Creoles, Lolos and Adventure

Yi women in Ninglang, Yunnan; 1996

The other day when I was getting ready to go to work, I decided to pep up my office attire with a pair of creoles. I haven't worn this kind of earrings in ages. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I suddenly remembered what my grandpa used to say when I wore creoles as a teenager: "You look like a Lolo!”

I never knew what a "Lolo" looked like.

I was born at the other end of the world, far from his Tibetan birthplace and in my family we spoke high Tibetan. I knew the term Loba, which some Tibetans used to refer to American Indians (Amirika'i klopa) - whether it meant the same in my grandpa’s dialect? That’s what I subconsciously assumed until I finally encountered real Lolos face to face on an adventurous journey through the southeastern Tibetan frontier as a young adult.

It all began in a town called Ninglang along the southeastern section of the Sino-Tibetan borderland. We found ourselves a driver and car and began the journey up north. Our destination was Mili, a remote Tibetan area we knew from old travel accounts. I wanted to see for myself the remnants of the palace of the former "lama-king" and take a look at his fabled kingdom which I only knew from old photographs published in the National Geographic ages ago.

A few miles outside the County seat, we saw two local women hitchhiking. Our Beijing Jeep was half-empty, the road was long, and who knew when the next public bus would pass by. So in came two women wearing huge square hats that looked like black kites ready for take-off. Their pleated black skirts were dusty and their gigantic, shapeless brown cloaks smelled of smoke. They also wore huge creoles.

After the women got off at the first hamlet, we had to air the car. The Tibetan driver said, the ladies were "Yizu" (Khotso yidzu red), who lived in the surrounding mountains growing potatoes, corn and poppy which they also smoked.

But "Yizu" was clearly not a Tibetan word. The very sound was revealing. Khotso yidzu red was a total ra-ma-lug sentence: Neither fish nor flesh, a stylistic faux pas, worse than messed up zhesa or honourific language.

I pestered the driver what they call them in Tibetan. After a while he reluctantly said Lolo, only to instruct me the next second not to say the word out loud because it was pejorative and we were on their turf. He bent over and said in a low voice: "Lolo means thief, so we are not supposed to use that expression. Since liberation we have to say Yizu."

Obviously only people who were not "liberated" like my grandpa and myself continued to ignorantly use "Lolo"! It's not a Tibetan term either for that matter but at least it sounded like one.

The road was getting narrower and steeper and we advanced at a snail's pace. Suddenly there was a stretched rope across the lane blocking our advance. How odd, in the middle of the mountains! Then men emerged left and right from the road and said we had to pay a toll otherwise they wouldn't let us pass. To my untrained eye they looked like the average Sichuanese road workers one can see in many places in Kham. But the driver said they were Yizu or Yi people. After negotiating with them for a while, he paid them a sum so they would let us continue our journey.

Lithang River at dusk with the ascending side in Mili territory

Later that day we had to cross a broad creek. The driver said the water is shallow enough to drive through. There was no bridge in sight anyway, only a few houses on both sides. Like in an adventure film our car got stuck in the middle of the creek with the water level high enough to enter the Jeep. We took off our shoes and socks, pulled up our pants and grabbed our backpacks, wading to the other side. Then we went to the first house asking for help. It cost us again but the Yi eventually helped us pull the car out of the water.

After this incident, we kept having problems with the car. Somehow the steering system was impaired and the breaks didn't seem to work properly either. When we reached Mili at Lhakhang it was already dark. We urged the driver to get the car properly serviced the next day, while we were going to explore this fabled "Lama-kingdom".

Mili at Wacheng (Tib. Lhakhang), 1996

Early in the morning we climbed up to Mili Gonchen, the great monastery and palace of the former ruler, the "Lama-king". Historically Mili must have been a Tibetan El Dorado with mining, gold planning, and generally gold constituting a large part of the kingdom's budget. The Mili king was also on friendly terms with the neighbouring Konkaling bandits buying weapons from them and granting them a safe passage after their pillaging tours through the borderlands. Eventually, he was killed by the Nationalists in 1934 in a war over gold prospecting rights.

