Seven Years in Tibet

  I had many setbacks on account of his insatiable curiosity, which drove him to ask me questions that opened up whole new fields. Many of these questions I could answer only to the best of my knowledge. In order, for example, to be able to discuss the atom bomb, I had to tell him about the elements. That led to a formal discussion on metals, for which there is no generic word in Tibetan, so I had to go into details about the different sorts of metals—a subject that, of course, brought down an avalanche of questions.

  My life in Lhasa had now begun a new phase. My existence had an aim. I no longer felt unsatisfied or incomplete. I did not abandon my former duties. I still collected news for the ministry; I still drew maps. But now the days were all too short, and I often worked till late into the night. I had little time for pleasures and hobbies, for when the Dalai Lama called me, I had to be free. Instead of going to parties in the morning, as others did, I came late in the afternoon. But that was no sacrifice. I was happy in the consciousness that my life had a goal. The hours I spent with my pupil were as instructive for me as they were for him. He taught me a great deal about the history of Tibet and the teachings of Buddha. He was a real authority on these subjects. We often used to argue for hours on religious subjects, and he was convinced that he would succeed in converting me to Buddhism. He told me that he was making a study of books containing knowledge of the ancient mysteries by which the body and the soul could be separated. The history of Tibet is full of stories about saints whose spirits used to perform actions hundreds of miles away from their physical bodies. The Dalai Lama was convinced that by virtue of his faith and by performing the prescribed rites he would be able to make things happen in far-distant places like Samye. When he had made sufficient progress, he said he would send me there and direct me from Lhasa. I remember saying to him with a laugh, “All right, Kundün, when you can do that, I will become a Buddhist, too.”

  UNFORTUNATELY, we never got as far as making this experiment. The beginning of our friendship was darkened by political clouds. The tone of the Peiping radio became more and more arrogant and Chiang Kai-shek had already withdrawn with his government to Formosa. The National Assembly in Lhasa held one sitting after another, new troops were raised, parades and military exercises were carried out in Shö, and the Dalai Lama himself consecrated the army’s new colors.

  Fox, the English radio expert, had much to do, as every military unit had to have at least one transmitting set.

  The Tibetan National Assembly, by whom all important political decisions are taken, is composed of fifty secular and monastic officials. The assembly is presided over by four abbots from Drebung, Sera, and Ganden, each of whom has a monk and a finance secretary attached to him. The other members of the National Assembly, whether secular or religious, belong to the different government offices, but none of the four cabinet ministers is a member. The constitution provides that the cabinet should meet in an adjoining chamber and should see all the decisions of the assembly, without possessing the right of veto. The final decision in all questions belongs to the Dalai Lama or, if he is still a minor, to the regent in his stead. Of course, no one would dare even to discuss a proposal coming from such a high authority.

  Until a few years ago, the so-called Great National Assembly was convoked every year. This body was composed of officials together with representatives of the guilds of craftsmen—tailors, masons, carpenters, and so on. These annual meetings of about five hundred persons were quietly discontinued. They had really no value except to satisfy the letter of the law. In effect the power of the regent was supreme.

  In these difficult times, the State Oracle was frequently consulted. His prophecies were dark and did not help to raise the morale of the people. He used to say, “A powerful foe threatens our sacred land from the north and the east.” Or, “Our religion is in danger.” All the consultations were held in secret, but the oracular utterances seeped through to the people and were spread abroad by whisperers. As is usual in times of war and crisis, the whole town buzzed with rumors like a beehive, and the strength of the enemy was swelled to fabulous dimensions. The fortune-tellers had a good time, for not only was the fate of the country in the balance but everyone was interested in his own personal welfare. More than ever, men sought counsel of the gods, consulted the omens, and gave to every happening a good or bad meaning. Farsighted people already began to send away their treasures to be stored in the south or in remote estates. But the people as a whole believed that the gods would help them and that a miracle would save the country from war.

  The National Assembly had soberer views. It had at last become clear to them that isolationism spelled a grave danger for the country. It was high time to establish diplomatic relations with foreign states and to tell the whole world that Tibet wished to be independent. Hitherto, China’s claim that Tibet was one of her provinces had remained without contradiction. Newspapers and broadcasters could say what they liked about the country: there was never an answer from Tibet. In conformity with their policy of complete neutrality, the government had refused to explain themselves to the world. Now the danger of this attitude was recognized, and people began to grasp the importance of propaganda. Every day Radio Lhasa broadcasted its views in Tibetan, Chinese, and English. Missions were appointed by the government to visit Peiping, Delhi, Washington, and London. Their members were monastic officials and young noblemen who had learned English in India. But they never got farther than India, thanks to the irresolution of their own government and the intrigues of the great powers.

