With a nod of gratitude to Richard Gere, I thought I would post an extract from “In the Shadow of the Buddha” where I write a bit about how Richard effectively communicates the critical message from Tibetans inside Tibet to those in position of political power around the world. It is people like Richard and other human rights advocates who continue to press governments around the world to call on the Chinese government to stop their repressive policies in Tibet and cease their gross human rights abuses.
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March 2002, Year of the Water Horse
Washington, D.C.
Stale air hung in U.S. House of Representatives’ Rayburn Hearing Room. Maybe it was the tie and jacket, perhaps the central heating, or the fact that there was a ceiling where I was used to endless sky. Members of Congress took their seats in an arc that stretched the length of the room. Photographers jockeyed for position as they shot from the floor to accompany the next day’s headlines. Hundreds of foldout chairs were jammed behind three experts testifying. A large group of congressional staff and the public waited impatiently in the hallway, trying to get in for the few standing-room-only positions.
The crowd was not gathered because all the congressmen on the com¬mittee were present at the hearing, an uncommon occurrence. Nor was it because this was a hearing on U.S. policy considerations on Tibet. Rather, the best-known Buddhist associated with Tibet, after the Dalai Lama, was present. Richard Gere had just flown in from a Toronto movie set to testify on religious persecution in Tibet.
During the rush to get the actor to Capitol Hill, I was asked by the International Campaign for Tibet to update him as to recent incidents in Tibet, something I had on occasion done in the past. Richard Gere knows the Tibet issue, and uses his celebrity status not only to promote the Dalai Lama’s mes¬sage of compassion, but also to articulate how the Chinese government creates the façade of religious freedom. He wants to know all the details from inside Tibet. Returning from my trips to Kandze, Lhasa, and elsewhere, I would occasionally meet with Richard in India, Nepal, or New York to show him recent photographs and tell him what Tibetans were telling me. At times he was moved to tears.
On this occasion, I had only a few minutes with Richard. I pulled from his briefing folder a creased and slightly torn document in Chinese with a crimson stamp at the bottom; yet another incident of Chinese authorities or¬dering the destruction of monks’ homes—this time at a placed called Yachen.
“This is the poster I hid in the sole of my shoe and brought out of China.”
Thirty minutes later, Richard held the document up as evidence during his testimony before the Committee on International Relations to demon¬strate China’s assertion that they guarantee religious freedom is baseless.
“They affixed this poster on the monastery’s main prayer hall that reads, ‘Monks and nuns who have destroy painted on their homes must de¬molish them. Otherwise work teams will destroy them.’ ” Richard continued to tell the committee what the monks and nuns had told me, that they were being expelled from their monastery, told to return home and stop practicing their religious faith, and to find a job that would contribute to the harmonious rise of China.
A few months earlier I had arrived at Yachen. Yachen is even more remote than Khenpo’s monastic encampment of Larung. It is a sprawling commu¬nity on the barren highlands of the eastern Tibetan Plateau, where monks and nuns lived in simple mud-walled houses, burning yak dung for fuel.
Above fourteen thousand feet in elevation, windswept and exposed, it offers few comforts. For the hermits, however, the infinite sky view and lack of distraction found in villages and cities make it ideal for meditation. The meditators here were, as an Italian scholar had told me, “Followers and dis¬ciples of Padmasambhava of extraordinary conduct; sons of the mountains, they chose mist as their clothes and contemplation as their food.”
Despite the nonpolitical nature of the monks and nuns meditating at Yachen, trouble was at their doorstep. I had been told that Chinese authorities were planning a demolition of monastic quarters because Beijing feared there was too large a concentration of monks. My jaw was clenched as I made my way on bus and then motorcycle to Yachen in the hope of snapping before-and-after shots.
I arrived at Yachen too late. The government officials and police had left already in their four-wheel-drive SUVs. And in their wake, the dwellings of hundreds of monks and nuns lay in mounds of dirt, as if a massive graveyard. A monk would later tell me, “The authorities painted the letter for destroy on our door and told us that we had two days to tear down our own house. If we did not take down our own house we would be beaten and fined. What else to do? We took the wood beams first and gave them to someone to store. Then we pushed and hit at the mud walls.”
