberty.

It is very difficult to think objectively on a subject like this, but we must beware of using the wrong yardstick. When Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s decision was announced our bloods boiled in unison, yet Dubkay appeared to be completely unperturbed. Yes, he would have liked to take advantage of this generous offer – but only if those in authority approved. He is not a subtle or reserved man and if he had felt any resentment at being thwarted I doubt if he could have concealed it and simulated that cheerful unconcern with which he greeted the verdict. To us such an incident is symptomatic of a monstrous serfdom, to Dubkay it is merely an occasion for showing a natural dependence on the superior wisdom of one’s rulers. And though we would not
consider
the bargain a good one he has, in exchange for his personal liberty, a carefree existence on which no problems intrude because what might create them is always someone else’s responsibility. Also, in fairness to the Tibetan Government, we should remember that similar restrictions limit the freedom of movement of Indian nationals, though theoretically India is a fully-fledged modern democracy.

The wisdom of the decision made in this case is obviously debatable. On the one hand Lhamo’s adoption has not been very successful so far and the same goes for other Tiblets adopted by Western families. Therefore, since the preservation of Tibetan culture can be best served by keeping the refugees united and since Dubkay is already congenially –
if not very constructively – employed among his own people, it seems that the decision is justified.

On the other hand this could be considered as one of those exceptional cases where general principles are not the best guide. The family concerned are themselves exceptional in the extent of their understanding sympathy for the Tibetans. They would certainly encourage Sonam Nobo eventually to return to his own people as a doctor or teacher – and in this Dubkay, from what I know of him, would fully support them. Admittedly such a plan is always experimental, and for its success depends almost entirely on the character of the child. But it could be argued that the gamble is worthwhile when the prize might be another trained Tibetan to work among the next generation of refugees, wherever they may then be settled.

Yesterday evening Lhamo’s family invited us all down to a farewell dinner in the Dak-bungalow. This was a rather sad occasion, for during their three weeks here these people became very much part of the camp, and their kindness and gaiety considerably brightened our lives. After dinner we went to the local cinema where I saw my first – and I sincerely hope my last – Hindi film. It was supposed to be superb, one of the best ever, but to me it seemed too boring for description. And it lasted for hours. Oliver very sensibly went to sleep after fifteen minutes, was wakened at the interval and returned to sleep immediately on resumption of play. Juliet, who likes everything Indian, enjoyed it thoroughly; I planned a new article and our host and hostess hunted fleas, of which there were an inordinate number in the immediate vicinity. By the time we were released at 11 p.m. it had become bitterly cold and the sky was ablaze with a frosty glitter of stars.

A few days ago we had another unpleasant altercation with Mrs Tsiring Dolma. This time Oliver was chiefly involved: it seems criminally preposterous that a doctor’s advice should be ignored unless it happens to coincide with the personal whims of a lay-person.

On the morning of the 7th Oliver said that Dowa, one of the cobblers from the Upper Nursery, must go to Ludhiana Hospital for immediate cancer tests – but of course the poor man couldn’t leave the camp
without Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s permission, and this was refused. Oliver then wrote to her at the Palace, pointing out the extreme urgency of the case, but a verbal reply came back saying, ‘This man may not leave the camp on any account!’ No reason for refusing permission was even hinted at this time and we quite missed the familiar phrase ‘there is a rule …’ But here again one surmises some strong unknown motive operating beneath the surface – though when we are so consistently excluded from ‘what goes on’ it becomes increasingly difficult to make allowances of this sort. However, political factors could be concerned here; rumours are frequent about the presence of Communist
sympathisers
among the adults in this camp and if Dowa was a suspect neither the Tibetan nor Indian authorities would wish to have him at liberty in Ludhiana. (The Indians are understandably very alert to the dangers of Chinese spies masquerading as Tibetan refugees; quite a few cases have already been proved, and in consequence the movements of Tibetans in India are closely watched.)

On receiving this verbal reply to his letter Oliver’s next step was to seek a personal interview with Mrs Tsiring Dolma: but this only made the whole thing look more sinister. Dowa himself was at the interview and was made to say (or the interpreter was made to say that he had said … ) that he didn’t wish to leave the camp and knew he was free to go if he wanted to. At this stage in a Tibetan intrigue I usually find myself being disarmed by the sheer naïvety of the manoeuvres. Only a very unsophisticated opponent could hope to deceive us by such a move, for on the previous day Dowa’s eagerness to go to hospital had been quite pathetic.

