The Dalai Lama

by Alexander Norman

  The statistics are as sorrowful as they are startling. But it is the Dalai Lama’s reaction to them that seems to many to be almost as remarkable, if differently so. While one might expect him firmly to oppose such horror, at no point has he come forward categorically to condemn the practice. In fact, self-sacrifice, usually by burning but also by other methods, such as starvation, is an attested component of Buddhist tradition with scriptural warrant—in both the Jataka Tales and the Lotus Sutra, for example. When, therefore, the Dalai Lama is called upon by the Chinese to repudiate self-immolation, it is actually not surprising that he refrains from doing so definitively—even though he discourages it. For him, the question is one of motivation. To the extent that the act is motivated by compassion (a motivation that the Dalai Lama has said would be extremely hard to maintain in the circumstances), it may be considered licit nonetheless. We should also remember that, from the point of view of the families and loved ones of those who have made what they see as the ultimate sacrifice, an edict from the Precious Protector condemning the practice would seem a cruel repudiation.

  For an outsider, it is almost impossible to imagine the depths of despair, coupled with love for the Dalai Lama, that, even after all these years, a majority of Tibetans continue to feel in the depths of their hearts. If, though, we look at some of the photographs taken during the first half of the twentieth century—or, better still, some of the silent film shot by Sir Basil Gould on his 1940 expedition to Lhasa for the enthronement of the Dalai Lama—perhaps we can attain an inkling of it. Though somewhat grainy, the best frames give a vivid sense of the tradition that still has such a grip on the Tibetan imagination. There we catch a glimpse of the culture before the ill winds of industrialism blasted the country’s fragile landscape. There we see the world ordered aright: the high-ranking members of the Ganden Phodrang government, the length of pendant in their left ear denoting their rank, standing swathed in delicious golden brocade shot with turquoise and green, vermillion and violet, the womenfolk adorned with fabulous headdresses on which are displayed lapis, coral, and jade, while around their necks they sport strings of gzi, the strange “heaven pearls” said to have been made by the gods themselves.* There we see the leading lamas of the day, likewise sumptuously clad, as befits their status, and the serried ranks of religious—testimony to the indispensability of the sangha in public life—while we can almost hear the whirl of prayer wheels spinning in the hands of the faithful to affirm the primacy of religion in the lives of the laypeople. But we note, too, signs of the feudal character of the old society: the grooms trotting alongside their masters’ palfreys, the servants standing mutely expectant at their beck and call.

  If it is true that in this film and in old photographs we get an inkling of what has been lost, it would be quite wrong to suppose that it is the outward expression of this loss that people mourn. The often opium-addicted, often weak, conniving, and morally corrupt aristocrats are not missed. Still less does anyone regret the abolition of the feudal system, the exploitation of the many by the few, and the lifelong obligations to monastic and manorial estates. No, it is neither the pomp nor the circumstance of the old days that is regretted. Rather, it is the right-ordering of the world—a world where the Potala’s Lion Throne is occupied by the Precious Protector and in which the rites and remembrances of religion occupy their proper place at the heart of public life—that is so keenly lamented.

  Very likely those young men and women who sacrifice themselves have little idea what the return of the Dalai Lama would entail; they merely sense that it would be enough. And they would be right. The fact is, it is unthinkable that he would do so without some guarantee of basic liberties for his people: education in their own language, freedom of association, equality of opportunity, and, above all, the lifting of restrictions on religious practice. Of course, no such rights were recognized in the old Tibet. Outside the monasteries there was little, if any, education available, and none for free. There was no freedom of association or opinion, as Lungshar learned to his terrible cost. As for equality of opportunity, the concept had no meaning—even if it was true that a good number of lamas, such as Reting Rinpoché himself, were of humble background and that one or two who came to the Dalai Lama’s attention were promoted to the aristocracy. In general, if you were born to a low estate, that was your karma. If, then, you ran away from a master, you were justly liable to punishment—even though you had no means of paying debts incurred by your forebears many generations ago. Far from bringing about a return to the old ways, the Dalai Lama’s reinstallation at the Potala would signify a radical departure from the past. Yet while all this would of course be welcome, it is the mere fact of Chenresig residing among his people for which most Tibetans yearn before all else.