I traversed the ridge above Yachen to find a bird’s-eye view of the area. I snapped photographs that showed large sections of the monastic community in ruins. The loudest sound was my heartbeat, but the stillness and peace in the mountain air bore no resemblance to the pain in the hearts of the monks and nuns at Yachen.
Later I walked into the community to find hot water and noodles. There were no visible security personnel posted at Yachen, though there would have been no way to conceal my presence. Through the muddy alleyways I found the shanty with the largest amount of smoke coming from a tin chimney. I took a seat on a rickety bench. As I changed the bandage on my knee from a motorcycle crash the previous day, three burly monks approached as if I were a strange zoo animal. I was accustomed to being stared at in China and Tibet, so I proceeded with the first aid. One of the monks sat next to my outstretched leg, and set a piece of paper on the wooden table. The red-ink stamp at the bottom of the page indicated it was official.
“This is the order from the police to tear down our houses. One of the houses you were taking photographs of was mine.”
Other monks gathered to look at what had been placed before me. I felt uncomfortable. Even in far-flung monasteries the Chinese security bureau often placed spy-monks.
“Take it.” The monk was not smiling as he pointed at the paper. There was no way for him to know that I was accustomed to spiriting information out of China.
“We cannot practice Buddhism with the Chinese here.”
I decided I should leave at once, even though I’d wanted to speak to some of the Buddhist lamas at Yachen about meditation techniques. Now that I had what China would deem a “state secret” on my person, I knew it would be foolish to meet any of the teachers. Before getting on the mo¬torcycle, I was able to slip away from the huddle of curious monks that fol-lowed me. I folded the demolition order, wrapped a plastic bag around it, and placed it under the insole of my hiking boot. Someone at Yachen who saw me take the paper in the noodle shop could call the police in Kandze and inform them, but no tail ever arrived. Though I had a false bottom in my satchel, I left the document in my boot. It stayed there for the next week of eastward travel back to China, and remained in my boot as I strode through the security in airports in Chengdu and Beijing.
---------
March 2002, Year of the Water Horse
Washington, D.C.
Stale air hung in U.S. House of Representatives’ Rayburn Hearing Room. Maybe it was the tie and jacket, perhaps the central heating, or the fact that there was a ceiling where I was used to endless sky. Members of Congress took their seats in an arc that stretched the length of the room. Photographers jockeyed for position as they shot from the floor to accompany the next day’s headlines. Hundreds of foldout chairs were jammed behind three experts testifying. A large group of congressional staff and the public waited impatiently in the hallway, trying to get in for the few standing-room-only positions.
The crowd was not gathered because all the congressmen on the com¬mittee were present at the hearing, an uncommon occurrence. Nor was it because this was a hearing on U.S. policy considerations on Tibet. Rather, the best-known Buddhist associated with Tibet, after the Dalai Lama, was present. Richard Gere had just flown in from a Toronto movie set to testify on religious persecution in Tibet.
During the rush to get the actor to Capitol Hill, I was asked by the International Campaign for Tibet to update him as to recent incidents in Tibet, something I had on occasion done in the past. Richard Gere knows the Tibet issue, and uses his celebrity status not only to promote the Dalai Lama’s mes¬sage of compassion, but also to articulate how the Chinese government creates the façade of religious freedom. He wants to know all the details from inside Tibet. Returning from my trips to Kandze, Lhasa, and elsewhere, I would occasionally meet with Richard in India, Nepal, or New York to show him recent photographs and tell him what Tibetans were telling me. At times he was moved to tears.
On this occasion, I had only a few minutes with Richard. I pulled from his briefing folder a creased and slightly torn document in Chinese with a crimson stamp at the bottom; yet another incident of Chinese authorities or¬dering the destruction of monks’ homes—this time at a placed called Yachen.
“This is the poster I hid in the sole of my shoe and brought out of China.”