Since the Mili kings were Gelugpa patriarchs, they had no direct heirs and usually a nephew would succeed. But we couldn't find out whether the ruler, killed in 1934, was succeeded by a male relative and whether there was person in Mili today who continued this position in one way or another.

 Officially "Mili Gaden Shedrup Nampar Gyalwa'i Ling" or in short 

"Mili Gonchen", the great monastery of Mili; photographed up the hill.

Magnificent vistas from above Mili Gonchen

Mili Gonchen, close-up, 1996

After the Communists took control, Mili was made a County of the Liangshan Autonomous Prefecture of the Yi, Sichuan Province. The Miliwas are now governed by "Lolos", so to speak. What would my grandpa have said to this? From what I gather, the Tibetans in the region to this day consider themselves on a higher level of civilization than the Yi. So how well are the Tibetans of Mili able to put through their "nationality-specific" concerns such as language under a Yi Prefecture, I wonder?

In spite of the turbulent history and the ruthless exploitation of Mili's huge natural reserves, most notably forests, it was still a beautiful place. Like in other Tibetan places, the Chinese have been systematically taking away anything that they could turn into money. What they considered useless, such as places of worship, they destroyed. But despite the vandalism, the exploitation and the destruction, I found a land that was majestic, serene and pure. The wounds lie deeper than a casual visitor would be able to recognise.

There weren't any monks to be seen back when we visited and some parts of the monastery were still in ruins but a recent music video shows Mili Gonchen completely rebuilt with an active Sangha and the singer is shown going for mchod mjal. Singers are often role models for young Tibetans. When one of them is shown performing a primordially Tibetan act such as paying respect to the Dharma and its representations, it may give people's resilience a boost in the face of Chinese cultural and political pressure.

Praise to the grand monastery of Mili as a haven of comfort and happiness. The first half of the song is sung in Tibetan. The second half is in Chinese.

It’s remarkable that people rebuilt the monastery and monks are ordained again. After all,  in the old days a grand monastery like Mili demanded ample corvée or ulag and historically the subjects were said to be extremely poor with few rights. The new rulers did their very best for their part to incite people against religious institutions and Buddhist dignitaries. Yet the first visible thing people did when they regained some freedom was to rebuild the monasteries.  

Maybe the common folks of old have always understood Dharma better than many of their so-called "educated" observers including myself. The reverence and devotion has never been about the monastery or a Buddhist dignitary but what they stood for: The teaching of the Buddha. People knew all along it is precious and must be protected at any cost.

Spectacular mountain views greeted us when we left Mili descending on the winding road to Yongning. We finally reached the plains at dusk when our Beijing Jeep totally conked out. Neither the breaks nor the steering wheel were responding. We drove straight into a tree and the car toppled over into the roadside ditch. It was the shock of a lifetime. Had this happened a few hours earlier up in the mountains of Mili, it would have been our last hour. The car would have plunged into a gaping abyss and our time on earth would have been up. Nobody got injured but the thought gripped us at the marrow. 

Luckily the accident happened at the entrance of a small hamlet. As it was getting dark, we crawled out of the car, collected our belongings and found shelter at a near-by farmhouse where we spent the night.

We reached Yongning hitchhiking with local farmer on a rattling motor rickshaw the next day. Located at a scenic lake called Luguhu, the place surprisingly had a functioning Tibetan Buddhist monastery. It was built in Sino-Tibetan style with monks who spoke Tibetan. We couldn't tell whether they were real Tibetans or assimilated Mosos who converted to Buddhism. The Moso were the dominant ethnic group in this area. Unlike the Yi, the Moso felt much closer.

"Wild West" street scene in Yongning/Thalam, fall 1996

At the monastery it became clear, that the town called Yongning on official maps was what the Tibetans refer to as Thalam (mtha' lam) and lake Luguhu was something like Latha Tso in our language. The monastery's official Tibetan name was Thalam Trame Gompa. It turned out to be another Gelugpa outpost affiliated with the three Densa in Lhasa.