  22

  ✵

  The Magical Play of Illusion

  In April 2011 the Dalai Lama announced his full retirement from office as leader of the Tibetan government in exile.* Henceforth it would be headed by a democratically elected first minister. In thus handing over political power, the Precious Protector brought to an end three and a half centuries of theocratic rule—albeit that power had for long periods been vested in regents acting in the name of the Dalai Lama. It was a reform not universally applauded by Tibetans, but it had clearly been among the Precious Protector’s plans from the moment he decided in favor of democracy on first coming into exile.

  The Dalai Lama effected extraordinary change with this move. When Altan Khan, the Mongol strongman of sixteenth-century Central Asia, proclaimed Sonam Gyatso, abbot of Drepung, to be Taleh (the Mongolian term for ocean, from which the word “Dalai” is derived) Lama, the Tibetan was head of a monastery comprising several thousand monks. But although this conferred immense prestige and great wealth, the direct political power attaching to him personally was limited to the sway he held over the Gelug establishment in general and over Drepung and its sister monasteries and their estates in particular. It was not until the Great Fifth secured the patronage of another of the Khans that the institution of the Dalai Lama attained such prestige that, in combination with his viceroy and backed by the military might of the Mongols, he could exercise political power across the Tibetan Buddhist world as a whole. In so doing, the Great Fifth forged the Tibetan people into a broadly harmonious society in a way that had not been seen since the fall of the religious kings in the ninth century. Moreover, his imaginative recapitulation of the Tibetan empire brought the spiritual realm of gods, demons, and protectors together with the earthly realm of human beings, their landed property, and their possessions, and made both answerable to a single authority.

  What the present Dalai Lama brought about with his retirement was thus not just his withdrawal from politics but the end of the dispensation whereby, in effect, the Dalai Lama united within himself the functions of both priest and patron. This, it will be remembered, was the paradigmatic relationship whereby the priest, or lama, guaranteed the legitimacy of the king, while the king in turn supported the lama temporally. Under the new dispensation, the Dalai Lama continues to rule the supernatural realm while earthly matters are placed under the authority of a secular establishment. What is especially innovative about this maneuver is the elevation of the people themselves to the role of patron.

  The withdrawal of the Dalai Lama’s authority from the temporal realm was almost as important for its psychological as for its political value. No longer should Tibetans look to the Dalai Lama for answers to every question of a practical nature that, in theory at least, they had hitherto been free to put to him. Instead, they would stand on their own feet. The Dalai Lama and his successors could thus concern themselves with what they are actually trained for, namely, spiritual direction, even if, to the end of this life, he would remain a symbolic figurehead for his people.

  Given that the Precious Protector’s every word is held by most of his people to have divine authority, it presumably takes considerable restraint on his part not to speak out on earthly mat
ters from time to time. But save for his handling of the Shugden controversy, insofar as it is a political matter, the Dalai Lama has so far shown little inclination to intervene in affairs of state. Instead, the former leader has dedicated himself to fulfilling what he describes as his three “main commitments.” These are, first, as a human being, by helping others to be happy; second, as a Buddhist monk, by working to bring about harmony among the world’s various religious traditions; and third, as a Tibetan, by helping to preserve his country’s unique language and culture. In this last, he emphasizes the enormous debt the Tibetan tradition owes to what it inherited from the Indian scholar-saints of Nalanda, the Buddhist monastic university that flourished from the fifth to the twelfth century and provided the blueprint for the monastic universities of Tibet.

