by Marco Pallis
The first appearance of the Communists on what previously seemed like an idyllic sense is typical, it occurs almost casually: When they turn up one day people ask themselves what this means, but when nothing very unpleasant happens—none of the expected looting by the soldiers, for instance—everyone soon settles down again to his usual preoccupations. The soldiers pass on; the incident is half-forgotten. It is only some pages later that one discovers them again, first just across the Tibetan frontier at Chamdo, and long afterward in occupation of Lhasa, but how they got there one is not told. After a time one guesses that Tibet has capitulated, but is given few details simply because those actually involved in these events were often too cut off in their own locality to obtain a bird’s-eye view; we in England, watching the international scene from afar were, in some respects, better able to build up a general picture.
In fact, as the book shows, it was by no means easy for people in those remote districts immediately to form clear ideas about the nature of the new order in China. Moreover this also partly explains why the Tibetan government itself, while the Communist threat was developing, was rather hesitating in its reactions; a temporizing policy, so often resorted to by small nations facing pressure from a great power, may well have seemed preferable to crying Tibet’s wrongs from the housetops regardless of consequences. The Lhasa government has been criticized, with a certain justice, for lack of initiative in face of a danger calling for swift decisions; but it is only fair to make considerable allowance for circumstances, material and psychological, that were inherent in the situation from the very start of the crisis.
The above remarks have somewhat anticipated on the sequence of events. The point I am trying to make is that it necessarily took some time before the author, young as he was, or his senior advisers were able to gather any precise impressions of what was to be expected under Communist rule. As the story unfolds we see an initial bewilderment gradually giving way to acute discomfort which in its turn becomes a sense of impending disaster. We hear that fighting has broken out in a certain valley, yet the adjoining valley may still be seemingly in enjoyment of its habitual calm, with everyone there intent on peaceful tasks—adding a wing to the local temple perhaps or preparing for the reception of a revered spiritual master. Eventually, however, the more wide-awake characters in the book begin to realize that this is no passing crisis: Tibet and its cherished way of life are facing a catastrophe without parallel in the past, one that no policy of “wait and see” will enable one to live down. It is a time for far-reaching decisions if certain values, as well as one’s own life, are to be preserved: Here again, one is allowed to see into the conflict of outlook between those who cling to the belief that this trouble, like others before it, will blow over if only people will have the patience to sit tight and those others who think that their imperative duty is to carry whatever they can of Tibet’s spiritual heritage to someplace where the flickering spark can be rekindled in freedom; flight to India, the Buddha’s native land, seems the only remedy left to them. These two much-canvassed points of view become focused, in this story, in the persons of the author himself and his elderly bursar, a well-meaning man not wanting in devotion, but typical of the mentality that is forever fighting shy of any solution that looks like becoming irrevocable. There is much pathos to be gathered from these repeated encounters between youthful virility ready to take the plunge and inbred caution for which “stick to familiar ways and wait” is the universal maxim to fit every unprecedented emergency.
About the actual escape there is no call to speak here, except by remarking that at least one reader, while following this part of the story, has been repeatedly reminded of those young British officers of the late nineteenth century who found themselves launched by fate into positions of unusual responsibility at remote outposts of the empire: One meets here the same readiness to take crucial decisions time and again, the same light-hearted spirit maintained over long periods of suspense and danger, and in more critical moments, a similar capacity for instilling courage into the timid and endurance into the weak by the well-turned appeal, the timely sally—all these qualities were displayed by the chief actor in this drama in a completely unself-conscious manner.
But after making this comparison, one still has to admit a certain difference, itself due to a very great difference in the respective backgrounds. This can be summed up in the fact that in the one case, aptitude for leadership rests on an acceptance of what are predominantly “Stoic” loyalties and values—Marcus Aurelius would have shared them gladly—whereas in the other, it is from the heart of contemplation that this strength is drawn forth; the center of allegiance lies there, thus endowing whatever action has to be taken under pressure of necessity with an unmistakable flavor of “inwardness.” It is the lama who, speaking through the man, delivers his message and that is why, over and above its human and historical interest, this book has also to be treated as a Buddhist document in which much may be discovered by those who have the instinct to read between the lines. It is noticeable that whenever a pause in the action occurs there is an almost automatic withdrawal back into contemplation; the mind wastes no time in dwelling on its anxieties but finds within its own solitude, as well as in the stillness of nature, the means of refreshment and renewal.
That a mind so attuned should harbor no enmity in return for injuries received seems only logical; in this respect the present history may well be left to speak for itself. Buddhism has always had much to say, not only about “compassion” as such, but also about what might be called its “intellectual premises,” failing which that virtue can so easily give way to a passional benevolence that may even end up in hatred and violence; this has been the persistent weakness of worldly idealists and of the movements they promoted. For compassion (or Christian charity for that matter) to be truly itself it requires its intellectual complement which is dispassion or detachment: a hard saying for the sentimentalists. Though feeling obviously has a place there too, it can never afford to bypass intelligence—as if anything could do that with impunity! This is a point which Buddhism brings out with implacable insistence: From its point of view compassion must be looked upon as a dimension of knowledge; the two are inseparable, as husband and wife. All this belongs to the basic tenets of the mahayana or “great way,” of which the Tibetan tradition itself is an offshoot; Tibetan art is filled with symbolic delineations of this partnership. It is important for the reader to be made aware of the fact that these ideas pervade the entire background of the author’s thinking, otherwise he will miss many of the finer touches.
