The Dalai Lama was also keenly aware of Tibet’s backwardness with respect to modern technology. By this time he had discovered the Great Thirteenth’s cars lying neglected at the Norbulingka and was eager to see them running again. Together with the Great Thirteenth’s driver, he started working on them, cannibalizing parts from one for the benefit of the other. Meeting eventually with success, he made his first attempt at driving, which ended in an embarrassing shunt, the effects of which he did his best to disguise. Seeking as much information about the outside world as possible, he also began taking his first English lessons from one of the four young men who had been sent to England for education by the Great Thirteenth.* But it was not until 1949, when he was fourteen, that he was finally able to free himself completely from the regent’s control.
9
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The Perfection of Wisdom: The Higher Education of a Tibetan Buddhist Monk
Without question, the person who had the greatest impact on the Dalai Lama as he grew to maturity was Ling Rinpoché. Although his senior tutor was a strict disciplinarian, the Tibetan hierarch feels only gratitude for the way he “did his best to instil good qualities in me” and continues to hold him in the highest regard. The growing awareness of his responsibilities not just to the Tibetan people but to all sentient beings was evidently almost overwhelming at times. The Dalai Lama speaks of having felt like a boat cut adrift, imperiled on the one hand by whirlpools and waterfalls, and running aground on the other, but it was Ling Rinpoché who helped stabilize the craft. By others, the Precious Protector’s senior tutor is remembered as a man with little in the way of small talk, reserved—though not without a keen sense of humor—and a monk whose conduct was in every way exemplary. Later, the two men developed a firm friendship, marked by deep respect on both sides.
It was Ling Rinpoché who first introduced the young Dalai Lama to the discipline of tsoe pa (generally translated as debate but more accurately as dialectics). This was, as it remains, the cornerstone of the education of a novice monk in the Tibetan tradition.
As anyone who has witnessed a monastery courtyard during a debating session will be aware, it is also one of its chief glories. Observing the shouting, the laughter, the jeering, the foot-stamping, and the flourishing of rosary with which the challenger belabors his adversary, you could be forgiven for thinking you were watching a prizefight. It is only the figure of the defender sitting rock-like and imperturbable that reminds you this is a scholarly rather than a pugilistic contest. It was this practice that lay at the heart of the young Dalai Lama’s education: his prowess as a debater would determine his reputation as a scholar.
We would have to go back to the Middle Ages in Europe to find anything close to what remains a vital element of Tibetan culture. But while debate in the Tibetan tradition strongly resembles the Western Socratic method, it differs from it in one crucial respect. Whereas the Socratic method is a free inquiry into the truth or falsity of a given proposition, Tibetan debate is principally concerned with clarifying that which is already known: the way things really are. If this sounds like a travesty of what dialectics ought to be, that is to miss the point. Although debate in the Tibetan tradition may approach its subject matter with forensic precision, it is not an inquiry. It is, first, a method of sharpening the logical reasoning skills of the practitioner and, second, a discipline that aims to reinforce what the Buddha* revealed when he proclaimed the Four Noble Truths, namely:
The truth of suffering
The truth of the cause of suffering
The truth of the cessation of suffering
The truth of the Path to the cessation of suffering
We might paraphrase this by saying, first, that, contrary to what the Christian Bible tells us, the world is not “good.” It is unsatisfactory. When we are in it, we suffer. Moreover, all those things of the world that we think will make us happy or bring us satisfaction are in fact only causes of further suffering. To put the matter in Judeo-Christian terms, the world itself is, in a sense, the Fall. Second, suffering is not gratuitous; it is caused—by our karma coming to fruition.* This includes not only moral suffering (the suffering attendant on negative acts, whether done by us or against us) but also natural suffering, like illness, old age, and death. Third, there is, fortunately, a way to overcome suffering (this could be called the gospel—the “good news” of Buddhism) through eliminating the causes of suffering. Fourth, the way to eliminate the causes of suffering is to follow the Path, indicated by the Buddha, to its final end, which is liberation from suffering, or nirvana.†
The basic handbooks of debate, the Collected Topics, were, for the Dalai Lama, as for every student entering a Gelug monastery, the principal object of study from the moment he was introduced to them. It was these that set out what it was that must be learned, while debate was the means by which the young scholar learned first to internalize and then to defend, through logical argument, what he had learned.
Because the principles around which Tibetan debate is structured are universal, anyone familiar with the basics of Aristotelian logic will have no trouble following those of the Indo-Tibetan tradition. Both trade on the inadmissibility of contradiction, and both recognize argument as requiring one or more premises to reach a conclusion. Like Aristotelian logic, Indo-Tibetan logic is essentially syllogistic and thus does not attain the mathematical precision of modern predicate logic. Yet adherents of both systems uphold their ultimate superiority even in the face of modern advances.