  A major component of these commitments is the Dalai Lama’s dedication to the environmentalist cause. The destruction of wildlife in Tibet since 1950 is a continuing sorrow to him, though his attitude toward the environment generally is neither sentimental nor a function of his religiosity. There is nothing “sacred or holy” about nature, he writes in his autobiography; rather, “taking care of our planet is like taking care of our houses.” Similarly, while he is a ready advocate of compassion in farming and has said on occasion that he would like to be the “world spokesman for fish,” he does not go so far as to deny categorically the possibility that animal experimentation might, in certain circumstances, be justifiable—provided that the motive in doing so is altruistic. It is characteristic of the Buddhist approach to avoid absolutes. Also to the dismay of some, the Dalai Lama, though he has often spoken in favor of vegetarianism, is, as we have seen, not a vegetarian himself. Moreover, he recognizes the difficulty of living in an environmentally responsible way and does not make a fetish of doing so. While eschewing baths, he admits that, in taking a shower morning and evening, there might be little difference in his water consumption.

  With respect to his commitment to helping others find happiness, the Dalai Lama includes scientific research as an important component in the human search for felicity. To this end, he continues to meet and to engage in dialogue with scientists from around the world. Whether a consequence of this is that he has himself “become one of the world’s greatest scientists,” as Robert Thurman has suggested, may be open to question. It is certainly not a claim he would make for himself. But his patronage of a compendium of Buddhist scientific texts demonstrates his wish to see Buddhist inquiry, especially into the nature of consciousness, given serious consideration by outsiders. Noting the congruence between the Buddhist and the scientific worldviews, the Dalai Lama wonders why “the impulse for helping and kindness are not recognized as drivers for human behaviour and . . . flourishing?” If scientists were to ask these questions honestly, he believes that they would find the answers provided by Buddhist thinkers compelling.

  In the field of interreligious dialogue, the Dalai Lama has, since retiring from office, continued to meet and to pray with religious leaders and prominent spiritual figures from around the world. Setting aside his vow to refrain from intoxicating beverages, he once partook of Holy Communion administered by Archbishop Desmond Tutu. On another occasion, he donned an apron to serve food in a church-run homeless shelter in Australia. Despite hostility from some quarters, the Dalai Lama has visited Israel more than once; in 2006, he met with both the Sephardi and Ashkenazi chief rabbis. He has also visited several Islamic countries, notably Jordan, again more than once, meeting with Prince Ghazi bin Mohammed, a leading figure in Islamic interfaith dialogue, later that same year.

  Besides advocating pluralism with respect to other religions, it is evident that the Dalai Lama also wishes to strengthen his followers in their faith. As a rule, he counsels people to remain within their own faith tradition, remarking that if a person is a poor practitioner of one, changing to another will do nothing to improve matters. Referring to his visit to the monastery of Le Grand Chartreuse, where he noticed the monks’ feet cracked with cold from wearing only sandals, he praises the dedication of followers of non-Buddhist religions. At the same time, he speaks of his concern about Tibetan teachers abroad who live luxuriously or flout their vows. Yet his concern about behavior inappropriate to prelates is not confined to Buddhists. When Pope Francis removed a German ecclesiastic for the ostentatious restoration of his residence, the Dalai Lama wrote to congratulate the Roman pontiff.* Whether or not it is true that, of all the other religions, the Dalai Lama feels closest to Catholicism is an open question. On the one hand, for him it is given a priori that there is no Creator. On the other hand, the superficial similarities between many of the liturgical practices of Rome and Lhasa cause him to wonder if there was not earlier contact between the two traditions. Both religions practice ritual eating and drinking, and both venerate the relics of saints. It is also true that the Dalai Lama has been hosted many times by ecumenically minded Catholic organizations, and if he is not mistaken, the Dalai Lama enjoys divine approval for fostering links with the Catholic Church. On a visit to Fatima in 2001, he experienced a vision of the Virgin Mary, whose statue turned and smiled at him. In this context, it is not entirely clear how we are to interpret his remark that one of the biggest surprises of his life came when Pope Benedict XVI proclaimed the indispensability of reason to religious faith. In the Dalai Lama’s view, if people would only think hard enough, they would come to see the truth of how things really are—and thus the falsity of the pope’s position and the correctness of his own.

