The Dalai Lama

by Alexander Norman

  The new technology brought with it a number of problems, however. When Lhalu, the outgoing governor of Chamdo, had occasion to speak with Trijang Rinpoché over the air, he was nearly undone by the novelty of the experience. Before beginning the call, he “approached the microphone reverently and placed a ceremonial white scarf . . . in front of it [and] bowed his head as if to receive a blessing.” Although his replacement, Ngabo (the g can safely be ignored), a young reform-minded aristocrat, was less troubled by etiquette, the new governor was so afraid of its breaking down that he refused to allow the second set out of his sight. Any chance he had of early warning about hostile troop movements from sending it out closer to where the Chinese were likely to approach from was thereby lost.

  The spring and summer months of 1949 passed with a heightening sense that something immense was about to happen. One day a comet appeared in the dawn sky to the south of Lhasa, followed on August 15 by a massive earthquake (measuring 8.6 on the Richter scale) in the southeast, technically just inside India, though in an area settled by Tibetans. This, Harrer reports, was accompanied by “thirty or forty” dull explosions and a strange glow visible in the sky to the east. Though Harrer assured the Dalai Lama these were nothing more than physical events, for the Dalai Lama—to this day—they were clearly more than that. When the capital of a stone pillar at the Potala was found lying on the ground and a gargoyle on the roof of the Jokhang started gushing water, despite the “blazing summer weather,” it was taken as conclusive proof, if further evidence were needed, that the deities were mightily perturbed.

  Not long afterwards, a series of posters appeared on the walls along the street leading to the Norbulingka Palace bearing the slogan “Give the Dalai Lama the Power,” and rumors began to sweep Lhasa that the oracles were urging the regent to step down. There was by this time a general feeling that only the Precious Protector could save his people from looming catastrophe. For the time being, however, he remained sequestered within the Norbulingka, his only real contact with events in the outside world coming from Harrer’s weekly visits.

  The Chinese government meanwhile stepped up pressure on the regency, calling on it to send competent negotiators at once. Initially the proposed talks were to have taken place in Hong Kong, but the British, who administered the territory at the time, not wishing to become involved, demurred. The venue was then shifted to New Delhi. At the same time, the Chinese sent an emissary (actually a monk volunteer) to Chamdo with a series of demands. Conveniently for the Tibetans, he died soon after his arrival—of poison, according to the Chinese, who were furious. Finally, the Communist leadership announced in September that if it wanted to avoid war, the Tibetan government should immediately acknowledge that Tibet was part of China, that the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) now be deployed on Tibet’s international borders, and that Tibet immediately cut all ties with the “imperialist powers.”

  For the Tibetans, this was completely unacceptable. Yet the prospect of war was equally untenable. Unable to see a way out of the conundrum, the government did what it always did when faced with a dilemma. It stalled. Accordingly, on October 5, 1950, Mao, his patience spent, ordered the PLA to attack multiple Tibetan positions in the eastern province of Kham.

  Ngabo’s defense plan amounted to little more than hoping that the mere presence of his troops, together with reinforcements on their way from Lhasa, would be sufficient to give the PLA pause. Then, if the negotiations taking place in Delhi could just be put off a little longer, winter would intervene, and the gods would have more time to work a miracle.

  This was hopelessly optimistic. The Chinese were perfectly capable of launching an attack in winter. As for the thought that the battle-hardened PLA would be put off by the arrival of a few hundred reinforcements from Lhasa, that too was a vain hope. It is true that the PLA was far from home, with a long and vulnerable supply chain. But the Chinese army command was well aware that the Khampas, in whose province Chamdo lay, were hardly less hostile to the Lhasa government than they were to the Chinese themselves. As recently as 1934, a Khampa warlord had made a serious bid to wrest control of the region from Lhasa. Ngabo could not count on anything more than minimal support from the local tribespeople.