It would be ungrateful to terminate this introduction to a remarkable book without some reference to the lady who helped the Lama Trungpa to put down his memories on paper, Mrs. Cramer Roberts; in fact, but for her encouragement in the first place, the work might never have been begun. In interpreting what the lama told her of his experiences she wisely did not try and tamper with a characteristically Tibetan mode of expression beyond the minimum required by correct English; in all other respects the flavor of the author’s thought has been preserved in a manner that will much increase the reader’s ability to place himself, imaginatively, in the minds and feelings of those who figure in the narrative; a more inflected style, normal with us, could so easily have covered up certain essential things. For the fine sense of literary discernment she has shown we all have to thank Mrs. Cramer Roberts, as also for the unstinting devotion she brought to her self-appointed task.
MARCO PALLIS
Acknowledgments
THIS BOOK WAS BEGUN spontaneously as an authentic record of the wisdom and culture which existed in Tibet for so many centuries, and of the events of the last decade during which the Communists have destroyed everything its peace-loving people held dear.
Living in East Tibet the author was a witness of these tragic happenings of which the world outside is largely ignorant.
We would like to offer our grateful thanks to Mr. Gerald Yorke and Mr. Marco Pallis for
the great help that they have given us to bring the book to completion. Mr. Yorke saw the script in its early stages, and not only introduced it to the publishers, but made many useful suggestions. Mr. Pallis when consenting to write the foreword, devoted many weeks to the work of finally putting the book in order.
We also thank Lieut. Colonel F. Spencer Chapman and Major G. Sherrif for allowing us to use some of their Tibetan photographs.
CHÖGYAM TRUNGPA
ESMÉ CRAMER ROBERTS
February 1966
Oxford
How to Pronounce Tibetan Names and Words
A SIMPLIFIED GUIDE
IT IS OBVIOUSLY impracticable here to aim at the kind of accuracy that would satisfy an expert in phonetics: The use of numerous small additional signs, for instance, such as one finds in serious grammars, would complicate the issue too much for ordinary readers. Therefore one must try to limit oneself to whatever the Latin alphabet, coupled with a few rather rough and ready explanations, will give; in fact, a reasonable approximation can be obtained by this means, as is the case with most foreign languages; the reader should find no trouble in applying the following hints concerning Tibetan pronunciation.
Vowel sounds: These include the five open vowels, a, e, i, o, u which should be sounded as in Italian: A final e should never be muted, it is open like the rest; the Tibetan name Dorje does not rhyme with “George”; in French it would be written as “Dorjé.”
To the above five should be added two modified vowels, ö and ü; these should be pronounced as in German.
These seven sounds give the complete vowel range.
Consonant sounds: Here the problem of transcription is somewhat more difficult. The prevailing dialects of Central Tibet, where the capital Lhasa is situated, and of eastern Tibet where the author belongs, contain a number of consonant sounds which, to a European ear, sound almost alike; there are, for instance, two kinds of k, two of t, and so on. Short of using an elaborate system of diacritic marks, puzzling to a nonscholar, one is compelled to make do, in many cases, with a single letter where Tibetans would use two. The reader need not be troubled with these fine distinctions.
In the case of aspirated consonants such as kh, th, and so on both letters have to be sounded separately; they do not fuse to make an entirely new consonant as in the English word the for instance, or the Greek name Thetis. Sh, ch should, however, be sounded as in English.
Note: There is no sound like our f in Tibetan. Ph, whenever it occurs, follows the rule as above, i.e. both letters are sounded as in map house.
Special attention must be drawn to combinations such as tr, dr in Tibetan: The author’s name, Trungpa, is a case in point. The fact is that the r is not sounded independently; it only affects the preceding t or d by lending to it a slightly “explosive” character. What one has to do, in these cases, is to press the tongue hard against the palate, while sounding t or d as the case may be; it sometimes helps to think of an r while so doing. (In Tibetan quite a number of such letters exist, such as gr, tr, br, etc., which are all pronounced similarly; but obviously this aspect of the matter will only concern students of Tibetan who, in any case, will use the Tibetan alphabet.)
ONE
Found and Enthroned
MY BIRTHPLACE was a small settlement on a high plateau of northeastern Tibet. Above it, the celebrated mountain Pagö Pünsum rises perpendicularly to more than eighteen thousand feet, and is often called “the pillar of the sky.” It looks like a tall spire; its mighty crest towers under perpetual snows, glittering in the sunshine.
Centuries before Buddhism was brought to Tibet, the followers of the Bön religion believed that Pagö Pünsum was the home of the king of spirits, and the surrounding lesser peaks were the abodes of his ministers. Myths linger on among the country folk, and these mountains have continued to be held in awe and veneration in the district.
