Rain on a poster of the Panchen Lama…

A prayer flag on barbed wire…

Portraits of my monk friends at the Tibet Hope Centre in Macleod Ganj…

A framed portrait of the Dalai Lama and Karmapa…

Mcleodganj Active

As a regular member of Virgin Active costing around £75 a month it was nice to discover that my new gym was a bargainous £1.93. Then I walked in and understood why.  Thankfully I’ve had my tetanus jab and have the ifitness application on my iPod Touch which can plan a new routine on demand based on the equipment available although I must admit it was struggling.

It’s hard to keep up the protein diet and maintain ‘the bod’ here in Dharamsala but I’ve now bought a great device to put into a pot and hard boil eggs although the first lot of eggs I bought were lost as a gang of venomous dogs attacked me on my way back the hotel (I washed my jeans).  The only stones to throw were next to the edge of the cliff and it was pitch black so I desperately fumbled in my pocket and came upon the eggs which I lobbed in their general direction, it did the trick and the dogs scarpered like a set of Oxford graduates defeated by the local yobs.  Why are there so many evil dogs of death here? 

Talking of food, my latest English lesson was about ‘The Restaurant’.  On discovering halfway through that most of my students had never been to a restaurant before I decided that we should have a fieldtrip.  This level of spontaneity would be impossible in the UK. I would usually have to submit the idea to the Senior Leadership Team (if I could find them), complete a ‘risk assessment’, wait for the permission slips to come back from Parents, Carers or Guardians, collect the mobile numbers from all the students in case one went wandering and make sure it didn’t clash with any other teachers’ ego’s.  Although, I was always very selective of those who would have the pleasure of going out of the school gates with me otherwise I may have been tempted to nudge a couple of kids on to the tracks as the tube arrived.

My new fixation is with the Western Monks, most of them are American

My new fixation - The Western Monk

although I spotted a couple of Brits and a German.  They have shaved their heads, denounced the evils of capitalism and donned the red robes of joy.   I spotted a gay one this morning who ran into the cafe and screamed to his ‘girlfriend’, ‘Hi bitch, I can’t stop because Lobsang is talking at the temple TTYL’, it was as though Cher had announced her last concert would be in Dharamsala and Stephen Gately had come back from the dead but she smiled and clapped with joy as every good faghag should.

I have taken on a couple of extra monks in the evening for conversation classes.  It’s good fun and I swear that if I believed in reincarnation one of them would have been my Granddad in his past life, he looks and speaks like him and grabs my hand in exactly the same way and being a monk he has no hair either.  Many Tibetans leave Tibet to see the Dalai Lama and get a better education but then are not allowed to go back to ‘Tibet’ or fear being imprisoned by the Chinese.  The Chinese have imposed the Chinese curriculum in Tibet which is killing their language and culture.

A poster in Mcleodganj about Obama's recent speech in China

Today my class asked me to explain Barak Obama’s recent speech in China.  What he said was put up on the wall in the town (see right).  Maybe the West doesn’t want to upset China and maybe if Obama said the US did not recognise that Tibet was part of China it would anger the Chinese government and they would fear the Dalai Lama even more and never engage in talks but it’s a shame that China has become so powerful and have gotten away with taking another country, killing millions of Tibetans and destroying thousands of monasteries… he says, drinking tea from his ‘Free Tibet’ mug.

Le touriste le plus commun, X, est un ancien et/ou un descendant de Woodstock. Mal rasé ou pas rasé, cheveux gras et dreadlocks, tee-shirts larges et pantalons en toile, il présente les attributs typiques de son genre New Age.Il ne descend pas au Taj (chaîne d’hôtels indienne ultra-luxeuse) mais à la Shanti Guest House de la ville qu’il visite, au choix Rishikesh, Manalli, Jaipur, Agra ou Varanasi. Là il rencontre ses homologues New Age (et un groupe de français très méchant, nous, qui le regardons d’un air mauvais et condescendant) et entame la même conversation quels que soient les sites qu’il a visité: Rishikesh, Manalli, Jaipur, Agra ou Varanasi.

Son langage fonctionne souvent par association d’idées et au fond, le but est de lancer des signaux, marqueurs d’identité vers ses “congénères”. Souvent de la forme : “awesome, amazing place”. Ils racontent leurs aventures respectives, évidemment identiques, dans les villes qu’ils ont visité : Rishikesh, Manalli, Jaipur, Agra ou  Varanasi… Ils se positionnent comme “des anti-systèmes” mais reproduisent les comportements de leurs aïeux quand ils s’adressent au “wallah”, adolescent qui travaille dans la gest-house depuis qu’il a 12 ans, en ne lui adressant pas un regard en commandant son “bang lassie” (yaourt à boire à la marijuana).

Ils s’extasient devant ce qu’ils voient. Ils voient le Taj Mahal, les sourires des enfants (je vous renvoie à toutes les photos que vous voyez sur tous les blogs appartenant à ces fameux baba-touristes, taper « stock gandri » , leh, aventure sur google et prenez votre temps), les sâdhus (sages hindous), les gaths (escaliers menant vers le Gange) tellement typiques, portent des tee-shirts “free Tibet” et pensent vraiment que l’Occident c’est mal car on est plus du tout “spirituel” dans nos pays décadents. Mais ils ne voient pas le cadavre de bébé dans le Gange, ne voient pas les misérables villages le long des plaines du Gange, ne voient pas les bidonvilles qui longent les rues de Delhi, les habitations précaires des serviteurs des classes “moyennes” (autrement dit, supérieurs) delhites qui jouxtent les villas de luxe…

Deux exemples qui me passent par la tête :

- Premier  exemple à Dharamsala, John-Lennon-land, j’ai vu un homme d’une quarantaine d’années porter un tee shirt avec des paroles du dalaï lama, saisies hors contexte, du genre “aujourd’hui on a toujours plus de médicaments mais toujours plus de maladies”. Et ces millions de séropositifs? Et ces mendiants que l’on voit aux carrefours et qui souffrent de la polio ou qui en portent les stigmates car on ne leur a pas administré le vaccin lorsqu’ils étaient enfants comme on le fait chez nous en Europe ? Par contre si cet homme tombe malade il sera immédiatement rapatrié chez lui pour être “correctement” soigné.

