Tibetan Foothold

by Dervla Murphy

  The rider added by many parents to the effect that they wanted their children to be near His Holiness is doubtless a genuine personal feeling, and the Tibetan tradition of dedicating young children to the monasteries must make it easier to persuade parents to hand over their sons and daughters to a camp run by His Holiness’s sister. Yet our observations here during the past few months show that family feeling is very strong among the Tibetans and it’s difficult to believe that they would acquiesce to such a ruthless destruction of home-life unless thoroughly brainwashed by interested parties.

  The fact that seventy-one out of seventy-three parents expressed willingness to have their children’s futures organised by His Holiness does not now shock or surprise me as it would once have done. The fundamental problem posed by this attitude is none of our business and must be sorted out among the Tibetans themselves; one can only hope that they get it sorted out quickly, before the whole structure of their exiled society collapses.

  It is interesting to speculate about the motives behind the Tibetan Government’s urge to collect the maximum number of Tiblets in Dharamsala camp. Disregarding any possible financial inducements one is left with cultural and political motives. The Tibetan authorities themselves admit that when the camp was opened ‘to shelter the children of refugees’ physical needs were not the only consideration – it was also intended to shelter these youngsters from un-Tibetan influences during their formative years. This ambition would be understandable if there were even a sporting chance of the refugees returning to Tibet within a decade or so, but in existing circumstances an exclusively Tibetan preparation for a life that must be lived in the modern world is unfair both to the children themselves and to those who wish to help them resettle; already there are too many examples of the disastrous effects of suddenly transplanting adolescent Tibetans into Western soil. However desirable the ‘preservation’ of Tibetan culture may be some degree of integration is essential and the best and simplest way of achieving it would be to allow as many children as possible to grow up in the Tibetan atmosphere of their own families, without artificially protecting them from the outside world.

  Concerning the political implications it is just conceivable that certain members of the Tibetan Government do envisage the future invasion of Tibet by an Army of Liberation recruited from amongst the refugee children. But it seems more probable that the ruling clique (excluding the Dalai Lama) finds it psychologically impossible to relinquish its power over the people and is afraid that the new generation, if permitted to grow up in an alien environment, will rapidly become emancipated citizens of India.

  It’s not easy to be rational on this subject. One dreads the evolution of a generation of rootless Tibetans, deprived of what was, in its native air, a happy and healthy way of life. Yet one also recognises that this way of life is now extinct within Tibet and that it is quite impractical to attempt to continue it outside Tibet. The paradox is that a theocracy-cumautocracy, when seen against a democratic background, immediately antagonises even those who admit that in its original context this was an acceptable form of government. So I find myself at one moment castigating the Tibetan authorities and at the next moment trying to excuse their high-handed actions on the grounds that it is unreasonable to expect them to have adjusted so soon to their new environment.

  A very regrettable feature of the Tibetan problem is that most foreign aid has been administered in a way which reinforces the Tibetan Government’s policy of splitting families. The relief agencies seem to have started from the premise that under existing conditions it is impossible for children to remain with their parents, and the majority of operations have been conducted accordingly. It’s probably inevitable that when a refugee crisis suddenly occurs the initial administration of aid should be a trifle haphazard – but one feels that order could come out of chaos rather more quickly than it’s doing in this instance. Having taken a wrong turning at the beginning, through failure to investigate ways of keeping families united, the agencies seem determined consistently to follow the wrong road. As a result money that could have been spent on mobile medical and educational units is now being irretrievably sunk in the acquiring and staffing of permanent centres where hundreds of children can be cared for in the future – thus making it progressively more difficult to restore the balance of the whole Tibetan Community.