After this
débâcle
Oliver returned to the Dispensary in an
understandably
filthy temper and announced that he was going to write another, more vehement letter on the subject – in fact he declared that he would make it ‘a rude and strong letter’. But this is easier said than done for someone like Oliver; he is temperamentally incapable of being rude, whatever the provocation, and the letter which he showed me after supper was firm but polite. I hinted that his courtly polish might perhaps be wasted on the recipient and poor Oliver looked very worried and said, ‘You think it is not rude enough?’ ‘No,’ I replied, ‘it’s not
nearly rude enough – but if I may make a few emendations …?’ To this Oliver somewhat nervously agreed and I saw him flinch when the ‘emendations’ were completed. But for Dowa’s sake he put his gallantry aside and retyped and signed the letter. Thupten, his bearer, then delivered it to the Palace and at 5.30 a.m. on the following morning Dowa left for Ludhiana.

Within the past few weeks I’ve been analysing more closely the part this camp plays in the Tibetan refugee tragedy and my conclusions have made me a little uneasy about the gay abandon with which agencies devote money to the project. One wonders if they are aware of the exact nature of the operation they have chosen to subsidise.

On my arrival in July, I took the situation at its face-value; Dharamsala Nursery was a refuge for children whose parents were unable to care for them and who would probably die of neglect if they couldn’t come here. Undoubtedly this is partly true. Some of these children could not survive outside a camp, and it must be admitted that when the Nursery was opened in 1960 the need for such a centre was urgent. But now things are changing; parents are obtaining employment and finding their bearings – yet more and more children have been coming to a camp where, until very recently, ‘conditions were worse than in any European refugee camp immediately after World War II’, to quote the comment of an experienced observer. After living here for some time a strange element in the atmosphere seeps into one’s consciousness and gradually one begins to suspect that philanthropy is not the sole
raison
d’être
of the Dharamsala Tibetan Refugee Nursery.

My doubts on this matter first crystallised about a month ago, when I observed how strongly Mrs Tsiring Dolma resented influential visitors being told that the numbers of children were lessening slightly – an item of news which we passed on joyfully as an indication of some improvement in the general situation. However, the Nursery Principal was very quick to intervene in these conversations and to impress on
visitors the fact that soon our numbers would be higher than ever and that more and more funds would be needed to maintain the camp. This ‘prophecy’ has in fact been fulfilled during the past week; many of the hundreds of Tibetans who recently came here from the road-camps on a pilgrimage have now left their children at the Nursery.

The motives behind these parental decisions are disturbing. Soon after Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s show of displeasure at the reduction in our numbers a very reliable source informed me that Lamas are regularly despatched from Dharamsala to the road camps with instructions to encourage parents to bring their children here – and at this stage I began to smell a large and unpleasant rat. I then decided to collect a few statistics, with the aid of a dependable interpreter. To date I’ve questioned seventy-three parents, asking them why they brought their children here, what they wished their children to do when they leave and what their own financial position is at the moment. In 100% of cases the reply to the first question was that they brought the children here to be educated – and the majority added that they also wished them to be near His Holiness. In reply to the second question
seventy-one
out of seventy-three said that when their children leave here they would like them to do ‘whatever His Holiness wishes’; the remaining two very boldly stated that they wanted their sons to go to Switzerland and become Western-style doctors. (It is interesting that both these fathers were themselves ‘am-chis’ in Tibet.) In reply to the third question fifty-six out of the seventy-three said that they were earning coolie wages on the road-camps; the other seventeen certainly could not have supported their children, being in poor health and dependent on begging or on the generosity of relatives.

These figures give so much food for thought that after considering them over a period of days one begins to suffer from cerebral indigestion. To me it is profoundly shocking that 100% of parents gave ‘educational opportunities’ as the chief reason for bringing their children to this camp. It isn’t natural for Tibetan peasants to think in such terms, except concerning those children who are destined to be monks – and even then it is not the educational advantage of a monastic career that weighs most with the average Tibetan peasant.
Therefore this rotten carrot of ‘schooling’ must have been deliberately dangled as part of the campaign to keep Dharamsala camp crammed. And it’s a
very
rotten carrot because, as I’ve already made clear, the ‘education’ available in the Lower Nursery is farcical even by Indian standards. What really infuriates me is the apparent meanness of this deception – it’s intolerable to think of these docile, trusting peasants, who are so bewildered by our complicated world, being
unscrupulously
exploited for the benefit of the very people from whom they seek guidance. Even if one allowed that some parents are capable of calculating that their children have a chance of being transferred from Dharamsala to one of the Tibetan schools the deception remains cruel, since at the moment there is no Tibetan school capable of providing an education which might compensate for the loss of an emotionally secure childhood.