- Second exemple un soir à Jaiselmer. J’étais en train d’écrire le plan d’un paper (même en vacances je travaille?  nan c’était juste exceptionnel! Quand même, vous me prenez pour qui ?). Deux personnages sur le toit de la Guest House : une touriste suédoise de 50 ans et un garçon de 16 ans employé dans la guest house. La suédoise engage la conversation:

- Pourquoi tu ne vas pas à l’Université ?

- J’ai pas d’argent (sinon pourquoi il serait employé et sous payé dans un hotel à 15 ans?)

- Que font te parents ?

- Ils sont paysans dans le nord du pays.

- … et tu ne voudrais pas venir en Europe ? (comment il fait pour le billet, le passeport, le visa ?).

Il répond par un -”I don’t know, m’am”. Je jette un regard noir à la femme et je vais me coucher.

Ce pays est magnifique. Intense. Mais il est encore plus dur. Quand on voyage on cherche à se protéger, le cynisme que j’emploie en est une forme. Mais se cacher la réalité,  la nier ou  la regarder avec de telles misconceptions (j’aime pas les anglicismes, mais si un lecteur de JNU arrive ici il comprendra) c’est être de mauvaise foi. Et renier son intelligence.

Imagine if you will – two Tibetans settled in England and two from Hubli, Karnataka, two Iranian sisters from the Netherlands and two Indians from below the Vindhyachal, all sit at a dinner table, one cold November evening, 6000 feet above sea level in the sleepy town of Dharamsala, Himachal Pradesh.

Intermingled streams of English, Hindi, Tamil, Malayalam, Telugu, Kannada, Tibetan and Farsi flow in a conversation that is befuddling in its esoteric assortment of ideas and topics. The sheer abundance of ethnicities, the confluence of cultures and the milieu of languages is an intoxicating accompaniment to the repast that lies on the table.

The conversation takes unimaginable twists and turns and delves into a myriad of themes;  the geo-political situation in the Middle-East, the universality of Indian soaps, turn of events in the English Premier League, the vibrant, if over the top, quality of South-Indian songs, prospects in Public International Law, acquisition of Bandhini saris, a Goa v. Kerala tourism debate, the peculiarities of the Karadžić trial, the bland nature of Iranian cinema, the merits of the Rajasthani Maal Pua, the bling of Bollywood dance sequences, street shopping haunts of Mumbai among other equally diverse subject matters.

The meal finally ends later in the night and is followed by a lot of air-kissing, Dutch style and the old-fashioned firm shakes of the hand and manly hugs as follow-ups.

A scene like this evokes in me, a profundity of the feeling of inter-connectedness of human-beings. It’s a case in point that shows that our differences are not shards of glass that blind each other in their shine of misunderstandings and make rents that divide, but simply jewels that become, but another point of interest, another tale to tell over a cup of tea or a round of beers.

The ease with which friendships can be struck in a faraway place, without premeditation and with spontaneity that is as effervescent as it is inspiring, is an indication, a symbol of the commonness that binds us all. Propaganda and public opinions that are built atop false premises and artificial differences and fanned by politicking and power-mongering, cannot withstand even the simplest of assaults made my earnest camaraderie and mutual respect that are virtues not too hard to acquire even in a world rampant with misconceptions and fraught with unfound suspicion.

The age old chasms of language and religion and ethnicity and culture are nothing but dinosaurs of our age. They continue to make their presence felt – true, but this sizzle is akin to the dying throes of a flame that has burnt for too long and outlived its relevance. One collective blow of the congenial air that humanity exhales, will suffice its extinguishment forever.

A layer of the dust of difference has settled on our skins due to our own immobility and lethargy. In the past it had threatened to harden into a shell of prejudices and hatred, it did for some too. But in these times, the strong gusts of free-flowing knowledge and instant communication have eroded away most of this shell. All that remains, is for us to shake ourselves up a little, peel away this thin veil of division and see beyond – the warm, pulsating hearts; in their warmth, the differences melt away.

Below is another sample of the contents of the new book A Great Deception – The Ruling Lama’s Policies by the Western Shugden Society.

Gradually over the years since the Dalai Lama left his homeland, 145,000 Tibetans have moved from Tibet and made settlements in India, Nepal and Bhutan or settled further afield in exile communities throughout the world.

The Dalai Lama himself, together with many of his closest followers, eventually settled in the old British hill station of McLeod Ganj, near the small Indian town of Dharamsala in northern India.

The Tibetan town that has grown up around him there is now the principal Tibetan refugee community.

At enormous expense an administration was established in Dharamsala to maintain effective control over the widely-spread refugee population. This administration has become known as ‘The Government of Tibet in Exile’ though it has no legal status either within or outside India and is not officially recognized by any country, least of all by India.

There is a Tibetan National Assembly of People’s Deputies (usually simply called the ‘National Assembly’), which consists of forty-six representatives. However, of these representatives only thirty are directly elected by the Tibetan people. The five major religious traditions (Gelug, Kagyu, Sakya, Nyingma and Bön) elect two representatives each, and the remaining six are direct appointees of the Dalai Lama. This in itself represents a breach of democratic principles, since only two-thirds of the delegates are directly elected by the people. The National Assembly nominally appoints the members of the Cabinet (‘Kashag’ in Tibetan), but in practice these are often directly appointed by the Dalai Lama. And for a time in the early 1980s the Dalai Lama even took it upon himself to appoint unilaterally all delegates of the National Assembly.

