LITMIR.BIZ

       Doctor of Buddhist philosophy

      I left the Norbulingka (the summer palace in Lhasa) at the beginning of 1959. When I arrived at the Jokhang Temple for the Monlam festival, at the end of which my final examination would be held, between 25,000 and 30,000 monks were waiting for me, intermingled with the enormous crowd of laypeople who had come from the furthest corners of Tibet. For one whole day, before an audience of several thousand people, and alongside other students like myself, I had to hold my own in logic, epistemology, and the philosophies and scriptures of the Buddhist Mahayana tradition. Many different scholars asked me questions to test my knowledge. It was a hard day, but the examiners unanimously agreed to bestow the title of Geshe on me, the term for a Doctor in Buddhist philosophy.

       A thousand-year civilization exhibits its glory for the last time

      On 5 March, I left the Jokhang in a magnificent procession to go back to the summer palace. My bodyguards, dressed in their gleaming uniforms, surrounded my palanquin, and behind me followed members of the Kashag and of the Lhasa aristocracy, all sumptuously dressed. They were followed by the most eminent abbots and lamas of the country, and finally by thousands upon thousands of Tibetans. A civilization over one thousand years old exhibited its glory for the very last time, along the four-mile road that separates the two buildings. Only the usual contingent of Chinese was missing, and that was hardly reassuring.

       Invitation to a theatrical show

      Just before I had left for the Jokhang, I had been pressured by the Chinese to attend a theatrical show, and without any detailed discussion I had accepted the date of 10 March. When I returned to Lhasa, we learned that the play was to take place in the Chinese army camp, less than two miles away from the summer palace. The very idea of the Dalai Lama going into it for any purpose was extraordinary. No one could help feeling that the Chinese invitation was suspicious, especially as I had to go into the Chinese camp at midday without a bodyguard or escort, which would have been unprecedented.

      That day, as I was taking my usual walk around the garden of the Norbulingka in the early morning, I soon forgot my concerns in the beauty of the spring morning. Suddenly, I could hear shouts on the other side of the wall: the people of Lhasa were shouting that they had come to protect me. Very soon the crowd was countless, some said there were 30,000 people. When some of my Cabinet entered the palace, I could hear the cry: “Chinese out of Tibet! Tibet for the Tibetans!”

      I asked the Cabinet to inform the Chinese General that I would not be able to attend the play. I felt caught between two volcanoes, both of which might erupt at any moment. On one side were my people, unanimous in their clear and passionate protest against the Chinese regime, and on the other side was an army of occupation that was both powerful and aggressive. In the event of a clash the outcome was obvious: the people of Lhasa would be brutally massacred in their thousands.

       The Lhasa revolt

      The following days were horribly confused. General Tan Kuan-Sen spoke of betrayal, and accused the Tibetan government of organizing the popular agitation against the Chinese authorities. There was talk of a military campaign that aimed to destroy the Norbulingka. The crowd was becoming almost hysterical. Should I stay, or should I flee? I consulted the oracle, and once again he gave me the same reply: I should stay and continue the dialogue with the Chinese. For the very first time, I wondered whether his answer was really the best course of action. And then on the 16th, I received a third and final letter from General Tan Kuan-Sen. It was an ultimatum, confirming that the Chinese were getting ready to attack the crowds and bomb the Norbulingka.

       Exile

      At dawn on 17 March 1959, the end was imminent. There were rumors of fresh troops arriving from China by air. For the exasperated crowd that surrounded the summer palace armed with sticks, knives, swords, and a few rifles, the Dalai Lama remained the most precious thing in the world. The crowd would stay there until the end, and would die in the hope of saving their “precious protector.”

      

      It seemed that the situation was completely desperate. I asked for the oracle’s advice one more time. To my surprise, he cried, “Go away! Leave tonight!” Still in trance, he wrote down very clearly and in great detail which route I should take to leave the Norbulingka and reach the frontier. At that precise moment, as if to give the oracle’s instructions more weight, two heavy mortar shells were fired near the north gate of the Norbulingka. Together with my ministers, I consulted the popular leaders, who immediately offered the best cooperation.

      

      As night fell I went to the chapel of Mahakala, my personal protective deity. I offered a kata (long white silk scarf) at the altar as a symbol of farewell and stayed a moment, praying. The main entrance opens onto some steps. I walked around the courtyard, stopping at the other end to visualize my arrival in India, and then walking back to the doorway to symbolize my return to Tibet. And then I went out into the freezing night dressed in trousers and a long black cape, my glasses tucked away in my pocket. I slung a rifle on my shoulder, and was accompanied by two guards and my chamberlain. That is how I was able to walk through the gate unchallenged, like a humble soldier. And then my journey into exile began.

       CHAPTER TWO TIBET AND LIFE IN EXILE

       Truth is more powerful than force of arms

      Since my escape from Tibet, I have been living in exile in India. I was reluctantly forced to admit that I would be able to serve my people better from outside the country. Tibet has been under Chinese occupation for 40 years now. We have nothing other than our determination – and the truth – to help us deal with the Chinese. Despite the brainwashing, despite their use of all possible forms of atrocity and propaganda, despite all the terrible methods they have applied, the truth remains the truth. Our camp has neither money nor propaganda, it has nothing but our own simple voices. And yet most people have now lost confidence in the strong voices of the Chinese. Our voice may be gentle, but it has more credibility. The determination of ordinary human beings will triumph over any force of arms.

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