The rider added by many parents to the effect that they wanted their children to be near His Holiness is doubtless a genuine personal feeling, and the Tibetan tradition of dedicating young children to the monasteries must make it easier to persuade parents to hand over their sons and daughters to a camp run by His Holiness’s sister. Yet our observations here during the past few months show that family feeling is very strong among the Tibetans and it’s difficult to believe that they would acquiesce to such a ruthless destruction of home-life unless thoroughly brainwashed by interested parties.

The fact that seventy-one out of seventy-three parents expressed willingness to have their children’s futures organised by His Holiness does not now shock or surprise me as it would once have done. The fundamental problem posed by this attitude is none of our business and must be sorted out among the Tibetans themselves; one can only hope that they get it sorted out quickly, before the whole structure of their exiled society collapses.

It is interesting to speculate about the motives behind the Tibetan Government’s urge to collect the maximum number of Tiblets in Dharamsala camp. Disregarding any possible financial inducements one is left with cultural and political motives. The Tibetan authorities themselves admit that when the camp was opened ‘to shelter the
children of refugees’ physical needs were not the only consideration – it was also intended to shelter these youngsters from un-Tibetan influences during their formative years. This ambition would be understandable if there were even a sporting chance of the refugees returning to Tibet within a decade or so, but in existing circumstances an exclusively Tibetan preparation for a life that must be lived in the modern world is unfair both to the children themselves and to those who wish to help them resettle; already there are too many examples of the disastrous effects of suddenly transplanting adolescent Tibetans into Western soil. However desirable the ‘preservation’ of Tibetan culture may be some degree of integration is essential and the best and simplest way of achieving it would be to allow as many children as possible to grow up in the Tibetan atmosphere of their own families, without artificially protecting them from the outside world.

Concerning the political implications it is just conceivable that certain members of the Tibetan Government do envisage the future invasion of Tibet by an Army of Liberation recruited from amongst the refugee children. But it seems more probable that the ruling clique (excluding the Dalai Lama) finds it psychologically impossible to relinquish its power over the people and is afraid that the new generation, if permitted to grow up in an alien environment, will rapidly become emancipated citizens of India.

It’s not easy to be rational on this subject. One dreads the evolution of a generation of rootless Tibetans, deprived of what was, in its native air, a happy and healthy way of life. Yet one also recognises that this way of life is now extinct within Tibet and that it is quite impractical to attempt to continue it outside Tibet. The paradox is that a theocracy-
cumautocracy
, when seen against a democratic background, immediately antagonises even those who admit that in its original context this was an acceptable form of government. So I find myself at one moment castigating the Tibetan authorities and at the next moment trying to excuse their high-handed actions on the grounds that it is unreasonable to expect them to have adjusted so soon to their new environment.

A very regrettable feature of the Tibetan problem is that most foreign aid has been administered in a way which reinforces the Tibetan
Government’s policy of splitting families. The relief agencies seem to have started from the premise that under existing conditions it is impossible for children to remain with their parents, and the majority of operations have been conducted accordingly. It’s probably inevitable that when a refugee crisis suddenly occurs the initial administration of aid should be a trifle haphazard – but one feels that order could come out of chaos rather more quickly than it’s doing in this instance. Having taken a wrong turning at the beginning, through failure to investigate ways of keeping families united, the agencies seem determined
consistently
to follow the wrong road. As a result money that could have been spent on mobile medical and educational units is now being irretrievably sunk in the acquiring and staffing of permanent centres where hundreds of children can be cared for in the future – thus making it progressively more difficult to restore the balance of the whole Tibetan Community.