  The young Dalai Lama realized the gravity of the situation, but he did not cease to hope for a peaceful outcome. During my visits I observed what a lively interest the future ruler took in political events. We always met alone in the little motion-picture theater, and I was able to understand often from trifling indications how much he looked forward to my coming. Sometimes he came running across the garden to greet me, beaming with happiness and holding out his hand. In spite of my warm feelings toward him and the fact that he called me his friend, I always took care to show him the respect due to the future king of Tibet. He had charged me to give him lessons in English, geography, and arithmetic. In addition, I had to look after his motion pictures and keep him conversant with world events. He had my pay raised on his own initiative, for although he was not yet constitutionally entitled to give orders, he had only to express a wish for them to be executed.

  He continually astonished me by his powers of comprehension, his pertinacity, and his industry. When I gave him for homework ten sentences to translate, he usually showed up with twenty. He was very quick at learning languages, as are most Tibetans. It is quite common for people of the upper class and businessmen to speak Mongolian, Chinese, Nepalese, and Hindi. My pupil’s greatest difficulty was to pronounce the letter “F,” which does not occur in Tibetan. As my English was far from being perfect, we used to listen to the English news on a portable radio and took advantage of the passages spoken at dictation speed.

  I had been told that in one of the government offices there were a number of English schoolbooks stored in sealed cases. A hint was given to the ministry, and on the same day, the books were sent up to the Norbulingka. We made a little library for them in the theater. My pupil was delighted at this discovery, which was something quite out of the ordinary for Lhasa. When I observed his zeal and thirst for knowledge I felt quite ashamed at the thought of my own boyhood.

  There were also numerous English books and maps from the estate of the thirteenth Dalai Lama, but I noticed that they looked very new and obviously had not been read. The late ruler had learned much during his long journeys in India and China, and it was to his friendship with Sir Charles Bell that he owed his knowledge of the Western world. I was already familiar with the name of this Englishman and had read his books during my internment. He was a great champion of Tibetan independence. As political liaison officer for Sikkim, Tibet, and Bhutan, he had got to know the Dalai Lama on his flight to India. This was the be
ginning of a close friendship between the two men, which lasted for many years. Sir Charles Bell was, doubtless, the first white man to come into contact with a Dalai Lama.

  My young pupil was not yet in a position to travel, but that did not diminish his interest in world geography, which was soon his favorite subject. I drew for him great maps of the world, and others of Asia and Tibet. We had a globe, with the help of which I was able to explain to him why Radio New York was eleven hours behind Lhasa. He soon felt at home in all countries and was as familiar with the Caucasus as with the Himalayas. He was particularly proud of the fact that the highest summit in the world was on his frontier, and like many Tibetans was astonished to learn that few countries exceeded his kingdom in area.

  OUR PEACEFUL LESSONS were disturbed that summer by an untoward event. On August 15, a violent earthquake caused a panic in the Holy City. Another evil omen! The people had hardly got over their fright caused by the comet, which in the previous year had been visible by day and night like a gleaming horsetail in the heavens. Old people remembered that the last comet had been the precursor of a war with China.

  The earthquake came as a complete surprise, without premonitory tremors. The houses of Lhasa suddenly began to shake, and one heard in the distance some forty dull detonations, caused no doubt by a crack in the crust of the earth. In the cloudless sky, a huge glow was visible to the east. The aftershocks lasted for days. The Indian radio reported great landslides in the province of Assam, which borders Tibet. Mountains and valleys were displaced, and the Brahmaputra, which had been blocked by a fallen mountain, had caused immense devastation. It was not till a few weeks later that news came to Lhasa of the extent of the catastrophe in Tibet itself. The epicenter of the earthquake must have been in South Tibet. Hundreds of monks and nuns were buried in their rock monasteries, and often there were no survivors to carry the news to the nearest district officer. Towers were split down the middle, leaving ruined walls pointing to the sky, and human beings, as if snatched by a demon’s hand, disappeared into the suddenly gaping earth.

  The evil omens multiplied. Monsters were born. One morning the capital of the stone column at the foot of the Potala was found lying on the ground in fragments. In vain did the government send monks to the centers of ill omen to banish the evil spirits with their prayers, and when one day in blazing summer weather, water began to flow from a gargoyle on the cathedral, the people of Lhasa were beside themselves with terror. No doubt, natural explanations could have been found for all these happenings, but if the Tibetans lost their superstitiousness they would at the same time lose an asset. One has to remember that if evil portents can demoralize them with fear, good omens inspire them with strength and confidence.

  The Dalai Lama was kept informed of all these sinister events. Though naturally as superstitious as his people, he was always curious to hear my views on these things. We never lacked matter for conversation, and our lesson time was all too short. He actually spent his leisure hours with me, and few people realized that he was using his free time for further study. He kept punctually to his program, and if he awaited my coming with pleasure, that did not prevent him from breaking off as soon as the clock told him that our conversation was over, and that a teacher of religion was waiting for him in one of the pavilions.

  I once learned by chance what store he set by our lessons. One day, on which many ceremonies were to take place, I did not expect to be called to the Norbulingka and so went with friends for a walk on a hill near the town. Before I started, I told my servant to flash me a signal with a mirror if the Dalai Lama sent for me. At the usual hour, the signal came, and I ran at top speed back into the town. My servant was waiting with a horse at the ferry, but fast as I rode, I was ten minutes late. The Dalai Lama ran to meet me and excitedly grasped both my hands, calling, “Where have you been all this time? I have been waiting so long for you, Henrig.” I begged him to pardon me for having disturbed him. It was only then that I realized how much these hours meant to him.