  The agencies’ original assumption that Tiblets must be cared for in large centres is a classic example of the dangers of applying Western standards to Eastern situations. Life in the road-camps is undoubtedly arduous, and the children who remain in them are exposed to the occasional risk of being injured by falling rocks during the blasting operations. It is unlikely that the average Western child would survive such conditions for long, and so the relief workers raise their hands in horror and decide that as many Tiblets as possible must be rescued as soon as possible. Yet if one pauses to think the thing out it soon becomes obvious that what we regard as the insupportable existence of a road-camp community is not unlike everyday life in Tibet. Many of the refugees came from nomad tribes who habitually lived in tents, and all of them were accustomed to some degree of hardship. The Indian Government pays the refugees a slightly higher wage than that of the native coolie, to compensate them for having no little plot on which to grow food, so a husband and wife can earn between them Rs. 22.75 (about £1 16s.) per seven-day week. By local standards this is quite a good wage and should enable the parents to feed their children much better than they are fed here – especially if some of the Indian Government per capita monthly food ration were distributed among the camps rather than sent in bulk to Dharamsala and other centres. The children’s health could not possibly be worse anywhere than it is here, and while it may be true that some of our Tiblets would have died if not brought within reach of Western medical aid this does not invalidate the argument that in general these children would be far better off, both physically and emotionally, if they had not been parted from their parents.

  It is ironical – and a symptom of the mental confusion in Tibetan Government circles – that the efforts being made to ‘keep young Tibetans Tibetan’ are in fact weakening the social structure of the whole refugee community. The damage done to children by separating them from their parents is no greater than the damage done to parents by relieving them of their natural responsibilities and one hears that in some areas this form of ‘aid’ has by now had a seriously demoralising effect.

  The intangible difficulties of assisting refugees are far more numerous and complicated than the difficulties of providing food and clothing. Every social worker’s ideal is – or should be – ‘to help them to help themselves’, but this is not easily realised since the mere fact of having been so savagely uprooted by fate often predisposes refugees to take it for granted that those who have not suffered as they have will look after them. In fact workers with wide experience remark on the Tibetans being less prone than most to take things for granted; but obviously they present their own particular problems and it is extremely rash of any relief agency to plunge into the centre of a new refugee situation without having first paused on the outskirts to study its complexities.

  In the Tibetans’ case their malleability, when they are tactfully handled, makes the foreign helper keenly aware of the importance of his role as their guide to a new world. The adjective ‘simple’ is frequently applied to these people, yet their national character is repeatedly surprising me by its contradictions. Though the average Tibetan is in many respects a very conservative fellow he can at times be frighteningly receptive to new ideas. This trait partly explains his adaptability but, since his powers of discrimination are usually undeveloped, it is potentially very dangerous. Therefore it seems wickedly foolish of us to help foster the notion that once a child is weaned it can automatically become someone else’s responsibility.

  13 NOVEMBER

  During the past week Macleod Ganj has been transformed into a vast open-air Tibetan market where hundreds of pilgrims, w
ho came for the recent religious festival, are now trading vigorously. Fabulous cloaks, hats, boots, rugs, swords, knives, jewellery and reliquaries are on display – and also other more significant, if less exotic, items of merchandise. On my first visit to this market I was a little (but only a little) startled to observe the variety of medicaments which were available at bargain prices. Bottles of eight Acromycin capsules were selling at Rs. 6, as compared to Rs. 10.50 in any chemist’s shop. Bottles of fifty Zymacaps, clearly marked – ‘Donated by the Upjohn Foundation. Not for sale or exchange’, were going for Rs. 5. Rolls of English manufactured Johnson and Johnson cotton wool were evidently more highly prized and cost Rs. 8; doubtless these were part of a large consignment sent from Britain last March and never heard of since. The traders were most anxious to sell me pills, and the fact that they drew the attention of a Western medical helper to these wares proves how incredibly innocent they are. This evening I again visited the market, taking an interpreter with me, and when I asked where these goods had come from the traders beamed happily and explained that during the summer a Tibetan from Dharamsala had gone up the Kulu valley selling them in the roads-camps. I next asked what complaints the pills were used for and got the inevitable reply that they cured every disease immediately. It really is disheartening: I wonder what percentage of help donated to refugees all over the world ‘goes astray’. Of course I could have pressed for the name of the ‘Tibetan from Dharamsala’ and then rushed off to the police barracks exuding righteous wrath, but after spending a few months in India one ceases to think in terms of reporting thefts to the police.