Where the Indo-Tibetan philosophical tradition differs from the classical Western philosophical tradition is in its assumptions about the way the world really is. For Aristotle and his successors, the world is on its way to its final consummation in perfection. In the Indo-Tibetan system, the basic premise is that the world is chiefly characterized by suffering and that the cause of suffering is ignorance. Ignorance of what? Ignorance of the way things really are. The purpose of logical analysis is thus, in the Buddhist view, to dispel ignorance. As we come truly to understand the nature of things, so we will understand the need to become truly and limitlessly compassionate as a means to final liberation. What is it to be truly and limitlessly compassionate? Above all, being compassionate entails desiring that others cease to suffer and thus doing all we can to aid them in their quest to overcome suffering. Since the path elaborated by the Buddha is the sole means of overcoming suffering, the best help we can give others is guidance along that path. The better qualified we are, through our mastery of the teachings and practices that lead to liberation, the better equipped we will be to exercise compassion. And such mastery, it is held by the Gelug school, is best achieved through proficiency in debate, by means of which the practitioner develops his or her understanding of the great classics of Buddhist literature.
It was essential that the young Dalai Lama be accomplished in the art not just because of this, however. At the end of his formal education as a monk there would be no final written examinations, just keenly observed public debates. Although, as Dalai Lama, the Precious Protector was spared the rough-and-tumble of the courtyard (though one suspects he would have relished it) and instead had the advantage of being assigned a number of sparring partners (or tsenshab) with whom he would debate under the direction of his tutors, his eventual graduation was not a mere formality. He would have to earn the monastic community’s respect just like any other prospective teacher.*
But there was another—vital—element in the education of the Dalai Lama. His inner development as a meditator was of equal if not greater importance, and here too Ling Rinpoché’s influence was paramount.
At the beginning of the meditator’s training, the mind is likened to a rampaging elephant which it is his business to subdue, just as the mahout subdues the elephant. This is done in thirty-three carefully programmed stages. To begin, the elephant runs away from the mahout. But with persistence and gentleness, the beast is brought to the point where it will accept a rope. In the diagrams used in Buddhis
t textbooks to depict the process, the elephant is shown at the beginning as black in color and led by a black monkey. The monkey symbolizes distraction, while black symbolizes lethargy—the two great obstacles to taming the mind. When, at around the halfway mark, the mahout at last takes charge of the elephant, he finds it reluctant to move. But gradually, with persistence and kindness, the elephant is persuaded to follow its master. Eventually, trust is built up and the elephant does its tamer’s bidding until eventually it no longer needs the rope. First it follows, then it allows itself to be mounted. The monkey is similarly tamed before being sent on its way. Finally, at the thirty-third stage, the mahout and the elephant become friends and the animal does whatever it is bidden.
Many today are somewhat familiar with Buddhist meditation thanks to the popularity of mindfulness. But within the Tibetan tradition, mindfulness is only one of a wide range of techniques. Moreover, it is almost invariably practiced alongside “insight,” or single-pointed meditation—and always within the ethical and spiritual framework of Buddhism. Insight meditation aims at increasing the practitioner’s ability to concentrate, single-pointedly, and with the mind fully alert, on a given object, whether this object be physical, such as a statue or a thangka, or visualized, such as a meditation deity—for hours on end in the case of the most accomplished practitioners. But there are many other techniques as well, some involving breathing and others physical exercises, while still others involve practitioners visualizing themselves as deities. All aim at the eventual goal of complete mastery of the practitioner’s mental states.
It is also important to understand that these practices are, from the point of view of the tradition, in no sense a turning away, or a tuning out, from the world. The Tibetan word for meditation, gom, means, literally, familiarization. Thus, for example, in “exchanging self for other,” the meditator becomes familiar with the emotional states attendant on visualizing a friend, a random individual toward whom one has no particular feelings, and an enemy. Having identified the positive, neutral, and negative emotional states that these different visualizations arouse, the meditator becomes thoroughly acquainted with the first emotion—with the intention of developing the very same feeling toward the enemy as the yoga progresses.
The Buddhist theory of mind expounded in the Collected Topics entails that each of the senses constitutes a distinct consciousness. Something seen is thus an object of eye-consciousness, something heard is an object of ear-consciousness, something smelled is an object of olfactory consciousness. And yet, most important of all, and most radical, is the further understanding that ultimately there is no substantive self that bears these different aspects of consciousness, or in which mind itself may be said to reside. Buddhism teaches that what we mistakenly suppose to be our “self” is precisely the cause of the suffering we endure.
But if the self is ultimately illusory, what of physical objects? According to some thinkers, matter is a karmic effect of beings existing (where karma is the imprint on the individual mental continuum, or stream of consciousness, of a being’s actions, whether positive, negative, or neutral). Physical objects (including rocks, rivers, and oceans) are held to be the fruit of the deeds of sentient beings over limitless time. Furthermore, the universe we see around us is not made up of vanishingly small non-physical particles out of which first matter, then life, then consciousness emerge. Other Buddhist thinkers are agnostic as to the origins of matter, saying only that the existence of physical objects is just an aspect of the way things are. Generally speaking, however, in Buddhism mind precedes matter. Does this then mean that consciousness itself is what reality ultimately consists in? In fact, although there is a Buddhist school of thought that holds this to be the case, the Gelug tradition, following Nagarjuna’s Middle Way approach, speaks of two truths, “conventional” and “ultimate.”* Traditionally taught only to those deemed capable of hearing it without misunderstanding, the doctrine maintains that what we take to be real is illusory: no more substantial than the foam that appears on a fast-flowing stream, or the reflection of the moon in a pool of water, or a flash of lightning in the dark of night. The ultimate nature of reality is empty—indeed, it is emptiness itself.