  On the same day, his mother and youngest brother were present, and I showed them one of the eighty films the Dalai Lama possessed. It was very interesting for me to see the mother and son together. I knew that from the moment of the official recognition of the boy as the Incarnate Buddha the family had no more claim on him as a son or brother. For that reason his mother’s visit was a sort of official event, to which she came in all her finery and jewels. When she left, she bowed before him, and he laid his hand on her head in blessing. This gesture well expressed the relation of these two persons to each other. The mother did not even receive the two-handed blessing, which was accorded only to monks and high officials.

  It very seldom happened that we were disturbed when we were together. Once a soldier of the bodyguard brought him an important letter. The huge fellow threw himself three times to the ground, drew in his breath with a panting sound as etiquette demands, and delivered the letter. He then withdrew from the room, walking backward, and closed the door silently behind him. In such moments, I was very conscious how greatly I myself offended against the protocol.

  The letter I have mentioned came from the eldest brother of the Dalai Lama, the Abbot of Kumbum in the Chinese province of Chinghai. The Reds were already in power there and they were now hoping to influence the Dalai Lama in their favor through his brother Tagtsel Rimpoche. The letter announced that Tagtsel was on the way to Lhasa.

  On the same day, I visited the Dalai Lama’s family. His mother scolded me when I arrived. Her mother’s love had not failed to notice how much he depended on me and how often he had looked at the clock as he waited for my coming. I explained why I had not come in time and was able to convince her that my unpunctuality had not been due to casualness. When I left her, she begged me never to forget how few chances of enjoying himself in his own way her son had. It was perhaps a good thing that she herself had seen how much our lesson hours meant to the Dalai Lama. After a few months, everyone in Lhasa knew where I was riding about noon. As was to be expected, the monks criticized my regular visits, but his mother stood up for her son’s wishes.

  The next time I came through the yellow gate into the Inner Garden, I thought I noticed the Dalai Lama looking out for me from his little window, and it seemed he was wearing glasses. This surprised me as I had never seen him with spectacles on. In answer to my question, he told me that he had for some time been having difficulty with his eyes and had therefore taken to wearing glasses for study. His brother had procured him a pair through the Indian Legation. He had probably damaged his eyes when he was a child, when his only pleasure was to look for hours together through his telescope at Lhasa. Moreover, continuous reading and study in the twilight of the Potala were not exactly calculated to improve his sight. On this occasion he was wearing a red jacket over his monastic robe. He had designed it himself and was very proud of it, but he allowed himself to wear it only in his leisure moments. The chief novelty about this garment was the fact that it had pockets. Tibetan clothes do not have any, but the designer had noticed the existence of pockets in the illustrated papers and in my jackets, and had realized how useful they might be. Now, like every other boy of his age, he was able to carry about with him a knife, a screwdriver, sweets, etc. He also now kept his colored pencils and fountain pens in his pockets and was, doubtless, the first Dalai Lama to take pleasure in such things. He was also much interested in his collection of watches and clocks, some of which he had inherited from the thirteenth Dalai Lama. His favorite piece was an Omega calendar clock, which he had bought with his own money. During his minority, he could dispose of only the money that was left as an offering at the foot of his throne. Later on, the treasure vaults of the Potala and the Garden of Jewels would be open to him, and as ruler of Tibet, he would become one of the world’s richest men.

  16

  Tibet Is Invaded

  Now for the first time one heard voices saying in public that the majority of the Dalai Lama should be officially declared before he rea
ched the normal age. In these difficult times, the people wanted to have a young, unimpeachable sovereign on the throne and no longer to be at the mercy of the corrupt and unpopular clique that surrounded the regent. The present régime was in no wise fitted to be a support and an example to a people on whom war was being forced.

  About this time something unprecedented occurred in Lhasa. One morning we found posters on the walls of the street leading to the Norbulingka with the inscription, “Give the Dalai Lama the Power.” In support of this appeal, there followed a series of accusations against the regent’s favorites. Naturally, we talked about these posters at my next meeting with His Holiness. He had already heard about them from his brother. It was guessed that the monks of Sera were responsible for them. The Dalai Lama was not at all pleased with the turn things were taking; he did not consider himself ripe for the throne. He knew that he still had much to learn. For that reason he did not attach much importance to the posters and was more interested in carrying out our program of studies. His greatest worry was whether his knowledge equaled that of a Western schoolboy of the same age, or whether he would, in Europe, be classed as a backward Tibetan. I was able to assure him quite honestly that he was above the average in intelligence and that it would be easy for him to catch up with the greater knowledge of European boys. It was not only the Dalai Lama who had an inferiority complex. One constantly hears Tibetans saying, “We know nothing. We are so stupid!” But, of course, the fact that they say so proves the contrary. Tibetans are anything but dull-witted, and in making this judgment, they are confusing education with intelligence.