Thirty minutes later, Richard held the document up as evidence during his testimony before the Committee on International Relations to demon¬strate China’s assertion that they guarantee religious freedom is baseless.
“They affixed this poster on the monastery’s main prayer hall that reads, ‘Monks and nuns who have destroy painted on their homes must de¬molish them. Otherwise work teams will destroy them.’ ” Richard continued to tell the committee what the monks and nuns had told me, that they were being expelled from their monastery, told to return home and stop practicing their religious faith, and to find a job that would contribute to the harmonious rise of China.
A few months earlier I had arrived at Yachen. Yachen is even more remote than Khenpo’s monastic encampment of Larung. It is a sprawling commu¬nity on the barren highlands of the eastern Tibetan Plateau, where monks and nuns lived in simple mud-walled houses, burning yak dung for fuel.
Above fourteen thousand feet in elevation, windswept and exposed, it offers few comforts. For the hermits, however, the infinite sky view and lack of distraction found in villages and cities make it ideal for meditation. The meditators here were, as an Italian scholar had told me, “Followers and dis¬ciples of Padmasambhava of extraordinary conduct; sons of the mountains, they chose mist as their clothes and contemplation as their food.”
Despite the nonpolitical nature of the monks and nuns meditating at Yachen, trouble was at their doorstep. I had been told that Chinese authorities were planning a demolition of monastic quarters because Beijing feared there was too large a concentration of monks. My jaw was clenched as I made my way on bus and then motorcycle to Yachen in the hope of snapping before-and-after shots.
I arrived at Yachen too late. The government officials and police had left already in their four-wheel-drive SUVs. And in their wake, the dwellings of hundreds of monks and nuns lay in mounds of dirt, as if a massive graveyard. A monk would later tell me, “The authorities painted the letter for destroy on our door and told us that we had two days to tear down our own house. If we did not take down our own house we would be beaten and fined. What else to do? We took the wood beams first and gave them to someone to store. Then we pushed and hit at the mud walls.”
I traversed the ridge above Yachen to find a bird’s-eye view of the area. I snapped photographs that showed large sections of the monastic community in ruins. The loudest sound was my heartbeat, but the stillness and peace in the mountain air bore no resemblance to the pain in the hearts of the monks and nuns at Yachen.
Later I walked into the community to find hot water and noodles. There were no visible security personnel posted at Yachen, though there would have been no way to conceal my presence. Through the muddy alleyways I found the shanty with the largest amount of smoke coming from a tin chimney. I took a seat on a rickety bench. As I changed the bandage on my knee from a motorcycle crash the previous day, three burly monks approached as if I were a strange zoo animal. I was accustomed to being stared at in China and Tibet, so I proceeded with the first aid. One of the monks sat next to my outstretched leg, and set a piece of paper on the wooden table. The red-ink stamp at the bottom of the page indicated it was official.
“This is the order from the police to tear down our houses. One of the houses you were taking photographs of was mine.”
Other monks gathered to look at what had been placed before me. I felt uncomfortable. Even in far-flung monasteries the Chinese security bureau often placed spy-monks.
“Take it.” The monk was not smiling as he pointed at the paper. There was no way for him to know that I was accustomed to spiriting information out of China.
“We cannot practice Buddhism with the Chinese here.”
I decided I should leave at once, even though I’d wanted to speak to some of the Buddhist lamas at Yachen about meditation techniques. Now that I had what China would deem a “state secret” on my person, I knew it would be foolish to meet any of the teachers. Before getting on the mo¬torcycle, I was able to slip away from the huddle of curious monks that fol-lowed me. I folded the demolition order, wrapped a plastic bag around it, and placed it under the insole of my hiking boot. Someone at Yachen who saw me take the paper in the noodle shop could call the police in Kandze and inform them, but no tail ever arrived. Though I had a false bottom in my satchel, I left the document in my boot. It stayed there for the next week of eastward travel back to China, and remained in my boot as I strode through the security in airports in Chengdu and Beijing.