In the old days, you could find monks in Sera, Drepung and Ganden that came from border areas like Thalam. Since "liberation" none of the Tibetan Buddhist monks from the outlying Tibetan are allowed to study at the three great monastic universities in Lhasa. Only Lord Buddha knows how they manage to reach the required level of studies. Some escape to the Buddhist institutions in India to complete their religious studies. Upon return to their home monasteries in Tibet however, they are met with suspicion and are often given a hard time to teach.

We also learned from the monks in Thalam that the beautifully curved cordillera that hugged the lake on one side was Thalam Senge Karmo or "the white snowlion of Thalam",  considered the local protector deity or yullha of the region. Now Shidag or Yullha are about as kosher Tibetan as it can get. Unlike Buddhism, which is imported, the belief in local protector deities is an authentic Tibetan creation. Every place in Tibet proper had its local protector deity. To witness this broad outreach of Tibetan culture was simply amazing.

Mountain in the background: Thalam Senge Karmo, seat of 

the local protector deity of the land

The last stop on our great journey was Lijiang, the centre of the Naxi people whom the Tibetans call Jang and whose city they call Jang Sadam. The place is mentioned in the Gesar epic, so many Tibetans have heard about it. I don't know though whether they connect it with modern-day Lijiang.

Of all the ethnic groups on Tibet's southeastern border perhaps the one the Tibetans feel closest to or least distant from are the Tibeto-Burman Naxi. Mixed marriages between the two groups occurred frequently in the old days, the common pattern being a Tibetan trader husband with a Naxi wife. Lijiang was an important town in the tea trade between Tibet and China. We can also read in Bapa Phuntsog Wangyal biography written by Goldstein that when the Nationalists were looking for Communists like him, he went into hiding to Lijiang where he had a relative that was married to a Naxi noblewoman.

Perhaps intermarriage was also easy because many Naxi used to practice what looks like a form of Bon. Their religion is officially called "Dongba" which is another Chinese linguistic corruption and conceptual inadequacy based on the Tibetan ston pa  ("Buddha"). The Tibetan original is used to refer to Buddha Shakyamuni (Tonpa Shakyathupa) but also to Tonpa Sherab, the founder of Bon, whom the Chinese inconsistently render as Dingbuo Shiluo. - My hair is beginning to stand on end again. Welcome to Babylon! 

Lijiang’s Old Town was touristic already when we visited years ago. If you go there today you'll probably be put off at the hordes of noisy Chinese tourists clogging the Old Town with its lovely creeks and cozy arcades. The town seems to get more and more crowded every year.

If you are interested in Naxi culture you could attend a concert of the famous Naxi orchestra which was founded in the early 1980s to save Naxi culture from extinction. But don't expect too much. Ancient Naxi music seems to consist mainly of "ancient" musicians in uniforms made of Chinese brocade and playing musical instruments that sound Chinese. The pieces are said to date back to the Yuan dynasty. Whatever, a Naxi element in the music is hard to detect. I suspect it's more of a tourist cash machine than genuine Naxi culture. Or Naxi culture is the same as mainstream Chinese? Only the Naxi know.

We didn't dwell in the commercialized Old Town and explored the surrounding area on bicycle which was lovely. There were several Karma Kagyu monasteries in the Lijiang plains we visited. It is said the Kagyupa fled south after the rise of the Gelugpa in Tibet proper. What began with a tragic escape though could become a "market advantage" today: These monasteries are historically established outposts of Tibetan culture and perfectly positioned to introduce Tibetan Buddhism to the interested Chinese public. Moreover since they are institutionally less rigidly organized than their Gelug brothers in their huge monasteries, these Lamas are flexible to travel and teach the Dharma. Hopefully they can make the most of their situation to be good ambassadors of Tibetan culture and benefit the local people.

As a child and also during adolescence I was always under the impression that there is a clear border with Tibet on one side and China on the other. But as it turned out, between our two countries' southeastern border was a whole ethnic potpourri of people like the Yi, the Moso, the Naxi, and again groups like the Lisu, all probably with their own understanding of who they are and where they belong. And I haven't even begun looking into the northeastern frontier. Do we do these groups justice when we map the places where they live as "Tibet"?