Tsering Wangyal writing in the Tibetan Review in 1979 pointed out that ‘every important office-bearer in Dharamsala has to be approved by the Dalai Lama before formally taking his office.’ In the same article he continued:

‘Despite the introduction in 1963 of some of its external paraphernalia, Tibetan democracy is yet to come of age. The 199 Commission of Tibetan People’s Deputies (The National Assembly), the most consciously democratic institution in the exiled Tibetan community, has at its last public appearance failed to alter its image of being an impotent body – subservient for all practical purposes to the dictates of the government (the Dalai Lama). … The experience so far has shown that the old-world values and ideas continue to dominate the positions of power in the Tibetan community …’

In the last fifty years, the Tibetan exile government functioning in Dharamsala has never faced an opposition party, nor even an individual who could be called an opposition member. It has never taken a decision contrary to the Dalai Lama’s position, and such an event is even considered to be inconceivable. With all authority (executive, legislative, judicial and religious) invested solely in the person of the Dalai Lama, this government has ceased to uphold any pretence of constitutional democracy.

The Tibetan government is the Dalai Lama, and the Dalai Lama is the Tibetan government. Behind the trappings of government with its illusion of democracy, the Dalai Lama’s position, with its central tenet, ‘L’etat, c’est moi’ (‘I am the State’), extends its domain of authority over all aspects of policy and decision-making. There is no decision of government that is not the Dalai Lama’s decision.

Because the Dalai Lama is commonly held to be an infallible being, the embodiment of a Buddha, it is not only inconceivable but would also be heretical to formulate a policy or make a decision contrary to his wishes. Furthermore, because it would again be an act of heresy to criticise the policy or decision of a supposedly enlightened being, all criticism and blame for the Dalai Lama’s mistakes are directed at the Tibetan government, which has no means of redress.

In this way, the so-called Tibetan government is blamed for all of the Dalai Lama’s mistakes, and the untarnished image of the Dalai Lama is maintained. This very convenient system has enabled the Dalai Lama, through the illusion of government, to destroy the reputation and activities of others, to intimidate and persecute them, and to instigate violence against them, all while maintaining a faultless public image, and knowing full well that all subsequent blame will be carried by his ‘government’.

In September 1995, an unprecedented ‘open letter’ from the Tibetan people to the Dalai Lama was given anonymously to an English woman travelling in Nepal. Called the ‘Mongoose-Canine Letter’, it revealed to Westerners for the first time another side of the Dalai Lama, one which was already an open secret within the Tibetan community. For the first time ever, the Dalai Lama and his government were publicly accused of such things as illegal international trading in arms, persecution and assassination; and of creating schism and disharmony within the Tibetan spiritual traditions and community.

I have now been here just over a week and starting to get used to the ways of Mcleod Ganj, one thing I now know is that when a cow is walking ahead of you up the steepest of hills never walk behind it because if its knees go you’re in a bit of a situation.

My class is getting bigger by the day, all the old students who had left for one reason or another have heard there is a new teacher in town and have come back. I am trying to help them master the skill of ‘reading in your head’. I ask them every day to try but they just can’t do it. I think it’s because most of them are monks and used to chanting in their meditation classes. I need to stop thinking that they are all so simple and cute just because their English is basic. I haven’t squeezed their cheeks yet but it’s really tempting. Bad!

A lot of their English books ask them to criticise other people, not an easy thing for a monk to do. I asked them whether they had a ‘bad neighbour’ but all their neighbours were perfect and never did anything wrong. I told them about my new neighbour, (not the Dalai Lama – the other side). She is a mad woman from Germany who has moved to this little town and adopted about 20 dogs who all live in her house, from 4.30am they all start to bark at each other and you can hear her making baby noises at them. At 6am she takes them all for a walk, well they pretty much pull and push her is every direction while she tries to maintain some composure, I think that’s why this activity is carried out at low light when most people are still in their beds.

The amount of tie dye and mirrored handbags is rapidly disappearing, not sure why but there are less soul searchers coming here now, maybe it was because of my smear campaign? Oh no, there goes one and she just ordered a Kashmir flower tea as she lights up another cigarette.

The number of stalls here selling everything ‘Free Tibet’ is astonishing. I think that the situation in Tibet is quite confusing to an outsider (certainly it was for Konnie Huq) but I am starting to understand it a little better. Having been to Tibet in 2005 I realise that the Chinese do a very good job at shutting people up but this town is free from Chinese oppression making the atmosphere very political.

I’m off to find pegs and a washing line as a monkey just tried to steal my Aussie Bum’s from my balcony. Cheeky!

At least 22 passengers were killed and 48 injured when an overcrowded bus rolled down into a gorge near Haripur area of Kangra district, about 45 km from here.

The mishap occurred when the bus driver lost control over the vehicle, which was on its way to Dehra from Nagrota Suriyan, and fell into the 100-feet deep gorge, Superintendent of Police Atul Fulzele said.

The injured were rushed to Dr Rajendra Prasad Government Medical College in Tanda, they said, adding rescue operation is on and the casualty figure is expected to rise.

Senior civil and police officers have rushed to the accident site

Wer ist der 14.Dalai Lama?

Der 14.Dalai Lama wurde im Jahre 1935 als Lhmao Dhondrup in Takser/Tibet als Bauernsohn geboren.

Im Alter von fast zwei Jahren wurde er von zwei Mönchen, denen er zuvor in einer Vision erschienen sein soll, als Wiedergeburt seines 1933 verstorbenen Vorgängers Thub-ldan-rgya-mtsho (Thubten Gyatsho) entdeckt.Es wird berichtet, dass er spontan eine Mala (buddhistischer Rosenkranz), die dem 13. Dalai Lama gehört hatte, als die seine erkannte und weitere Tests bestand. Unter anderem konnte er einen anderen prominenten Mönch benennen und weitere Gegenstände, die ebenfalls dem Vorgänger gehört hatten, aus einer mitgebrachten Menge heraussuchen.

Mit 4Jahren wurde er in den Potala Palast nach Lhasa/Tibet gebracht um dort die Mönchsschule zu absolvieren.