  On October 7 the Chinese struck again, this time cutting off Chamdo’s southern escape route. The local army commander responded by surrendering his entire force without a fight, leaving the town at the mercy of the PLA. Because of his refusal to deploy the second radio set, news of this catastrophe did not reach Ngabo for several days, however. It has been argued that Ngabo willfully betrayed Chamdo into the hands of the Chinese, a charge that his subsequent collaboration with the Communists supports. But the fact is, even if he had been able to stall the PLA’s advance, the outcome was inevitable. Nonetheless, he did not wish to surrender without being ordered to do so. He therefore contacted his opposite number in Lhasa in order to ascertain the instructions of the Kashag, the regent’s four-man cabinet. There was no reply. On the third attempt, Lhasa was finally goaded into responding.

  “Right now,” Ngabo was told, “it is the period of the Kashag’s picnic and they are all participating in this. Your telegrams are being decoded and then we will send you a reply.”

  At this he exploded.

  “Shit on their picnic! Though we are blocked here, and the nation is threatened and every minute may make a difference to our fate, you talk about that shit picnic!”

  There was no further contact with Lhasa that day. This was the time of year when almost the entirety of the populace took themselves off to the parkland outside the city for a week of relaxation (not to say drinking and gambling), the wealthy in their tents, the poor camped al fresco. Ngabo thus had no orders as to whether he should try to hold Chamdo or whether he should withdraw. Already convinced that resistance to the Chinese would be futile, the governor determined that, in the absence of clear directions from Lhasa, he would simply await the arrival of the Chinese and hope to effect an escape at the last moment.

  The next day, news of the loss of another town to the south of Chamdo came in, followed that evening by a message from Riwoche in the southeast that the PLA were now in occupation of that town as well. Chamdo was surrounded. Without telling anyone, Ngabo abandoned his post that night. At seven o’clock the following morning, Ford, the British radio operator, realized something was amiss. Having woken to the sound of bells ringing and horses’ hooves on the street outside, he looked out to see “people . . . running in all directions.” His immediate concern was the reaction of the local Khampa population. Realizing that the government forces were in full retreat, they wasted no time in looting what possessions and weaponry the Lhasans had left behind. And beyond that, it was clear that they were intent on killing any remaining government officials they could lay their hands on.

  Showing rather greater initiative than Ngabo, Ford made his way to the radio station and disabled the transmitters before heading south in the hope of reaching the Indian border. Unfortunately for him, the earthquake two months earlier had rendered this impossible and he was forced to follow the retreating governor in the direction of Lhasa. Managing to evade hostile Khampas, he caught up with Ngabo later that same day. But they could go no farther and were both taken into Chinese custody. While Ngabo and his entourage were treated to a hearty meal and his soldiers each given a silver coin and told to return home, Ford was taken back to Chamdo, where he was interrogated and charged with being a British spy.*

  With Kham now lost, it could be only a matter of time before Lhasa followed. Having no other option, Taktra therefore instructed the government’s chief negotiator to inform the Chinese ambassador that the Tibetan government was now willing to accept Chairman Mao’s terms. The Dalai Lama, following events as best he could, was devastated. Instinctively he knew that he must act. While the news that Chamdo had fallen was grave, the regent’s decision to surrender seemed to him utter folly. Surely, he argued, the correct thing to do was to consult with the deities befo
re taking such a large step as to surrender sovereignty. That the regent did not face down the fifteen-year-old Dalai Lama shows how uncertain of his own position he now was. He agreed to a divination at which the Dalai Lama and the highest-ranking members of the government would be present. This would take place in the Mahakala chapel at the Norbulingka, where the protectors Mahakala and the Glorious Goddess would both be invoked to give their opinion.

  With respect to the Dalai Lamas personally, after the Glorious Goddess, Mahakala is the second-most important of the protectors. Recognized within the Hindu tradition as a consort of Kali, the Destroyer, Mahakala is held to have shown his care for the Dalai Lama institution when the first Dalai Lama (Gendun Drub, 1391–1474) was an infant. One night, bandits attacked the encampment where his family was settled. Fearing for her baby’s life, the future Dalai Lama’s mother took the child and hid him in the cleft of a rock before fleeing. When she returned the next morning, trembling for his safety, she found a raven protecting the little boy. This, it was later understood, was Mahakala in earthly form. To commemorate the episode, the protector is often shown in thangkas and sculpture with a raven’s head.