Historically the Tibetans have looked down on the Tibeto-Burman groups along their border, considering themselves superior in civilization. But times have changed. Everyone is equal now and deserves respect. Are we inadvertently doing onto them what the Chinese are doing onto us?

I also wonder how the textbooks used in the Tibetan-run schools in India today describe the multiethnic Tibetan periphery. School books are relevant in as much as they reflect the view of a government. These books influence children's perspective of how they perceive the world. So does the Tibetan leadership have a clear idea which areas and cities can be considered Tibetan today? What about the other ethnic groups who sometimes live in the same place? Where does Tibet stop and where does China begin?

Extract of Google Maps: The southeastern Sino-Tibetan fronter travelled in late 1996: Ninglang- Mili - Thalam - Lijiang.

My dad used to say the power of the Lhasa government ended at the Drichu, the upper reach of the Yangzi, which maps show in Chinese as Jinsha Jiang. He used to say it with a sense of pride: "The Tibetan areas east of the Drichu were free and ruled themselves!" If there was any authority they respected at all, it was their Lamas.

But what sounded great to people like my dad is a curse today because at the Drichu is where the Chinese drew the line. All Tibetan areas to the east did not make it into the "Tibet Autonomous Region" and are now cut off and incorporated into the neighbouring Chinese provinces so that we have this irritating situation where a large part of Tibet is not Tibet. As a nation we paid dearly for historical Lhasan negligence and shortsighted Khampa pride.

It's been a while since I've seen some of these places. A lot has changed in the meantime, I'm sure. But even a hundred years after Rock, Goullart, Kingdon Ward, Amundsen and whosoever, my fascination with this part of the Tibetan highlands endures. 

The next travel project is to explore the northeastern border up in Amdo.

For the moment however, the only type of adventure I am experiencing is trying to solve unforeseen problems at the office and keeping up pace with the children at home. My daily routine is domesticated and predictable. But whenever I wear creoles, I tell you, a touch of real adventure is in the air and I fancy feeling a wild, non-conformist streak in me.

Perhaps I was a Yi in a former lifetime, who had interactions with Tibetans, and then came back as one? 

Buddhist rebirth theory would explain the attraction to this corner of the highlands where Tibet has stopped to be totally Tibetan, but China has not yet properly begun.

Mountain Phoenix

Present Arm-Chair Traveller

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An Old Flame Never Dies

I should have declined. But he was a friend and so I agreed to take three watches and deliver them to his brother. "It's just watches, easy to pack, no weight", so I thought to myself. When he actually handed the watches over though, they came in expensive-looking, bulky boxes and it was too late to retract.

Maybe it's best to get into the habit of leaving for Tibet quietly without telling anyone because there´s always this risk to become inundated with letters, gifts and cash, people want you to hand carry on their behalf. It's one of these peculiar Tibetan traits: Even in the age of superfast postal services, e-banking and Western Union, some still prefer sending stuff the archaic way via people. And for all snying-rje or compassion that we consider a national trait, it doesn't seem to cross our minds that asking someone with limited time to carry and deliver goods could perhaps be burdensome.

My partner looked at me with a frown when I came home with the boxes. After taking a closer look he informed me those were not "just watches" but Rolexes - luxury items worth almost USD 10,000 each.

Gulp. What if they got stolen? What if they drew the attention of the Chinese customs or they confiscated them?

I knew of a wealthy Chinese businesswoman from Chengdu who returned from a trip abroad wearing a ten thousand-dollar Omega and hand carrying seven more ordered by office mates. Everything got confiscated at customs. A fraction was returned to her later, it was said. - Scary!

"Okay don't be afraid," my partner calmed me down, "technically you're a foreigner so all you have to do is declare them."

Luckily that's exactly how it went. There were no problems at the customs but I was nervous throughout the flight. The real headache though was still before me: After I reached Tibetan soil, it took days to get hold of the brother. And then it took days until the brother got a third person to come by and pick up the precious goods on his behalf because he was away from station. All the while, whenever I left my place I had to worry that the watches would get stolen.

My relatives always warn me to be careful with cash and belongings as there were many thieves these days: "Keema mooma doray!"      