Am 22. Februar 1940 wurde er im Alter von 4½ Jahren als 14. Dalai Lama durch die Sitringasol-Zeremonie inthronisiert. Sein neuer Name lautete damit Jetsün Jampel Ngawang Lobsang Yeshe Tendzin Gyatsho – „Heiliger Herr, gütiger Herr, mitfühlender Verteidiger des Glaubens, Ozean der Weisheit“. Tibeter sprechen vom Dalai Lama normalerweise als Yishin Norbu („alle Wünsche erfüllender Edelstein“) oder einfach als Kundün (Gegenwart).

Von 1946 bis 1950 hielt sich der österreichische Geograf und Bergsteiger Heinrich Harrer als Freund und Lehrer des jungen Dalai Lama in Lhasa auf. Am 17. November 1950 wurde dem damals 15-jährigen Dalai Lama die religiöse  Herrschaft über Tibet übertragen.

Abkommen mit der Volksrepublik China

Am 23. Mai 1951 unterzeichneten Vertreter der tibetischen Regierung in Beijing das so genannte „17-Punkte-Abkommen zur friedlichen Befreiung Tibets“, mit dem Tibet innenpolitische Autonomie und Religionsfreiheit zugesichert werden sollte, die Vertretung in der Außenpolitik, im Außenhandel sowie in militärischen Angelegenheiten aber von der Regierung der Volksrepublik China beansprucht wurde. Am 24. Oktober 1951 wurde nach einem entsprechenden Beschluss der tibetischen Nationalversammlung in Lhasa die Zustimmung Tendzin Gyatshos an Mao Zedong und die Regierung der Volksrepublik China telegrafiert^[3]. Er selbst erklärte dazu später, er habe dem Abkommen nur zugestimmt, um sein Volk und das Land „vor der völligen Zerstörung zu bewahren“^[4]. Dem Abkommen vorausgegangen war der Einmarsch der chinesischen Volksbefreiungsarmee in der osttibetischen Provinz Chamdo.

Im Jahr 1954 reiste Tendzin Gyatsho auf Einladung der Regierung der Volksrepublik China und gegen den Widerstand der Äbte von Sera, Drepung und Ganden mit einem Gefolge von fast 500 Personen nach Beijing.^[5] Konservative Kräfte des tibetischen Adels und Klerus befürchteten, dass der Dalai Lama in Beijing gegen ihre Interessen beeinflusst werden könnte.^[6] Im September 1954 wurde er zum stellvertretenden Vorsitzenden des Ständigen Ausschusses des Nationalen Volkskongresses gewählt.^[7] Der Dalai Lama überreichte Mao Zedong Geschenke und schrieb eine Hymne an ihn, in der er Mao Zedong u. a. mit Brahma verglich.^[8] Die chinesische Regierung finanzierte den Bau des Palastes Tagten Migyur Phodrang^[9] für den 14. Dalai Lama auf dem Gelände des Norbulingka. Der Palast wurde 1956 fertig gestellt.^[10]

Im Winter besichtigte der 14. Dalai Lama weitere chinesische Städte und war sehr beeindruckt. 1955 feierte er das tibetische Neujahr in Beijing und gab aus diesem Anlass ein Bankett für Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Liu Shaoqi und Zhu De.^[11]

Im April 1958 wurde das Vorbereitungskomitee des Autonomen Gebiets Tibet gegründet und der 14. Dalai Lama wurde zum Vorsitzenden des Komitees gewählt.^[12] (Quelle: Wikipedia)

Flucht und Exil

Im Jahre 1959 floh der gegenwärtige Dalai Lama am 17. März während des Tibetaufstands ins indische Exil nach Dharamsala (Himachal Pradesh), wo er sich seitdem aufhält. Kurz bevor er floh, hatte er die Geshe, die Doktorwürde der buddhistischen Theologie (vgl. Indische Philosophie), am Jokhang-Tempel erlangt, nachdem er sich in philosophischen Debatten mit Mönchen der Klöster Drepung, Ganden und Sera bewährt hatte. Vor der Flucht hatte er das Nechung-Orakel befragt, das ihm riet, Tibet zu verlassen. (Quelle: Wikipedia)

Es sind nun 50 Jahre vergangen seit der Dalai Lama im Exil ist und seit der Besetzung Chinas sind ca 140.000 Tibeter aus Tibet geflüchtet und es sind immer noch mindestens 3000 Menschen Jährlich die auf der Flucht vor den Chinesen sind.

I decided not to do the whole Delhi thing as I’ve spent 6 weeks in Mumbai before and it didn’t quite agree with me, too much dust and car horns so I slept in till 5pm and got the 12 hour bus to Dharamsala.  The journey was cramped but fine and I managed to sleep most of the way and thanks to Caine’s Eee PC managed to watch ‘Pans Labyrinth’ and ‘There will be Blood’  (you don’t get that on the Megabus)…

As the sun rose and the sleeping tablets lost there effect, I realised I was in the Himalayas not only by the fact that my packet of crisps was about to explode and my ears were popping but by the snow-capped mountains all around.  It was really nice to see the vehicles which didn’t quite make the long journey and had tumbled over the side of the cliff – now being watched by little monkeys who seemed to be a little confused about their new kamikaze playground.

We got to the bus station and I quickly looked in my lonely planet papers to find a suitable hotel, another example of my bad planning.  Of course at the bus station I was bombarded with offers but decided to stick to the ‘clean and simple room with hot shower and nice views’.

I can’t quite believe how beautiful this place is.  I am surrounded by mountains and there are many winding streets with coffee shops, fluffy Tibetan hat stalls and wandering Tibetan monks.  The amount of massage courses, yoga centres, learn Tibetan cooking courses etc is weird and there are many of those ‘i just want to find myself’ people here who wear tie-died tops, those orange/green baggy pants and carry those mirrored shoulder bags which in my opinion should be burnt because they look irritatingly awful.

I’ve now been to the school where I am to teach and the people seem lovely and I am attending a meeting tomorrow entitled ‘How to retain students’.  Considering my classes used to bunk my lessons underneath the stairs I don’t think I have much to offer but then I did actively encourage that,

As I left the school I was told by the police to stand still.  I was a little scared as they had guns but then his Holiness the Dalai Lama passed in a little car.  He waved and I didn’t know what do so I kind of half danced in an S-Club fashion, half waved and half curtsied – classy!