  The result of the divination showed that the protectors were of the firm opinion that no such concession should be made to the Chinese, and an order countermanding the original directive was immediately sent to the government’s negotiators in Delhi. It came too late, however. The Chinese were already pressing for a date for formal negotiations to begin in Beijing. Chairman Mao was determined that Tibet should come into the fold, and to be seen to come into the fold voluntarily rather than be forced to accept terms. But he had made it abundantly clear that if Tibet did not come willingly, he was prepared to order the PLA to move on Lhasa.

  The Tibetan negotiators understood that the only hope for Tibet was full-throated support from any one of either the Republic of India, Great Britain, or the United States—and preferably from all three. But the Indian government of Jawaharlal Nehru was determined not to be drawn into a conflict which it had neither the resources nor the will to prosecute. Rather, Nehru dreamed of a new world order in which both China and India could participate on an equal footing with Britain, America, Russia, and the great powers of Europe.

  The British, for their part, made clear that they did not wish to become involved and merely reiterated their policy of recognizing Chinese “suzerainty” over Tibet—though without ever defining precisely what they meant by the term.

  As for the United States, it had begun to take an interest in Tibet, seeing there an opportunity for opposing the spread of communism in the East. Overt support was not in question, however, and even America said that it would not back the appeal that the Tibetans, acting on the secret advice of the Indian political officer resident in Lhasa (no longer Richardson), now sought to have heard by the United Nations.

  In the meantime, following the divination in the Mahakala chapel, the Tibetan government held a further audience with the deities, this time consulting the Nechung and Gadong oracles for their advice on what action should now be taken. At first the deities were less than forthcoming. Nechung said only, “If you don’t make good offerings, I cannot protect religion and the welfare of the people.” The Gadong oracle likewise said nothing of consequence. Exasperated, one of the ministers in attendance pleaded with Nechung: “While we [humans] are dull and stupid, you are the one who has brilliant wisdom and knowledge of things. You also have the special responsibility for Buddhism in general and Tibet in particular. You should not be behaving like an ordinary human being, so give us a proper prophecy.”

  At this, the medium (still in a trance) began dancing. When he came directly in front of the Dalai Lama, he prostrated himself three times and, with tears streaming down his face, proclaimed that power should at once be transferred to the Dalai Lama. Taktra Rinpoché now had no option other than to resign. All that remained was for an auspicious day for the formal handover ceremony to be chosen. The date settled on was November 17, 1950—a scant four months after the Precious Protector’s fifteenth birthday.* From now on, all important decisions would be referred to him.

  Yet if this was a moment of immense significance both to the Dalai Lama personally and to the history of these times, it was the Dalai Lama’s adoption of the sacred bodhisattva vow at just this moment that was, from his own point of view, still more important. With this he pledged to serve others with every fiber of his being unceasingly until such time as they should all become enlightened. It is a commitment that he has often commemorated since by quoting the prayer of the revered eighth-century monk Shantideva:

  For as long as space endures

  And for as long as living beings remain,

  Until then, may I too abide

  To dispel the misery of the world.

  A week after the Dalai Lama’s assumption of temporal power, Tibet’s appeal to the United Nations was heard. But given India’s desire not to antagonize the Chinese, and given that both Britain and the United States were content to follow India’s lead, it was inevitable that this would not amount to anything. For the Tibetans, there was nothing to do but accept the Chinese demand and send a delegation to Beijing, no matter what the Dalai Lama’s or the deities’ feelings on the matter might be.