On another visit, a lady of an American NGO had her bag stolen during a visit to the monastery: Passport, mobile phone, cash – everything gone. We were so afraid one of the monks could be the thief. Politically suspect per se, turning into criminals would make their reputation even worse. There was a sense of relief when, after a long day and night of searching, they found the thief to be a Chinese construction worker. He was obtuse enough to answer the call when the police rang the number of the stolen cellphone. The police caught the signal and hunted him down in no time.

Remembering my partner's instruction, I insisted on a written confirmation when handing over the watches. You never knew. When I innocently asked who wears such expensive watches, the man replied: "Rich merchants", adding that they preferred to order from overseas as the Rolex watches on sale in China were all counterfeit.

In the old days trade caravans brought in watches across the Himalayas. There was less choice in terms of models but I guess the few you got were genuine. These days, visitors like me functioned as couriers, because with the huge counterfeit industry in China, not even famous brand items could be trusted.

When I think about it, the Tibetans have something like a historical relationship with expensive watches and particularly so with the Rolex.

I first learned about the Tibetan weakness for expensive watches from an old monk about fifteen years ago back in my dad's hometown. His name was Dragkar Amnye ("White Rock Granpa"). As a youngster he worked as a Tshongpon or chief merchant for the monastery making the three-month arduous journey to Lhasa and continueing to India on mules several times. He allowed me to stay at his place while we were doing some reconstruction in the vicinity.

In the evenings we would gather around the fireplace in his kitchen and have supper together: Mostly Tsampa, rice, Tibetan tea, sometimes a hearty soup with chunks of greasy pork, horseradish and leafy vegetables. Then Dragkar Amnye would tell stories of the old days. The one that really caught my attention was where all of a sudden modern brand names came out of his old, wrinkled Tibetan mouth: "Omega, Rolex".

There we were huddled in a dark, smoky kitchen full of draft in some remote corner of the highlands at the end of the world. It could have been in the 19^th century judging from the infrastructure - or should I say lack of infrastructure - and we were discussing Omegas and Rolexes, epitomes of consumer decadence in modern times. 

But Omega and Rolex have been household names in Tibet for ages. When I asked the old man why those watches were so popular he said: "Back then all the watches we and other traders bought in India for resale in Tibet would stop when we crossed the mountain passes, all except for the Rolex. It was the only watch that would continue working. That's why the Rolex has become so popular in Tibet."

How poetic! If I were Rolex I would make a commercial out of this piece of information!

Imagine rustic Tibetan traders in Chupa with the stereotypical red tassel in their hair on their ascent over the Himalayas with their pack animals carrying precious goods. A glimpse of those old-fashioned boxes discloses their content: Colourful textiles, canned food, expensive cigars and cigarettes that were in fashion back then such as the "555". The subtitle reads: "Himalayas, 1940". The leader of the caravan calls the others to camp for the night – all in local language with English subtitles. They pitch up their tents and light a fire. The subtitle shows the altitude: “5,500 meters above sea level”. Then close-up of the leader sitting by the campfire – darkness all around - the audience spots the traditional earring with corals and turquoises, shiny white teeth and maybe a golden tooth flashes. Then he says: "Hey pals, let's see how the watches are withstanding the altitude." One of his caravan buddies passes on the box with the precious content. The leader opens it - all watches have come to a stand-still except one – close-up: The trader nods tellingly and a voice says: "Rolex – dares to go where no other watch dares to go" – or something to that effect, ha, ha!

Mountain road through southern Kham near Lithang, summer 2011

Here is another story about Tibetans and their infatuation with the Rolex: My dad and his older brother fled Lhasa under the thunder of cannons reaching India exhausted and broke. The bag of Tsampa and butter the two youngsters had hastily packed before their escape were used up, all their money too. The brother then sold his Rolex so they could carry on. When Tibet fell, the Rolex became their lifesaver.

My uncle is not into pomp nor does he feel the urge to impress others with expensive objects but many years after my dad's passing we decided to pool in money and buy him a Rolex as a gift for his 70^th birthday - not nearly as extravagant as the ones I hand carried to Tibet, but a Rolex nevertheless. It was a symbolic gesture that all the hardship he and my dad had to go through and the loss of the family's material possessions were a thing of the past. The handover of a Rolex underlined that they were back on track. Over fifty years of a family's history summed up by means of a watch. That's the power of the Rolex.