But the best news is that I can wear jeans and trainers whilst teaching!!!

Tre tibetani sarebbero stati giustiziati ieri a Lhasa. Lo scrive il sito vicino ai movimenti tibetani Phayul, riprendendo il comunicato del gruppo Gu Chu Sum, formato da ex prigionieri politici tibetani. La sentenza sarebbe stata eseguita nei confronti di tre attivisti che avevano manifestato per le strade di Lhasa nel marzo dell’anno scorso quando comincio’ il movimento di protesta per le Olimpiadi cinesi. Secondo il comunicato del Gu Chu Sum, i tre sarebebro un uomo di Lhasa, un altro di Amdo e una donna di Nyemo. Il sito Phayul scrive che pero’ l’esecuzione della sentenza non e’ stata confermata da nessun altra fonte e il nome dei tre giustiziati non compare negli elenchi dei condannati a morte, elenchi presso il Tibetan Centre of Human Rights e il governo tibetano in esilio. Invece e’ stato confermato dal governo tibetano in esilio a Dharamsala, in India, l’arresto di tre tibetani che nel villaggio di Rata in Tibet, lo scorso primo ottobre, in concomitanza con i festeggiamenti cinesi per il 60/o della repubblica, hanno messo su internet immagini e discorsi del Dalai Lama.

Photograph of the Dalai Lama by Tim Sloan/AFP/Getty Images.

The Dalai Lama is known as a symbol of peace, compassion, and nonviolence. During his visit to Washington, D.C. this week, it is no surprise that he will receive another award for his work promoting human rights.

Far lesser known is his role as a feminist. In 50 years of exile from Tibet, this self-professed “simple monk” has been the driving force behind the growing prominence of women in Tibetan exile society. He has even suggested that his next reincarnation could and should be a girl. “Woman is more compassionate and has more power to understand and feel the needs of others as compared to man,” he said at a press conference last November in Dharamsala, his exile home in northern India.

That the Dalai Lama—believed by Tibetan Buddhists to be the 14th reincarnation of the Buddha of compassion—should return to the world as a woman is a radical notion that perturbs even open-minded Tibetans, men and women alike. And despite his wishes, the 15th reincarnation will very likely be a boy, just like all the prior ones…

Read more

The below message is from a reliable source regarding the Dalai Lama’s court case:

As per information received from the High Court of India, New Delhi, I am told that there was a recent hearing on the Dorje Shugden case on the 14th of September. This was the 3rd hearing in response to a riposte that had earlier been provided by the Advocate of the Dalai Lama–that too, after a lapse of 9 and a half months, precisely speaking!

The 3rd Judge in question, unlike the 2nd, had expressed reservations and unwillingness to dictate a ruling-as a decision–but, on the contrary, was also open to the redressal of the affair.

This Judge dismissed the Dalai Lama’s arguments as unconvincing, further asserting that there was sufficient documentation of evidence available to prove that the Dalai Lama was in fact and indeed persecuting followers of the deity Dorje Shugden and that this would have to cease henceforth.

A notice in this regards would be sent to the Dalai Lama as a warning to desist. Notwithstanding which, the Judge declared, that punitive measures would be initiated, would the Dalai Lama not restrain from his actions of religious persecution.

Apparently, Dharamsala is mysteriously silent, and this is not new! They are probably contemplating on the next course of action–whatever it may be. The Tibetans are a beguiled lot. It is possible that they may contemplate peaceful and violent means–or, on the contrary behave as if nothing has happened!

Beh, adesso basta. Di belle intenzioni sulla pace nel mondo sono pieni anche i concorsi di Miss Italia. (La classica domanda “di cultura” alle aspiranti miss: «E lei cosa vorrebbe?» Risposta: «lapacenelmondo»). Che il presidente degli Stati Uniti d’America ogni tanto parli  come un’aspirante velina di Miss Italia, passi. Ma che vinca anche il premio Nobel per la pace senza avere ancora realizzato nulla, proprio no.

Ma ciò che risulta insopportabile sono il buonismo, la prudenza buonsensaia e l’ipocrisia dell’Occidente verso il Dalai Lama. E’ ciò che possiamo chiamare la politica delle pacche sulle spalle. In nome della pace, tutti i leader politici occidentali hanno accolto il Dalai Lama dandogli grandi pacche sulle spalle e assicurandogli la propria verbosa solidarietà. Ma nei vent’anni (vent’anni!) passati dal conferimento del Nobel per la pace al Dalai Lama, nessun Paese occidentale ha fatto passi concreti per pressare la Cina sulla questione dei diritti umani e su quella del dramma tibetano. E la ragione ovvia è che nessuno vuol compromettere i propri business nel ricco mercato cinese.

L’ultimo esempio di questa “politica delle pacche sulle spalle” è proprio Obama, che da una parte definisce il Dalai Lama “un modello” di saggezza politica e dall’altra si rifiuta di riceverlo prima di andare in Cina da Hu Jintao; lo vedrà al ritorno da Beijing, invece, quando potrà chiacchierare amabilmente con lui senza prendere impegni politici concreti. Una contraddizione che è stata rilevata, prima che dai  mass media, da molti blogger, come l’ottima Orientalia4all. Eppure prosegue inarrestabile nei mass media la beatificazione di Sant’Obama (che non è stato eletto per starci simpatico bensì per fare politica concreta).
E quel che più conta, questa beatificazione copre la storica ipocrisia dell’Occidente sul Tibet e sui diritti umani in Cina.