  The most pressing question to be answered now was whether the Dalai Lama should remain in Lhasa or leave. When the British invaded in 1904, the Great Thirteenth had fled north to Urgya. This time, however, the only plausible destination outside Tibet was Sikkim to the south, and perhaps from there into India. In 1950 Sikkim was still an independent state, ruled by a Tibetan prince, or Chögyal, with a predominantly Tibetan population. Again this question was not one that could be decided by earthly opinion alone, so the deities were consulted. Their verdict was that, for safety’s sake, the Dalai Lama should quit the capital. It was decided, however, that rather than head straight into exile, he should take refuge in the village of Dromo (known locally as Yatung) on the Tibetan side of the border. There he could be in close proximity to Dungkhar, a monastery with which Taktra Rinpoché and the Dalai Lama’s two tutors all had close connections. This was an early-sixteenth-century Gelugpa foundation and seat of a famous oracle. It was also home to a large number of hermits. These hermits would in some cases withdraw from the world until the end of their natural life and have themselves immured in their cells in the hills surrounding the monastery with only a small aperture, closed up by a brick, through which to receive food once daily.

  The plan was for the Dalai Lama to quit Lhasa in secret, accompanied by his court and senior members of the government, while two tsit tsab, or chief ministers, appointed by the Precious Protector would remain behind in Lhasa to deal with the Chinese as and when they arrived. It was, however, clear to the local populace that something significant was afoot because of the number of heavily laden mules seen leaving the Potala. These carried the contents of the Dalai Lama’s treasury, which the Chögyal had kindly agreed to keep in his strong rooms until the crisis was resolved.

  According to Harrer, outwardly life in Lhasa “followed its normal course.” But inwardly people were terrified. Despite the stories that had begun to circulate of heroic actions by individual soldiers, it was well understood that the army at Chamdo had been routed. And people had a keen memory of the plunder and arson of the last Chinese army to descend on the holy city when it had chased the Great Thirteenth out four decades earlier.

  It was therefore a considerable surprise when it became apparent that the People’s Liberation Army was showing exemplary restraint in Chamdo. Prisoners were well treated, rations were paid for, and, crucially, respect was being shown to the sangha. Not only had there been no looting, but also the soldiers were treating the local population in Chamdo with courtesy. Clearly they were obeying their orders to the letter: “You are not allowed to propagandize against superstition . . . [W]hen visiting monasteries, you should make contact first. And when you go on a visit, you are not allowed to touch the images.
Also you should not spit or fart in the vicinity of the monastery.”

  It is often forgotten that in its early days, the leadership of the Chinese Communist Party genuinely believed it possible to bring about a more just and equitable society for all peoples by putting into practice Karl Marx’s political philosophy. Liberation was not just about China securing its borders but about sharing the benefits of revolution. This entailed the abolition of feudalism and, with this, the implementation of true justice. As in China, so it would be in Tibet: the land would be taken from the hands of the aristocracy, the monasteries, and the gentry and distributed among the people. No longer would one small group of individuals lord it over a vastly larger group purely on account of an accident of birth.

  Of course, Tibetans saw matters quite differently. They understood well enough that theirs was a backward country. Doubtless there was a minority that would have welcomed the overthrow of the feudal system. But for the majority, what Marxist theory understood to be a socioeconomic system was simply the Tibetan way of life. Whether your position in life was high or low, it reflected the karma accumulated during former lives. If you were treated harshly by your landlord, you could at least be certain that he would suffer in a future life. The way to mitigate your own suffering was through spiritual practice and the accumulation of merit. For the majority, therefore, all talk of reform was met with outright hostility. For now, however, Mao let it be known that there was no question of actually implementing change before the Tibetans were ready for it.

  The sincerity of this reassuring pledge was sharply contradicted by the Dalai Lama’s eldest brother, who made a sudden appearance in the capital just before the Precious Protector left for the south. Following his election as abbot of Kumbum Monastery a year earlier, Taktser Rinpoché had observed at first hand the behavior of the Communists in Amdo. It had quickly become apparent that, whatever the Communists might say about leaving people free to practice their faith, the reality was quite different. He had found himself dogged by a pair of party officials delegated to accompany him everywhere and harangue him at every turn: the monks of Kumbum must be integrated into the labor force; the practice of using butter to fuel the thousands of lamps should cease at once. Why were the monasteries’ resources frittered away on incense and silk offering scarves? And when had prayer “ever filled a man’s belly”? Did he not have to admit that religion stood in the way of progress?