2 NOVEMBER
Mrs Tsiring Dolma is becoming more and more difficult to deal with. Last week I had a flaming row with her when she most unjustly attacked Doris and Jill in my presence, and today it was SCF’s turn to struggle with her incomprehensible attitudes.
The Menteths and Jenny are to take nine of our most delicate children to fill vacant places at Stirling Castle, and it so happens that among these is a very weakly eight-year-old orphan boy, nicknamed ‘the doctor’s friend’. (He and Oliver are as attached as Cama Yishy and I.) One of the camp rules is that no orphan may be transferred elsewhere and one of SCF’s rules is that no child over the age of five may be admitted to their Simla Homes; but naturally when Oliver explained that Tsiring Thondup’s chances of survival would be increased by a removal to Simla the Menteths agreed to make an exception to their rule and the next step was to obtain a similar concession from Mrs Tsiring Dolma. Then the fun started. The Menteths, Juliet, Jenny, Oliver, Mrs Tsiring Dolma, Mr Phalla, an interpreter and myself sat together in our little room for over an hour having what began as a discussion and ended as a verbal free fight. Mrs Tsiring Dolma made outrageous accusations against SCF but the Menteths showed superhuman restraint by not losing their tempers and doggedly attempted to keep the conversation on a reasonable level for Tsiring Thondup’s sake. One could hardly describe us as ‘arguing’ since there was really no basis for argument; Mrs Tsiring Dolma simply repeated at regular intervals ‘There is a rule that no orphan can leave the camp and we cannot break our own rules.’ I asked three times whether the rules or the children were of prime importance but that tiresome question was ignored. In the end Mrs Tsiring Dolma won the unfair contest; she has absolute control over the children here and the issue had never really been in doubt. When she left poor Oliver was nearly in tears, Stuart was swearing like a trooper, Pauline looked exhausted and for the first time I saw Juliet’s composure show signs of cracking.
The most obvious explanation of this incident is also the most uncharitable one, but knowing Mrs Tsiring Dolma as we now do it must be considered as a possibility. Undoubtedly she has compensated herself for the loss of the nationwide power she enjoyed in Tibet by asserting her authority here beyond all reasonable limits and as she clearly resents higher standards of living being provided for Tiblets elsewhere our argument today that Tsiring Thondup would be more likely to survive in Simla must have infuriated her.
This whole incident illustrates some of the typical hazards met with in the world of Tibetan officialdom. One can’t help feeling on occasions that there must be powerful motives, of which we are completely ignorant, behind certain baffling and apparently stupid Tibetan attitudes. Actually we know too little about these people even to begin to understand why they act and speak as they do. In the present case there could be alternative (or complementary) reasons to the one already suggested as an explanation of Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s unco-operativeness. For instance, Tsiring Thondup may be an Incarnate Lama (it’s strongly rumoured that some of our children are) or there could be other grounds, more convincing than his orphan state but unimaginable to us, why he should not be moved to Simla. But the Tibetans, maintaining their traditional xenophobic policy, are always reluctant to clarify these situations. This is especially regrettable when so many of us are anxious to be given the opportunity to understand and would be willing, where possible, to adjust our demands to their outlook.
Another hazard, highlighted during this afternoon’s performance, is the problem of communication. The Palace interpreters are just as fluent as native English speakers, but one often senses that they are being slightly selective in their translations – particularly if home-truths are emanating from one or both sides. Personally I don’t blame them for this; if I were constantly in Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s company I’d be very careful indeed not to translate anything that might worsen her temper during the next twenty-four hours. And if they tone down some of her remarks I’m sure their motives are the best; they must be even more conscious than we are of her ‘difficultness’ and, being intelligent, kindhearted girls, they obviously don’t wish to see bad being made worse. However, none of this helps us to cope with the complexities of communication, which reflect not only the vast difference between two languages, but between two modes of thought and standards of behaviour. Because national characteristics influence language there is room for misunderstanding – often absurd and occasionally tragic – even in conversation with Tibetans who speak English or German fluently.