Consideriamo l’intervento del giornalista del Corriere della Sera Marco Del Corona sul suo blog Le vie dell’Asia. Del Corona – il quale peraltro è uno dei pochi giornalisti italiani che possano scrivere di Asia senza dire orrende castronerie – a proposito della politica sino-tibetana di Obama parla di «accortezza», di «capacità di dare un’accelerazione innovativa alle pratiche della diplomazia», e di «un approccio che mostra realismo e pragmatismo». Ma stiamo scherzando? Invidio davvero quest’ottimismo da anime belle. E’ vero, come dice Del Corona, che «nessuno ormai è in grado di ordinare alla Cina cosa deve fare» ma non è vero (come dice Del Corona) che la politica del muro-contro-muro con la Cina popolare sia fallita…per la semplice ragione che non c’è mai stata! Qualcuno ricorda atti clamorosi, strappi diplomatici, convegni di denuncia, oppure pressioni economiche o azioni politiche concertate a livello internazionale per esercitare pressioni sulla Cina per il rispetto dei diritti umani? Negli ultimi vent’anni non ve n’è stata traccia.

Ma colpevole di ciò, ovviamente, non è Obama, bensì i responsabili delle politiche estere dei Paesi occidentali in questi decenni. Perciò suona vagamente ridicola la tesi di Paolo Granzotto, che rispondendo a un lettore su Il Giornale scrive a proposito di Obama: «Un Hu Jintao che lo accoglie gelidamente avrebbe intorbidito la sua impronta messianica: ed è quello il pericolo che ha inteso scongiurare voltando le spalle al Dalai Lama. E pensare che ciò che non ha avuto il coraggio di fare Obama lo fece, petto in fuori e testa alta, George W. Bush». Il ridicolo sta nel fatto che il non-rimpiangibile (se non da Granzotto) George W. Bush accolse sì il Dalai Lama a Washington prima di andare a Beijing ma poi nel concreto non fece nulla, assolutamente nulla, per condizionare positivamente la politica della Cina. Insomma: allora come ora, sempre e solo “pacche sulle spalle”.

Ora diciamoci la cruda verità: l’Occidente è corresponsabile sì, ma solo al 50%, del totale fallimento della linea politica seguita dai consiglieri politici del  Dalai Lama in questi vent’anni. Perché è di questo che si tratta: la “Via di Mezzo” (come è stata chiamata, con evidente riferimento al buddhismo, la politica di dialogo con la Cina) è fallita. Chiariamoci subito: l’autorità spirituale del Dalai Lama (che è un illuminato) non è assolutamente in discussione, ma linea politica del Governo tibetano in esilio a Dharamsala (legittimo rappresentante del popolo tibetano) deve poterlo essere.
Il Governo tibetano in esilio ha rinunciato a richiedere l’indipendenza, ha rinunciato a compiere manifestazioni politiche “forti”, ha rinunciato a ritrarsi dai colloqui bilaterali anche quando era evidente a tutti che i cinesi stavano solo cercando di prendere tempo per non fare brutte figure con l’opinione pubblica mondiale (come avvenne nei collqui precendenti le Olimpiadi di Beijing, conclusi come sempre con un nulla di fatto). A fronte delle tante rinunce, dei tanti gesti di buona volontà compiuti dai tibetani, la Cina non ha mai concesso assolutamente nulla. L’altro 50% di responsabilità per questo fallimento politico è dunque da attribuirsi al Kalon Tripa,  il primo ministro Samdhong Rinpoche; e sarebbe ora che lui e gli altri membri del  Governo tibetano in esilio si assumessero pubblicamente la responsabilità del fallimento di questa politica della Via di Mezzo, anziché cercare – come purtroppo accade – di tacitare tutte le voci di dissenso politico sia nel mondo tibetano sia nel mondo degli occidentali amici del Tibet.

Su questa tragica situazione e sugli strumenti politici per affrontarla si sta sviluppando un ampio dibattito in Rete. Un esempio è fornito dal blog di Piero Verni, Free Tibet, che ha ospitato di recente un doppio intervento di una delle migliori menti politiche del mondo tibetano, Jamyang Norbu. Vi invito a leggerlo (e a leggere il dibattito seguito ai due interventi): si richiede una svolta politica nei confronti della Cina, più incisività  sul piano internazionale, elezioni multipartitiche nel mondo tibetano, maggiore rispetto per il dissenso, chiara distinzione fra autorità spirituale e autorità politica. E’ un inizio, una piattaforma per ridiscutere la riorganizzazione politica del mondo tibetano e una strategia diversa, più combattiva, nei confronti di Beijing. Unica via per “rimescolare le carte” anche nei confronti dei tentennamenti occidentali. Perché il Tibet non può più affidarsi alla politica delle “pacche sulle spalle”. E Sant’Obama (per quanto ci stia simpatico) non lo salverà.                                               M.R.

Saturday

I forgot how much I hated Dharamshala road until I was on it again.  It twists and winds its nauseating way down the mountain while everyone chirps happily away and I feel like I’m the only one who is going to vomit.  This time was no different.  We left in the early evening, and in my mind I waved goodbye to the land of crimson-robed monks, climbing mist, hide-and-seek corn fields, mystical waterfalls, rainbow umbrellas, and wild roses.  I put on my headphones and stared out the window as the town fell away behind me.  About ten minutes down the mountain, I felt sick.  After another ten minutes, I began fiddling with my window to see if it would open and accommodate my head.  It did.

Meanwhile, in the seat behind me, a French girl was saying to her seatmate, “So I just look these stupid Indian men directly in the eye, you know?  They think they can intimidate me, but no.  I just stare back until they get so uncomfortable, they look away.”  She laughed, a nasty little laugh that dripped with sardonic contempt.  “I also like to hang my panties on the line to dry,” she went on.  “I hang up my lacy bras and underwear right out there in the open where they will see them.  It’s my way of sending them a message,” she said in a charming, British-tinged accent.  “It’s like I’m saying, Yes, I might be a sexy Western woman, but I am free, but I would never take YOU to bed!”  I mentally applauded her.  I knew there was a reason I loved the French.