The name of the place was Geje; it stands in a bare, treeless country without even bushes, but grass covered, and in the summer months the ground is bright with small flowers and sweet-smelling herbs whose scent in this pure air is thought to be curative; however, for the greater part of the year the whole land is under snow and it is so cold that the ice must be broken to get water. Two sorts of wild animals are peculiar to this province, the kyang or wild ass, and a kind of bison called a drong; both are found in herds of about five hundred each. The people live in tents made of yak’s hair; the more wealthy have larger ones with several partitions, situated in the center of the encampment, while the poorer peasants live on the fringes. Each village considers itself to be one large family, and in the individual family, the members from the oldest to the youngest live together and own their herds of yaks and sheep in common.
Mount Pagö Pünsum.
The fire, used for all domestic purposes, is always in the middle of the tent, and the shrine is in the far right-hand corner with a butter lamp burning continually before a religious picture, or a set of the scriptures.
This northern area of East Tibet is called Nyishu-tsa-nga, and has twenty-five districts; the name simply means “twenty-five.” At one time it was under a king who gave the district where Geje is situated the special privilege of having its highlanders chosen for his bodyguard on account of their courage.
Geje was a small community of only about five hundred people. My father, Yeshe Dargye, owned a little land there; he met his future wife, Tungtso Drölma, when she was working for her relations, looking after the yaks and milking the females, which are called dris. They had one daughter, but when a second child was already in her womb he left her, and she married again, this time a much poorer man who, when the child was born, accepted him as his son.
The night of my conception my mother had a very significant dream that a being had entered her body with a flash of light; that year flowers bloomed in the neighborhood although it was still winter, to the surprise of the inhabitants.
During the New Year festival on the day of the full moon, in the Earth Hare year according to the Tibetan calendar (February 1939) I was born in the cattle byre; the birth came easily. On that day a rainbow was seen in the village, a pail supposed to contain water was unaccountably found full of milk, while several of my mother’s relations dreamt that a lama was visiting their tents. Soon afterward, a lama from Tashi Lhaphuk Monastery came to Geje; as he was giving his blessing to the people, he saw me, who at that time was a few months old; he put his hand over my head to give me a special blessing, saying that he wanted me for his monastery and that I must be kept very clean and always be carefully looked after. Both my parents agreed to this, and decided that when I grew older I should be sent to his monastery, where my mother’s uncle was a monk.
After the death in 1938 of the tenth Trungpa Tulku, the supreme abbot of Surmang, the monks at once sent a representative to His Holiness Gyalwa Karmapa, the head of the Karma Kagyü school whose monastery lay near Lhasa. Their envoy had to inform him of the death of the last abbot and to ask him if he had had any indication where his reincarnation would be found. They begged him to let them know at once should he obtain a vision.
Some months later Gyalwa Karmapa was visiting Palpung Monastery in the province of Derge in Kham, which is Tibet’s eastern region. Jamgön Kongtrül Rinpoche, who had been a devoted disciple of the tenth Trungpa Tulku and lived at Palpung, also asked him not to defer giving any possible indication, for the monks of Surmang were feeling lost without their abbot and were eager that his reincarnation should be found without delay.
A vision had in fact come to Gyalwa Karmapa, who dictated a letter to his private secretary, saying that the reincarnation of the tenth Trungpa Tulku has been born in a village five days’ journey northward from Surmang. Its name sounds like two words Ge and De; there is a family there with two children; the son is the reincarnation. It all sounded rather vague; however, the secretary and monks of the Dütsi Tel Monastery at Surmang were preparing to go in search of the few abbot when a second sealed letter was received at th
e monastery. Rölpa Dorje, the regent abbot of Dütsi Tel, called a meeting, opened the letter, and read it to the assembled monks. It said that Gyalwa Karmapa had had a second and much clearer vision: “The door of the family’s dwelling faces south; they own a big red dog. The father’s name is Yeshe Dargye and the mother’s Chung and Tzo; the son who is nearly a year old is Trungpa Tulku.” One senior monk and two others set off immediately to find me.
After five days’ journey they reached the village of Geje, and called on all the more important families; they made a list of the names of those parents who had children of a year old, and returned to Dütsi Tel. The list was sent to Gyalwa Karmapa, who was still at Palpung. He found that the monks had merely taken names belonging to important families and said that they must go again and make further enquiries. On receipt of this message a second party of monks was sent to the village, which in the interval had removed to higher ground and changed its name to Dekyil: This time they called on every family and made a thorough search. In one tent they found a baby boy who had a sister and, as had been written in Gyalwa Karmapa’s letter, the entrance faced south and there was a red dog. Also, the mother’s name was Bo Chung, though her family called her Tungtso Drölma; thus her name confirmed Gyalwa Karmapa’s vision, but the father’s name was different from that in the letter, and this caused a great deal of confusion; yet they looked closely at the baby, for as soon as he had seen them in the distance he waved his little hand and broke into smiles as they came in. So the monks felt that this must be the child and gave him the gifts which Gyalwa Karmapa had sent, the sacred protective cord (sungdü) and the traditional scarf (khata); this latter the baby took and hung round the monk’s neck in the prescribed way, as if he had already been taught what was the right thing to do: Delighted, the monks picked me up, for that baby was myself, and I tried to talk.