This morning the weather paid its best respects to our invasion of VIPs and we enjoyed a crisp, sunny day after the storm. I noticed that one of the ‘improvements’ for the visitors’ benefit consists in the removal from their posts of our juvenile sentries. One evening, about a month ago, I registered the fact that for the past few days pairs of the older Tiblets had been sitting continuously at each of the three paths leading into the Lower Nursery – and the odd thing was that even at meal-times they remained ‘in situ’ and had their food brought to them. My enquiries about this curious phenomenon were met with embarrassed evasions: but of course we soon learned that Mrs Tsiring Dolma had instituted a system whereby throughout the entire nursery pairs of children were on guard at each approach during all the daylight hours, so that she might receive immediate warning if anyone entered the camp without her permission. Even when the bad weather came the unfortunate children remained – characteristically – true to their post and today was the first occasion on which the watch was relaxed.
10 NOVEMBER
Today Lhamo and her adoptive family left Dharamsala – in a sadly frustrated condition. Last week they decided, after considerable thought, to attempt to adopt Sonam Nobo (now renamed Tenzing Chockla by the Lamas) – not simply to provide Lhamo with a little Tibetan brother but also because they had, after a fortnight’s acquaintance, fallen hopelessly in love with the infant. Their intention was to care for and educate him, without separating him from Dubkay, whom they were also willing to ‘adopt’ and train as their chauffeur-cum-gardener. Everyone was agreed that for the sakes of all concerned this would be an excellent plan, and Dubkay, who has always been obsessively interested in cars, was thrilled to think that soon he might be learning how to drive and maintain one of these magic chariots.
However, in this set-up it’s one thing to seek permission for such a scheme and another thing to get it. Lhamo’s family are soon returning to Europe and ‘there is a rule’ that for the future no more Tiblets may be adopted by Western families. So that was that.
When the scheme was first discussed and I heard Dubkay approve, but say that the decision was Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s rather than his, my Western hackles rose instantly. Here was a man of thirty-one (my own age!) being offered a never-to-be repeated chance of advancement for himself and his son, yet not being free to accept it. In spite of personal misgivings about dispersing the Tibetan community and settling children in the West my immediate reaction was a standard European upsurge of fury and indignation; everything that matters most to us is outraged by such a curtailment of liberty.
It is very difficult to think objectively on a subject like this, but we must beware of using the wrong yardstick. When Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s decision was announced our bloods boiled in unison, yet Dubkay appeared to be completely unperturbed. Yes, he would have liked to take advantage of this generous offer – but only if those in authority approved. He is not a subtle or reserved man and if he had felt any resentment at being thwarted I doubt if he could have concealed it and simulated that cheerful unconcern with which he greeted the verdict. To us such an incident is symptomatic of a monstrous serfdom, to Dubkay it is merely an occasion for showing a natural dependence on the superior wisdom of one’s rulers. And though we would not consider the bargain a good one he has, in exchange for his personal liberty, a carefree existence on which no problems intrude because what might create them is always someone else’s responsibility. Also, in fairness to the Tibetan Government, we should remember that sim
ilar restrictions limit the freedom of movement of Indian nationals, though theoretically India is a fully-fledged modern democracy.
The wisdom of the decision made in this case is obviously debatable. On the one hand Lhamo’s adoption has not been very successful so far and the same goes for other Tiblets adopted by Western families. Therefore, since the preservation of Tibetan culture can be best served by keeping the refugees united and since Dubkay is already congenially – if not very constructively – employed among his own people, it seems that the decision is justified.