As she continued to chatter away behind me, my head started pounding and my mouth began to water.  Uh oh.  Never a good sign.  I felt my stomach clenching up, and I slowly leaned out the window.  Dust flew up into my eyes and nose, and I closed my eyes against the burn.  Something was climbing up my stomach, a tightness that needed to be released, and I opened my mouth and took several deep breaths.  Below me on the road, several cars had come to a stop, and their occupants had decided to get out and lounge against the passenger doors.  The bus was crawling slowly past them, hitting every rock in its path.  I didn’t want to puke on someone’s head, but it was beginning to look inevitable.  Just as the bile was rising in my throat, the bus picked up and we rounded a corner.  I opened my mouth and let a stream of orange juice and partially digested momos fly.  I wish I could say that when I pulled my head back in the window, I felt better, but I didn’t.  That bus ride really sucked.

Sunday

Delhi Train Station

I chose an obscure bit of wall to sit against as I waited for my train to arrive.  I must have been crazy to think I would be left in peace.  In the space of five minutes, I had a pack of Indian children making dashes at me, stopping just short of my feet, and screaming Hello! before running off in a fit of giggles.  A legless beggar rolled up on a wooden cart and held out his hands for money.  Before I could reply, a stern-looking Indian man dressed in all white appeared and began shouting at the beggar in Hindi.  Chaos ensued, with the beggar shouting back and waving his fists, a group of Muslim men who had just finished their evening prayer standing up to stare, and everyone in the waiting station turning to see what was going on.  I just froze and tried to melt back into the wall.

The next thing I knew, I was being whisked off by the Indian man.  He was the type of Indian who is helpful to a detriment.  He scolded me for traveling alone, asked with a mixture of concern and confusion why I wasn’t married yet, and sat me down on a bench in the middle of the waiting station where I would be “more comfortable.”  Hundreds of pairs of eyes were on me.  I was not more comfortable.  The children kept running up and peering at me from around a tall pillar, and every time I would “discover” them, they would shriek in laughter and run off.  Their parents stared at me in unbroken fascination for the hour that I sat there.  One little boy got bolder and bolder, coming up to me with his hands behind his back, digging his toe into the ground and smiling.  He was flirting with me in the unabashed, adoring way that only a small child can flirt with an adult.  I fell in love with him, and gave he and his “attendant,” another young boy of eleven or twelve, each a twenty baht Thai note.  They dissolved in giddy joy and laughter, and ran off to show the adults.  When I had to use the loo, an Indian woman who was in charge of taking money for the lockers followed me in.  She wore a blue sari, and stood at the sink smoking an illicit cigarette.  When I emerged, she shot off to me in rapid Hindi, speaking passionately and waving her hands in the air.  I had no idea what she was saying, so I nodded my head and smiled until she seemed satisfied.  Then she followed me out, never letting me out of her sight.  It was only a thirty foot journey from my bench to the toilet and back, but apparently she didn’t want me to get lost.

When it was time to catch my train, I had a retinue of friends to see me off.  The Indian man grabbed my ticket out of my hands and led the way, the little boy and his attendant followed, skipping and laughing, the secret smoker locked her cash box and joined in, and the family who had been staring at me came out to the platform to wave goodbye.  The Indian man and the young attendant managed to sneak onto the train with me, and sat in the opposite seat until a railway guard discovered them and told them to leave.  They were loathe to part ways, but I gave them each an autographed passport photo, and they beamed, satisfied and finally able to say goodbye.  Hoping to catch a few winks of sleep, I pulled out my bed early and began unfolding the sheets.  But no such luck.  Two more Indians poked their heads around the corner and began speaking in excited, lilting English.  Being a white novelty in a foreign land can be seriously exhausting.

Monday

I was the first person on the bus.  We drove for a few minutes, then pulled into a dusty market, where vendors were hawking apples, bananas, peanuts, and jellabies.  As the engine idled, and the driver disappeared into the melee, an old saddhu tottered up to the door of the bus, barefoot, bare-chested, and smeared with ash.  He was singing and swinging a copper incense holder that burned and perfumed the morning air.  He stepped onto the bus, still singing, and took a blossom out of the basket on his arm.  He bowed down to the empty driver’s seat and placed the flower there, still singing and waving the incense.  Om, namaskar, Om, Om, Om, he sang.  The bus was now protected.  Then he turned and placed an orange blossom in my hand.  He dipped his finger into a jar of red powder and pressed it against my forehead.  I was marked.  Blessed.  Om, Om, Om, he went on, swinging the incense back and forth.  Om, Namaskar, Om! I put a few rupees in his basket and he disappeared, bare-skinned and glistening, into the sweltering September morning.

In India, when it is your birthday, the tradition is to offer small gifts to the important people in your life.  Today Purnima turns 35.  We had lunch together in Shukla-ji’s garden, and then she had to go to work.  She was stressed, however, because she hadn’t had a chance to prepare a gift for Sharat, our yoga teacher and her boss.
“I wish I had remembered to buy him an apple strudel,” she said, fretting.  “And now it’s too late.  I have to be at work in ten minutes.”
I remembered the little bakery down the hill.  They sell pastries and eggs from their back door.  “Do you want me to go down there and see what they have?” I asked Purnima.