Before I ham it up too much: I would never wear a Rolex. The design is old-fashioned, oversized and overdone for my taste and comes at a ridiculously excessive price. When I think of the typical Rolex clientele, outrageously wealthy, fake-blond former Eastern bloc ladies come to mind, wrapped in fur head to toe, killing time in some posh European mountain resort. But that's Mountain Phoenix hypothesizing and not that she has the problem of being stuck with a Rolex :--)

In Tibet it seems to be a guy thing with the Rolex standing for values such as fortitude and authenticity in a time when trust in authentic brands is low and forgery is something like a national pastime. I heard fathers usually pass their Rolex on to their sons as an heirloom. Values and feelings associated with the Rolex are perhaps a bit like what early ads of the Marlboro man convey - of course without the health hazard: Freedom, male-bonding, solitude, simplicity and inner peace. And while not every Tibetan Rolex-wearer falls for the romantic, adventurous and legendary appeal of this watch, but simply wears it as a status symbol like wealthy Chinese or my Eastern bloc ladies, its appeal endures through personal family stories and the common misfortune that befell the Tibetans.


So wanting to own an expensive Rolex brought in from faraway lands is perhaps also a yearning for the good old days when things were under control and manageable? 

To Tibetans with their traditional weakness for chunky jewellery the Rolex is perhaps just the must-have even when most don't dwell in Himalayan heights any longer where perfectly calibrated watches become crucial. 

Often we don't have too many good stories left to tell each other these days. For this reason alone Tibet's historical love story with the Rolex deserves to be remembered and retold.  An old flame never dies.

Nostalgic greetings!

Mountan Phoenix

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When The Snowlion Descends From The Mountain

A while ago, we received an invitation to a smoke-offering ceremony (Sangsol) to commemorate the freedom fighters of the Tibetan resistance and all compatriots killed in the course of the Chinese takeover.

Andrug Gonpo Tashi’s memoirs, Nyarong Aten’s life-story written by Jamyang Norbu; or John Avedon’s “In Exile from the Land of Snow”; those were books that coined us as youths. Who wasn’t impressed by the stories of the brave men of the “Four Rivers and Six Ranges” or Chushi Gangdrug, who fought the invaders and orchestrated the Dalai Lama’s flight?

http://www.friendsoftibet.org/main/hhdl.html

Decades later, somebody gave us a copy of Lithang Athar Norbu’s oral memoirs recorded on DVD. He recounts, in great detail, those days of glory and subsequent tragedy from the perspective of a directly involved witness to history. Irritations between his organization and the Tibetan government, which later arose when on Indian/Nepali soil, were also freely addressed. He spoke from memory about historic events as if everything had just happened yesterday. I was glued to the TV for hours. I would not have been able to tell. He appeared very together and lucid, but somebody pointed out he was already very ill. Parts of the DVD are also available as video on Youtube

Even though the resistance failed, our “war heroes” deserve to be honored because they didn’t give up without putting up a good fight. So the least someone like me could do, I figured, is go and pay my respects.

The memorial service began straight away with a two-hour prayer session. We recited a hotchpotch of I-don’t-know-what, jumping back and forth between the pages of a 2-inch thick prayer book. The only fractions I was able to discern was a Mandala offering and a couple of stanzas from Lama Choepa. A solemn introduction by the leading monk was missing. It would have been helpful to know what it was we were reciting and how that related back to the people we were remembering.

Before we then proceeded to the actual smoke-offering ritual, there were formal speeches by people who hold office in the organization understood to be the heir to the resistance movement, also going by the same name. Further function owners were a people’s representative and a representative of the women’s organization. The government was not represented.

The main point reiterated by the speakers was: a) remember the sacrifice of Chushi Gangdrug, b) remain united (dogtsa jigdril), and c) follow the orders of His Holiness well.

I was so disappointed. Had they nothing more relevant to say for this significant ceremony?