  Another side-effect of last week’s pilgrimage has been the infestation of the area by an inordinate number of Febs and Fabs, accompanied by an equal number of young Mebs and Mabs. In this case I feel that the male of the species is deadlier than the female. A few days ago Oliver and I were standing by the bungalow door, waiting for lunch to be served, when we suddenly saw an extraordinary creature advancing towards us across the compound. It had red-gold ringlets halfway down its back, a wavy matching beard, delicate pink cheeks and cornflowerblue eyes – and it was clad in a long, white Biblical robe. The net result was so like an inferior artist’s conception of Christ that Oliver and I simultaneously exclaimed, ‘Jesus!’ Juliet, sitting behind us, thought that we’d both become uncharacteristically blasphemous – but when this vision entered the room she saw what we meant.

  These young enthusiasts have a tendency to roam around the camp performing esoteric tests to determine whether any of our Tiblets are Incarnate Lamas. This afternoon I was immensely diverted by one such test. As I was tapping a pneumonia case, with a solemn-faced four-year-old sitting on my left, staring into space – and Cama Yishy, as ever, sitting on my right – a group of Febs, Fabs, Mebs and Mabs appeared on the scene, surveyed the four-year-old and declared – ‘He seems very probable.’ They then asked me if I’d noticed anything unusual about the child and I replied – ‘Yes, last month it had three different types of worms at the same time.’ Whereupon they all looked quite revolted – whether by the medical fact or by my insensitive obtuseness I wouldn’t know. Next they proceeded to squat around in a semi-circle, waving their hands and muttering ‘mantras’ and making profound deductions from the infant’s understandably astonished reactions. Finally they announced – ‘This boy is a most interesting case and we must tell our “Guru” that he Shows All The Signs.’ This was the cue I’d been devilishly waiting for. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we all know it’s an interesting case – but I hardly think your “Guru” would thank you for bringing him to investigate an Incarnate Lama who is in fact a girl.’

  15 NOVEMBER

  A horrible incident occurred this morning. Each day after breakfast I take our left-overs – bread, cheese and hard-boiled egg – to the Dispensary for distribution among those who most need ‘feeding up’. Normally the food is wrapped in a piece of newspaper but today, being in a rush and seeing none to hand, I hurried across the compound with the food exposed on a plate. Before I was halfway across a mob of starving children had brought me to a standstill. Suddenly Tibetan gentleness was replaced by a barbarous aggressiveness. Panic filled me as I looked around at the mass of struggling little bodies, in the midst of which some tiny ones were falling and being trampled underfoot. This was genuine mob violence, appearing in the most unlikely place, and it was horrifying to see the expression of frantically pleading desperation in those young eyes. The ayahs must have been at their breakfast, for none answered my calls, and as Juliet had preceded me to the Dispensary the only way to quell this riot was to throw bits of food in various directions, thereby splitting up the mob into groups. The whole experience was indescribably dreadful and I haven’t yet forgiven myself for causing it through sheer thoughtlessness. Of course we’ve always known that the children are inadequately fed, but somehow when you see them sitting down to four meals per diem you don’t realise that they are literally starving: and probably the recent cold weather is largely responsible for their present state of agonising hunger.

  Our working day now ends at 5 p.m. because the evenings are so cold and dark. The children have supper then and are in bed by half-past five – a rather dismal arrangement, but in unheated draughty rooms there’s no alternative.