On the other hand this could be considered as one of those exceptional cases where general principles are not the best guide. The family concerned are themselves exceptional in the extent of their understanding sympathy for the Tibetans. They would certainly encourage Sonam Nobo eventually to return to his own people as a doctor or teacher – and in this Dubkay, from what I know of him, would fully support them. Admittedly such a plan is always experimental, and for its success depends almost entirely on the character of the child. But it could be argued that the gamble is worthwhile when the prize might be another trained Tibetan to work among the next generation of refugees, wherever they may then be settled.
Yesterday evening Lhamo’s family invited us all down to a farewell dinner in the Dak-bungalow. This was a rather sad occasion, for during their three weeks here these people became very much part of the camp, and their kindness and gaiety considerably brightened our lives. After dinner we went to the local cinema where I saw my first – and I sincerely hope my last – Hindi film. It was supposed to be superb, one of the best ever, but to me it seemed too boring for description. And it lasted for hours. Oliver very sensibly went to sleep after fifteen minutes, was wakened at the interval and returned to sleep immediately on resumption of play. Juliet, who likes everything Indian, enjoyed it thoroughly; I planned a new article and our host and hostess hunted fleas, of which there were an inordinate number in the immediate vicinity. By the time we were released at 11 p.m. it had become bitterly cold and the sky was ablaze with a frosty glitter of stars.
A few days ago we had another unpleasant altercation with Mrs Tsiring Dolma. This time Oliver was chiefly involved: it seems criminally preposterous that a doctor’s advice should be ignored unless it happens to coincide with the personal whims of a lay-person.
On the morning of the 7th Oliver said that Dowa, one of the cobblers from the Upper Nursery, must go to Ludhiana Hospital for immediate cancer tests – but of course the poor man couldn’t leave the camp without Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s permission, and this was refused. Oliver then wrote to her at the Palace, pointing out the extreme urgency of the case, but a verbal reply came back saying, ‘This man may not leave the camp on any account!’ No reason for refusing permission was even hinted at this time and we quite missed the familiar phrase ‘there is a rule …’ But here again one surmises some strong unknown motive operating beneath the surface – though when we are so consistently excluded from ‘what goes on’ it becomes increasingly difficult to make allowances of this sort. However, political factors could be concerned here; rumours are frequent about the presence of Communist sympathisers among the adults in this camp and if Dowa was a suspect neither the Tibetan nor Indian authorities would wish to have him at liberty in Ludhiana. (The Indians are understandably very alert to the dangers of Chinese spies masquerading as Tibetan refugees; quite a few cases have already been proved, and in consequence the movements of Tibetans in India are closely watched.)
On receiving this verbal reply to his letter Oliver’s next step was to seek a personal interview with Mrs Tsiring Dolma: but this only made the whole thing look more sinister. Dowa himself was at the interview and was made to say (or the interpreter was made to say that he had said … ) that he didn’t wish to leave the camp and knew he was free to go if he wanted to. At this stage in a Tibetan intrigue I usually find myself being disarmed by the sheer naïvety of the manoeuvres. Only a very unsophisticated opponent could hope to deceive us by such a move, for on the previous day Dowa’s eagerness to go to hospital had been quite pathetic.
After this débâcle Oliver returned to the Dispensary in an understandably filthy temper and announced that he was going to write another, more vehement letter on the subject – in fact he declared that he would make it ‘a rude and strong letter’. But this is easier said than done for someone like Oliver; he is temperamentally incapable of being rude, whatever the provocation, and the letter which he showed me after supper was firm but polite. I hinted that his courtly polish might perhaps be wasted on the recipient and poor Oliver looked very worried and said, ‘You think it is not rude enough?’ ‘No,’ I replied, ‘it’s notnearly rude enough – but if I may make a few emendations …?’ To this Oliver somewhat nervously agreed and I saw him flinch when the ‘emendations’ were completed. But for Dowa’s sake he put his gallantry aside and retyped and signed the letter. Thupten, his bearer, then delivered it to the Palace and at 5.30 a.m. on the following morning Dowa left for Ludhiana.