Nobody has forgotten the sacrifice not just of Chushi Gangdrug but of all Tibetans all over the country. And aren’t we as united as ever? This "dogtsa jigdril" point reiterated at every gathering is such an artificial point with no real-life reference. It’s also misused to obtain 100 % obedience on any topic. Whoever has a deviating opinion on anything is quickly running the risk of not being dogtsa jigdril and not following the wishes of His Holiness. The speeches were nothing more than the repetitive routine call for everyone to stay put in their place, try even harder to be even nicer, and obey even more - as if that would get us anywhere.

I don’t know what went through the others’ heads. My desperate thought was: “More of the same is not enough, not enough, not enough.”

Suddenly I remembered a new Tibetan music album from an India-Tibetan: I was so put off by the name regug - “waiting with hope” – I didn’t even bother listen to the CD. “Waiting with hope” summarizes our current mindset so well. We all wait and hope: for the Dalai Lama to sort things out for us, for the liberal forces in China to bring about political change for us, for third countries to pressure China for us. And as it was, even some people in the fine arts were waiting and hoping for better times.

Then my thoughts went back to the old men we were commemorating. What would they do? Slowly I noticed an essential oversight: The little success the Tibetan resistance had back in Tibet, was precisely because they were NOT waiting with hope but acting with resolve.

When the Chinese came to take control of our country, the official Tibetan position was to appease them – “waiting with hope” basically. In contrast, the people in the resistance trusted their own judgment and went for active defense – without endorsement from the top.

Is that why the government didn’t send a representative to attend the memorial service? Because you don’t honor disobedient, violent subjects? Because the government doesn’t want to jeopardize the chances of a negotiation break-through with China by associating with “counterrevolutionaries”? Because Chushi Gangdrug is a “Khampa thing” and the Tibetan government stands above petty little phayuls? Or could the government representative not attend, simply because he was ill or occupied with something else?

It's a co-incidence that Jamyang Norbu just published “High Mountain Elegy” as I am writing down my thoughts. We learn that even at that memorial service, there weren’t any Tibetan government representatives present. Instead, we learn that former CIA people, who trained the resistance fighters, organized the whole event and held the speeches of honor. It speaks in their favor because they don’t owe us anything, and it only adds to our government’s shame. The reactions to Jamyang Norbu’s article show clearly that people are upset about the government’s no show.

The "flaming sword" is the sword of wisdom Buddha Manjusri which severs the roots of ignorance. Picture: http://www.chushigangdruk.ca/index.html

It doesn’t look like the government has a position on the Four River Six Ranges at all. If they calculated that China will give them credit for ignoring Chushi Gangdrug, it’s miscalculated just as Ngapo’s obituary was a miscalculation. They made zero points on the foreign policy side through these actions, at the cost of alienating a lot of their own people all across the board.

If the government believes Chushi Gangdrug is a thing of our past, non-compatible with our current political style of peaceful resistance, and too regional for our pan-Tibetan outlook, they are ignoring that the freedom fighters are remembered even in Tibet today and by people who were born after the Cultural Revolution. The whole landscape tells the story of resistance, bravery and sacrifice:

Once after a long walk, we clueless greenhorns raised in faraway lands chose a scenic spot by a small alpine lake for a rest. “Although this is a beautiful spot, our people avoid this place,” our friends remarked, “there was a bloody battle here. Many good men were killed. Some tried to escape over the frozen lake, but the ice broke and they drowned with their horses.”

Suddenly at that lake-side, the fighting and bravery were no longer stories handed down by others, they appeared so real. I was standing on the very place they stood. I was breathing the very air they did. My blood froze. Our friends’ remembered. Their parents and grandparents had remembered even though times were much rougher when they were young.

Or take Pema from the Tibetan for kids story. The only time she mentioned her ex was when she saw a picture of Chushi Gangdrug soldiers in a book. She said “the children’s father’s uncle” was a famous freedom fighter hailing from Ganzi (shame on me, I can’t remember his name). The thing is: Pema grew up under the “new China”. There was no way she could have had access to the type of books we read. And still she was informed because in her family, too, they remembered, admired, and passed on.