  The Dalai Lama’s dedication to these three main commitments has meant that his retirement from politics has not resulted in any more leisure than before. He continues to receive dozens of invitations to talk or teach even though, when his office accepts any of these on his behalf nowadays, it is on the proviso that the Dalai Lama’s public appearances are limited to two hours a day. Meanwhile, he continues to take spiritual teachings and instruction from other lamas as often as his schedule permits, while he maintains rigorously his own practice and study. When traveling abroad, he makes no concession to jet lag and always rises at the same time of day. His one real recreation is to attend monastic debates and follow the progress of the rising generation of scholars, particularly on his visits to the great monastic universities refounded in the south of India. A particular source of joy to him on such occasions is that he is able to do so not, as is generally supposed by non-monastics, as a “great authority” but rather as a supremely well-informed student eager to learn from those who, unlike him, have been able to devote their whole lives to study.

  He continues to take the opportunity while traveling to visit places of interest or special significance. He prayed at the site of Martin Luther King’s assassination on one trip to America. On another, he announced his wish to visit an active volcano. As a bonus, on that particular occasion he was delighted to spot a plant species that he had cultivated at home in Dharamsala. “Suddenly,” recalls Thurman, “with a whoop of glee, he leaped off the roadway and across a ditch . . . and clambered up the opposite embankment . . . He then asked to be photographed holding out a leaf . . . He stood there in his goofy hat, grinning from ear to ear . . . ‘Next life,’ he announced, ‘I will be a naturalist!’”

  Since retiring, the Dalai Lama has continued to confer the Kalachakra initiation—both at home in India and abroad. In 2014 he did so for the third time in Ladakh, where a new palace was built for him toward the end of the last century, onto a crowd estimated at a quarter of a million. At the time of writing, he has conducted the Kalachakra ceremonies thirty-four times since his initiation into the practice.

  With regard to those invitations to speak in public that the Dalai Lama accepts, it is of course true that they are the ones that his closest advisers deem suitable to recommend to him. Any that are proposed directly may be lobbied against by the same individuals. It is also natural that, sometimes, personal connections and preferences on their part come into play. And it is true that, over the years, there have be
en a number of missteps. One of the most embarrassing was the series of audiences granted in the late 1980s to Shoko Asahara, the Japanese cult leader and future mass murderer. Since Asahara’s emergence as the mastermind of the gas attack on a Tokyo subway station, the Dalai Lama has often pointed out that, if he was, as a manifestation of a bodhisattva, perfectly omniscient, he would not have been hoodwinked by the cult leader.

  A more recent embarrassment was the Dalai Lama’s public talk in Albany, New York, partially sponsored by the controversial group known as NXIVM (pronounced Nexium). It was alleged that the organization, besides conducting dubious financial activities, was also a sex cult, an allegation that has since been proven correct. It has also been claimed that, as a condition of the Dalai Lama’s participation in the event, a large sum of money changed hands. The Dalai Lama’s office was quick to point out that the Dalai Lama never charges a fee for appearing, a fact attested to by many who have organized events at which he has been featured.* It should also be said that the Dalai Lama mentioned in his talk that he was aware that there was controversy about NXIVM, which, he suggested, should be investigated properly. Nonetheless, it is apparent that there was a link between the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan monk working in a semiofficial capacity, subsequently removed from office, who had facilitated his appearance. This individual was subsequently reinstated and exonerated, although his position was then almost immediately abolished by the Dalai Lama, suggesting some uncomfortable behind-the-scenes maneuvering. It has struck some that the Precious Protector may not always be well served by those closest to him.