“Would you!?” she asked dramatically, her already big eyes huge.  “Of course,” I said.  “Go to work.  I’ll bring the stuff up in a little while.”
I finished my chai in the sun, and then walked out the gates of Shukla-ji’s place, and started down the hill into the glen.  Two Indian men were hacking up the hillside to build a path.  They put aside their tools and let me pass.  I crossed the bridge over the little creek, and climbed up the steps to the tiny house that is obscured by plants and trees.  In the small courtyard, hens pecked at the ground, their big claws splayed and yellow.  A cow twitched his tail in the sun.
I walked to the backdoor and knocked.  I could hear cartoons playing inside.  A few minutes later, a sleepy looking Indian man came to the door, scratching his head.  “Yes?” he said.  “How can I help you?”  I told him I was looking for apple strudel, but he said they didn’t have any today.  He offered me cinnamon rolls, wheat rolls, and plain white bread.  I told him I’d take three cinnamon rolls.  “And do you have organic eggs?” I asked.  “Yes, Madame,” he replied.  “How many you like?”  I thought about it.  “I’ll take three,” I said.  He nodded and began filling a paper bag.  “And fresh milk?” I asked.  “Do you have any today?”  He nodded again.  “How much?” he asked.  “Mmmm… how about a half kilo?” I said.  “Yes, of course,” he replied.  He disappeared into the depths of the house, and returned a few minutes later.  A tiny, mewing kitten was clinging to his shirt.  He was about to throw it outside, but I held out my hands instead.  “Can I hold him?” I asked.  He gave me a half smile and extracted the kitten from his shirt, placing him in my hands.  I pressed the tiny gray kitten up against my chest, and immediately he started purring and massaging his paws against my skin.
The Indian man wrapped everything up, and then came back to the door.  I hated to put the kitten down, but it was time to go.  I handed the furry bundle back to the man, and took the bag that he offered me.  I watched him carry the kitten to an outdoor oven that had been covered and sealed with cement.  “Warm,” he said, seeing me watch.  “Little cat likes the warm.”  I walked over and put my hand on top of the oven.  It was very warm, and covered in old canvas sacks.  The kitten turned in several circles, and then settled down into a tiny indent in one of the old bags.
I thanked the man, watched the kitten for a few more minutes, and then emerged into the open courtyard where the sun was soft and warm.  The chickens were still pecking the ground and the cow was still flicking his tail.  I had Purnima’s birthday rolls, and tomorrow’s breakfast for myself.  It was time to take a little nap.

24 August 2009

Delhi again.  But this time is the complete opposite of the last.

The all-night bus ride was a foggy dream from its beginning—Amala gave me only one kata because I’m going to China, not back to America.  I sat next to a French woman, who comes to Dhasa often to help with environmentalism in the Tibetan community.  Someone got sick—the smell unbearable for a while.  The AC was too cold, no windows to open so condensation within the bus left us damp when we awoke from the jolting vehicle, the beeping, the music from shop windows as we passed through towns.  My mind was hazy from lack of sleep.

I am used to a rougher side of India.  So when I got to Kail’s house to see a guard at the gate, peacocks in the garden, and servants shuffling me inside, one could imagine my shock.  It was about 8 am.  I hadn’t really slept.  Was this a dream?

Chetan welcomed me into his home even though my visit was a surprise to him—his wife, Manya, had forgotten to tell him I would be coming.  But all was well.  We ate custard and pomegranate seeds for breakfast, drank fresh squeezed orange juice.  He called the girls to tell them I was on my way.  He called the driver.  I was shuttled from one Seth house to the next, where Lakshmi put me to bed for a couple hours.  When I awoke, Ambika, one of Kail’s three stunning step-sisters, was there to greet me.

Ambika says I am adventurous.  Again I’m not sure whether it is adventure or craziness I seek, but whichever one, it was wonderful to be in good hands.  The Seth family has redeemed India for me. However, I am inclined to ask myself if this redemption is due to indulgence in a security built on a little wealth.  When I told Ambika that I was glad to see a little Indian culture from their eyes (I had really only seen Tibetan), she echoed her step brother’s retort saying, “I’m not sure if we live like real Indians.” In any event, it was enough.  Just to meet them, to dine with them, to listen to their lives and see their homes, to go into the markets and pick out red and gold fabrics together—bartering in broken English and Hindi, to listen to their stories of their brother—a great friend to me, it was all enough.  I have depended on the kindness of strangers, and they could not have been more kind.  Though this brief vacation, transition, journey (whatever you may call it) has been stressful, I have been humbled and realize how truly blessed I am.  I am already fortunate to have such beautiful people in my life, but it is overwhelming to keep adding them to the family.  And that is exactly how I was treated this week, both in Dharamsala and in Delhi, just like one of their own.

I don’t think I will ever be able to fully comprehend India.  Perhaps this is the reason why I am both drawn to it and repulsed by it, a country of contradictions.  The beauty of the people, architecture, textiles, harshly set against a background of unending poverty and filth. Countless authors and historians have tried to make sense of this place.  Their statements have so much truth sometimes, others are just vast generalizations that can barely be applied.  Someone once said that while other countries were going to war to conquer more land and peoples, India was trying to conquer the meaning of the cycle of life and spirituality.  Again, this is both true and false.  India did its fair share of going to war.  But like so many, I will return here, forever drawn to this soil in search of an understanding that extends from human life to human existence to our divine identity.

20 August 2009

Last night I walked alone along the busy evening streets of Dhasa.  I met my “brothers” on the top of Tsongka, my favorite restaurant.  The roof has a spectacular view of the city and the peak that towers over the valley.  At dusk, when the city is in shadow, this peak gets the last drops of sunlight, a pink and gold glow against the rising stars.

Where else can I sit at a bar with seven or so who hardly speak the same language, and, over shitty beer get tipsy to a conversation that contemplates the meaning of human life—it’s complications, its difficulties, its happinesses?

This is part of why I feel alive here, awake rather.  Because people here are awake to life—to family and community and spirituality—to simply living.  It was here I found the importance of those things, so much that I returned back to America to search for them there.

One is faced with life here in the  simplest of tasks.  One is involved in the task, there is very little to separate you.  Buying meat- you choose from the whole which part you want.  We use our hands instead of toilet paper.  There is no shower head to wash away the chore of staying clean—we heat and pour and scrub the water over ourselves, connected with carnal nature.  Money is to survive rather than be rich.  Money is to get back to The Land of Snowy Mountains, to get back home.

There is a very distinct style amongst the travelers in these damp, cold mountains where the sun rarely shines.  Instead of jackets, they rock fuzzy shawls and blankets.  Also popular are asymmetrical sweatshirts with long, pointy hoods, woolen socks with a split in the toes, knitted booties, and leg warmers.

Yesterday I bought my first pair of wool booties, and today I topped them off with a pair of colorful leg warmers.  As I slid the leg warmers on over my booties and sweats today, I thought to myself, in all seriousness, ‘Stylish.  And comfortable!’

Then I considered my mental appraisal, and laughed out loud.  I never thought I’d live to see the day when the combination of knitted booties, leg warmers and sweats was stylish.