Here is not the place for a discussion of the merits of this claim. Suffice it to say that it has found support among contemporary anti-realist philosophers worldwide. It is also important to understand that, at least for Tsongkhapa (founder of the Dalai Lamas’ Gelugpa sect and Tibet’s most subtle philosopher), the doctrine is not, as is sometimes maintained, the nihilistic claim that ultimately nothing at all exists. It is instead a claim about how things exist: they exist, but only dependently—hence the further claim that all phenomena are interdependent. There is no first cause, and nothing that exists does so essentially. This should not be taken to mean that the Buddhist tradition as handed on to the Dalai Lama was without a clear picture of how the world we inhabit came into being. On the contrary, Buddhism has a detailed theory of both the natural and the supernatural realms, and cosmology was a major component of the curriculum set out in the Collected Topics.
In brief, the traditional scheme envisages a great four-sided world mountain, Meru, which rises out of a vast ocean.† To north, south, east, and west are grouped a number of islands. One of these islands, Dzambu Ling, the Rose Garden, is the one we humans inhabit. In other words, our world is flat. Why do we not see Mount Meru? Because the side toward which we face is composed of lapis lazuli—the color of the sky. And what of the sun and the moon? These are held aloft by cosmic winds which carry them in an orbit around the mountain. Beneath the earth lies, first, the realm of the yidag, the hungry ghosts, then the hell regions, eight of them cold and eight of them hot. Altogether there are six realms that together make up samsara, the always unsatisfactory state in which all sentient beings subsist until they attain Enlightenment. At the top there is the realm of the blissful gods; beneath this comes that of the demigods. Third comes the human realm. Beneath the human realm is the animal realm. Next comes the realm of hungry ghosts and finally the realm of the various hells. Yet, although the human realm is not at the top of this hierarchy, it is only as a human that a being has the opportunity to become enlightened during this very life.
The blissful gods are held to reside on the summit of Mount Meru, while the demigods live at different levels, according to status and spiritual development. The human and animal realms need no explanation, but that of the hungry ghosts demands one. A being (whether god, demigod, human, or animal) who in this life is gluttonous and driven by the desire for food is in danger of being reborn as a “hungry ghost,” or yidag. These piteous creatures have enormous bellies, absurdly long and thin necks, eyes that emit pestiferous and fiery gases that dry up everything their gaze alights on, and mouths the size of the eye of a needle. Subsisting in the underworld, not far below the surface of the earth, they are perpetually tormented by their inability to satisfy their hunger.
As for the hell realms, as one might expect, these increase in severity the further down one goes; by the time we reach the sixth hell, the custodians of this realm seize the damned, throw them into large cauldrons, and boil them like fish before impaling them on red-hot iron stakes until their intestines obtrude and flames burst forth from every orifice.
With respect to the realm of the demigods, although their conditions are far superior to those on earth (there are no food shortages or natural disasters to worry about), the inhabitants are not to be envied. They spend their time fighting and are almost invariably reborn in the lower realms. Even those who attain the highest heavens and experience bliss to a degree we humans cannot imagine are not immune to suffering and death, nor from the possibility of sliding back into one of the other realms through the accumulation of negative karma. They remain within samsara.
Although today the Dalai Lama rejects a literal reading of this cosmology, nonetheless, in just the same way that the Genesis story lies behind Big Bang theory and continues to haunt the Western im
agination, the traditional picture of the world elaborated in the scriptures grounds the Mahayana worldview and continues to haunt the Tibetan imagination. It is also true that, by the time of the Dalai Lama’s boyhood, this traditional Tibetan view of the universe was under pressure. Children of the aristocracy and merchant classes educated by the British in India already had a very different picture of the world—which is undoubtedly part of the reason why the English language school in Lhasa that opened in 1947 was shut down after only one term. The monasteries were opposed on the grounds that its presence would harm the Buddhadharma.
It was for similar reasons that the young Dalai Lama was forbidden to speak to Lowell Thomas, the legendary American journalist and broadcaster, who visited Lhasa in 1949. During his audience, the fourteen-year-old Dalai Lama “smiled when asked and agreeably changed position for our cameras,” Thomas noted. But that was all. It was not until late in 1949 that the teenager at last contrived a meeting at which he could actually speak with a foreigner. This was the thirty-three-year-old Austrian mountaineer and, notoriously, former SS Oberscharführer and Nazi Party member Heinrich Harrer, one of Lhasa’s six resident Westerners.* There might have been one more—a Catholic missionary based at Yerkalo. But soon after setting out for Lhasa, where he intended to implore the Dalai Lama’s protection, he was shot by monks from a nearby monastery.
The Dalai Lama Page 13