  This evening I went to the Drama for the tenth time; these plays seem more enjoyable the more familiar they become. When I set off for the ‘theatre’ soon after five o’clock the valley was filled with golden evening light and the cool, clear air was deliciously exhilarating. As usual I was on the alert for possible zoological excitements, and halfway to Macleod Ganj I saw what at first appeared to be two squirrels, playing in a giant pine-tree a little distance from the track. When I went closer to investigate they ran up to the topmost branches and it became obvious that they were not squirrels. As they watched me the setting sun shone magnificently on their glossy chestnut backs and when I sat quietly near the tree I saw that they had ginger bellies and coal-black tips to their very bushy tails, which were as long as their bodies. (Nose to tail-tip they measured about three feet and they were short legged, with small round ears and ferrety faces.) After ten minutes or so they apparently decided that I was harmless and began to play again, approaching to within five yards of me. Then I noticed the very loose folds of skin between their fore and hind legs and at last realised that they were flying foxes. To see them gliding I deliberately chased them up the tree and they took off from the top branch and sailed slowly downwards for about thirty yards before coming to rest in the lower branches of another pine. I followed them and this graceful performance was thrice repeated – by which time the path was far behind, darkness was falling and I suddenly remembered that bears as well as flying foxes inhabit the forest. At this stage my torch battery gave out, so during the remainder of the walk to the theatre I expected to meet a bear at every corner and was quite hoarse from singing arias. For the return journey I joined a group of ayahs and we all sang together as we marched along the starlit road.

  16 NOVEMBER

  Bad as material conditions were when I first arrived in this camp, the past fortnight has been by far the most depressing period of my time here. Parents who came on the pilgrimage are now returning to their road-camps and day after day we see families being broken up – wherever one turns one glimpses a weeping parent or a sobbing child. Today I witnessed a particularly harrowing scene, when a family which has just come from Tibet – the journey took them fourteen months – reluctantly abandoned seven of their eight children; only the sixmonths-old baby stayed with its mother. She was a handsome woman of thirty-four with two husbands – the elder thirty-nine and the younger thirty-one. The eldest child is a ten-year-old boy and there are four-year-old twin girls. All the children – except a three-year-old boy with bronchitis – are in perfect health, despite what must have been a most gruelling journey. I wonder how long their health will remain perfect, now that they have been submerged in Dharamsala camp.

  These people are noma
ds who have never slept under a roof and who speak a dialect that only one man here can understand – not because he is a native of their locality, but because as a Lhasa Government official he was posted for a time to the relevant area of Western Tibet. With his assistance I discovered that they had attempted to bring their herd of 200 sheep and goats with them, but of course when crossing those barren heights of the Himalayas, where for days on end there is no fodder of any sort, the unfortunate animals quickly died of starvation. This misfortune is common to many refugee families and it explains their utter destitution on arriving in India. One could be quite well-off in Tibet without possessing any cash; wealth was often represented entirely by livestock.

  I shall never forget the hysterical grief of that family when the time came for the parents to go. The mother fondled all her children, said goodbye and turned away – but then turned back again and was almost pulled to the ground by seven panic-stricken little pairs of arms. Finally her husbands – big rawboned men with weather-blackened faces – took her firmly but very gently in charge and though weeping openly themselves led her away down the mountainside. This parting took place in Kashmir Cottage Room, where there are two doors and where I was in sole charge, all the ayahs having gone to Macleod Ganj to collect stores. As soon as the parents were out of sight the seven children dashed to the doors to follow them – the twins to one door, the rest to the other. I rushed to intercept the larger party and bolt that door while Cama Yishy, on his own initiative, headed off the twins from their exit, and though he could not reach the bolt he shut the door and bravely defended his post. When the children realised that they were trapped in this vast, unfamiliar cavern they went berserk. The phrase ‘going up the walls’ literally did apply to three of them, who tried piteously to claw their way up the smooth boards to the high windows. Another hurled herself against a door in such a paroxysm of panic that I feared that she would bash her brains out. And the twins lay kicking on the floor and shrieked with terror when I approached them – not surprisingly, since they had probably never seen a European face before. Meanwhile Cama Yishy had taken it on himself to console the three-year-old, who was crouching in the corner, whimpering with fear, and as I stood helplessly in the centre of that room I vowed to do all in my power, from this day on, to alter a situation that creates so much misery.