The agencies’ original assumption that Tiblets must be cared for in large centres is a classic example of the dangers of applying Western standards to Eastern situations. Life in the road-camps is undoubtedly arduous, and the children who remain in them are exposed to the occasional risk of being injured by falling rocks during the blasting operations. It is unlikely that the average Western child would survive such conditions for long, and so the relief workers raise their hands in horror and decide that as many Tiblets as possible must be rescued as soon as possible. Yet if one pauses to think the thing out it soon becomes obvious that what we regard as the insupportable existence of a road-camp community is not unlike everyday life in Tibet. Many of the refugees came from nomad tribes who habitually lived in tents, and all of them were accustomed to some degree of hardship. The Indian Government pays the refugees a slightly higher wage than that of the native coolie, to compensate them for having no little plot on which to grow food, so a husband and wife can earn between them Rs. 22.75 (about £1 16s.) per seven-day week. By local standards this is quite a good wage and should enable the parents to feed their children much better than they are fed here – especially if some of the Indian
Government
per capita monthly food ration were distributed among the
camps rather than sent in bulk to Dharamsala and other centres. The children’s health could not possibly be worse anywhere than it is here, and while it may be true that some of our Tiblets would have died if not brought within reach of Western medical aid this does not invalidate the argument that in general these children would be far better off, both physically and emotionally, if they had not been parted from their parents.

It is ironical – and a symptom of the mental confusion in Tibetan Government circles – that the efforts being made to ‘keep young Tibetans Tibetan’ are in fact weakening the social structure of the whole refugee community. The damage done to children by separating them from their parents is no greater than the damage done to parents by relieving them of their natural responsibilities and one hears that in some areas this form of ‘aid’ has by now had a seriously demoralising effect.

The intangible difficulties of assisting refugees are far more numerous and complicated than the difficulties of providing food and clothing. Every social worker’s ideal is – or should be – ‘to help them to help themselves’, but this is not easily realised since the mere fact of having been so savagely uprooted by fate often predisposes refugees to take it for granted that those who have not suffered as they have will look after them. In fact workers with wide experience remark on the Tibetans being less prone than most to take things for granted; but obviously they present their own particular problems and it is extremely rash of any relief agency to plunge into the centre of a new refugee situation without having first paused on the outskirts to study its complexities.

In the Tibetans’ case their malleability, when they are tactfully handled, makes the foreign helper keenly aware of the importance of his role as their guide to a new world. The adjective ‘simple’ is frequently applied to these people, yet their national character is repeatedly surprising me by its contradictions. Though the average Tibetan is in many respects a very conservative fellow he can at times be frighteningly receptive to new ideas. This trait partly explains his adaptability but, since his powers of discrimination are usually
undeveloped
,
it is potentially very dangerous. Therefore it seems wickedly foolish of us to help foster the notion that once a child is weaned it can automatically become someone else’s responsibility.

During the past week Macleod Ganj has been transformed into a vast open-air Tibetan market where hundreds of pilgrims, who came for the recent religious festival, are now trading vigorously. Fabulous cloaks, hats, boots, rugs, swords, knives, jewellery and reliquaries are on display – and also other more significant, if less exotic, items of merchandise. On my first visit to this market I was a little (but only a little) startled to observe the variety of medicaments which were available at bargain prices. Bottles of eight Acromycin capsules were selling at Rs. 6, as compared to Rs. 10.50 in any chemist’s shop. Bottles of fifty Zymacaps, clearly marked – ‘Donated by the Upjohn Foundation. Not for sale or exchange’, were going for Rs. 5. Rolls of English manufactured Johnson and Johnson cotton wool were evidently more highly prized and cost Rs. 8; doubtless these were part of a large consignment sent from Britain last March and never heard of since. The traders were most anxious to sell me pills, and the fact that they drew the attention of a Western medical helper to these wares proves how incredibly innocent they are. This evening I again visited the market, taking an interpreter with me, and when I asked where these goods had come from the traders beamed happily and explained that during the summer a Tibetan from Dharamsala had gone up the Kulu valley selling them in the roads-camps. I next asked what complaints the pills were used for and got the inevitable reply that they cured every disease immediately. It really is disheartening: I wonder what percentage of help donated to refugees all over the world ‘goes astray’. Of course I could have pressed for the name of the ‘Tibetan from Dharamsala’ and then rushed off to the police barracks exuding righteous wrath, but after spending a few months in India one ceases to think in terms of reporting thefts to the police.