7
Politics and Parents
12 NOVEMBER
Within the past few weeks I’ve been analysing more closely the part this camp plays in the Tibetan refugee tragedy and my conclusions have made me a little uneasy about the gay abandon with which agencies devote money to the project. One wonders if they are aware of the exact nature of the operation they have chosen to subsidise.
On my arrival in July, I took the situation at its face-value; Dharamsala Nursery was a refuge for children whose parents were unable to care for them and who would probably die of neglect if they couldn’t come here. Undoubtedly this is partly true. Some of these children could not survive outside a camp, and it must be admitted that when the Nursery was opened in 1960 the need for such a centre was urgent. But now things are changing; parents are obtaining employment and finding their bearings – yet more and more children have been coming to a camp where, until very recently, ‘conditions were worse than in any European refugee camp immediately after World War II’, to quote the comment of an experienced observer. After living here for some time a strange element in the atmosphere seeps into one’s consciousness and gradually one begins to suspect that philanthropy is not the sole raison d’être of the Dharamsala Tibetan Refugee Nursery.
My doubts on this matter first crystallised about a month ago, when I observed how strongly Mrs Tsiring Dolma resented influential visitors being told that the numbers of children were lessening slightly – an item of news which we passed on joyfully as an indication of some improvement in the general situation. However, the Nursery Principal was very quick to intervene in these conversations and to impress on visitors the fact that soon our numbers would be higher than ever and that more and more funds would be needed to maintain the camp. This ‘prophecy’ has in fact been fulfilled during the past week; many of the hundreds of Tibetans who recently came here from the road-camps on a pilgrimage have now left their children at the Nursery.
The motives behind these parental decisions are disturbing. Soon after Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s show of displeasure at the reduction in our numbers a very reliable source informed me that Lamas are regularly despatched from Dharamsala to the road camps with instructions to encourage parents to bring their children here – and at this stage I began to smell a large and unpleasant rat. I then decided to collect a few statistics, with the aid of a dependable interpreter. To date I’ve questioned seventy-three parents, asking them why they brought their children here, what they wished their children to do when they leave and what their own financial position is at the moment. In 100% of cases the reply to the first question was that they brought the children here to be educated – and the majority added that they also wished them to be near His Holiness. In reply to the second question seventy-one out of seventy-three said that when their children leave here they would like them to do ‘whatever His Holiness wishes’; the remaining two very boldly stated that they wanted their sons to go to Switzerland and become Western-st
yle doctors. (It is interesting that both these fathers were themselves ‘am-chis’ in Tibet.) In reply to the third question fifty-six out of the seventy-three said that they were earning coolie wages on the road-camps; the other seventeen certainly could not have supported their children, being in poor health and dependent on begging or on the generosity of relatives.
These figures give so much food for thought that after considering them over a period of days one begins to suffer from cerebral indigestion. To me it is profoundly shocking that 100% of parents gave ‘educational opportunities’ as the chief reason for bringing their children to this camp. It isn’t natural for Tibetan peasants to think in such terms, except concerning those children who are destined to be monks – and even then it is not the educational advantage of a monastic career that weighs most with the average Tibetan peasant. Therefore this rotten carrot of ‘schooling’ must have been deliberately dangled as part of the campaign to keep Dharamsala camp crammed. And it’s a very rotten carrot because, as I’ve already made clear, the ‘education’ available in the Lower Nursery is farcical even by Indian standards. What really infuriates me is the apparent meanness of this deception – it’s intolerable to think of these docile, trusting peasants, who are so bewildered by our complicated world, being unscrupulously exploited for the benefit of the very people from whom they seek guidance. Even if one allowed that some parents are capable of calculating that their children have a chance of being transferred from Dharamsala to one of the Tibetan schools the deception remains cruel, since at the moment there is no Tibetan school capable of providing an education which might compensate for the loss of an emotionally secure childhood.
Tibetan Foothold Page 13