So if our government’s intention behind cutting Chushi Gangdrug dead is to prevent regionalism, it’s not working. On the contrary, alienating people by not giving credit where credit is due seriously risks to increase regionalism.

At first, I regretted wasting time at this clumsy function. But then it turned out to be a real eye opener. It helped me realize a number of things.

Finally, it dawned on me why some contemporary Eastern Tibetans don’t fatigue in basking themselves in the glory of the freedom fighters. To them, it is a source of endless pride that the resistance movement arose in Dokham and was led by people from that area. Yes, it’s pathetic to try and associate yourself with something you haven’t even contributed to. But now I can understand that psychologically, it makes sense because resistance was the last honorable act from the Tibetan side within living memory. What followed has been nothing but a long row of humiliation: total defeat, escape, despair, and political self-mutilation all the way down to “waiting with hope”.

I also realized that while there wasn’t much the government could do to control the Tibetan resistance when they were still on native soil, later in India, the now Tibetan government-in exile became increasingly irritated by political dissent. They started to perceive Chushi Gangdrug as a threat to their power monopoly and began to exert pressure. In the name of unity, in the name of the Dalai Lama, in the name of non-violence: from this moment on, there was a break. The heroic freedom movement of old became an annoying, anachronistic relict of the past that could not be put to any good use for the future.

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Snow_Lion.svg

Don’t we have saying? When the snowlion descends from the mountain, he’s nothing more than an ordinary dog? It looks like that’s what happened to the Four Rivers Six Ranges. After they left Tibet, only ugly stories were circulating about them such as bullying villages, raping women, plotting to murder the Dalai Lama (!), and conspiring with Taiwan. All the glamour was gone.

Next, I realized that Chushi Gangdrug doesn’t just stand for a romanticized picture of courage vis-à-vis the external invader, it stands for genuine courage to stand up for one’s beliefs vis-à-vis anybody really, and if necessary even your own government. So those old men had a political maturity about them that made them very modern. They were truly free men at any point in time.

Didn’t His Holiness, who has always opposed violence, respect these upright men for their courage and integrity? He says so in “My land and my people”.

To be brutally honest, it’s the Dalai Lama who should have reacted. He should have sent a representative or a message. After all, Chushi Gangdrug was out to save him. They sacrificed for him. These are Andrugtshang’s entry lines in the book “Four Rivers, Six Ranges – a true account of Khampa resistance to the Chinese in Tibet”:

Dedication

My beloved leader,
His Holiness Tenzin Gyatso,
The Fourteenth Dalai Lama of Tibet;
My unselfish compatriots who gave their lives,
and
the coming generation of freedom fighters.

And read the lines at the end of the book:

May Lord Buddha bless my country and raise a new Tibet. And may his noblest representative on earth, the Dalai Lama, lead our people once again to freedom, peace and happiness.

Those lines say everything. For these guys, the Dalai Lama was the embodiment of everything that was dear to them: their country, their way of life, their faith, everything. The government was merely saved along with him.

So for us to pile up all the blame and shame in front of the government’s door is incorrect. We all know our government is weak and incompetent. Sadly, there is really nothing to expect from them. So picking on them without ever mentioning Kundun’s behavior in this matter is the same game as “Deconstructing Ngabo”. It’s bashing weaklings and useless. It’s the doggish approach.

If we are serious, we need the guts and the skill to take it up with those who are really in charge; we must take the matter to the Dalai Lama himself – in form of letters, e-mails, audience and conversation, whatever possibilities we have - and address it honestly and objectively. That would be the snowlion approach.

Finally came the smoke-offering to conclude the memorial service. Amidst a lot of smoke, we again recited something undiscerning and again my thoughts wandered off.

What’s the essential difference between a snowlion-person and a dog-person after all? Take a look at the Chushi Gangdrug emblem. The old men have put it down for us in the form of the two swords. It's the wisdom to recognize a problem correctly and the courage to act upon it with resolve. This is the legacy. We can continue to delve in the past and complain or we can strive to live as they have lived.

Arro-tso, I’d say the vibes are still going :--)

In memory of some great old men!
Mountain Phoenix

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