Through Ralpa I asked a monk whether it was true that the Tibetan tradition of Buddhism was characterized by debating subtle points of theology.
The monk nodded vigorously and said, "Yes, yes!"
"Could you give me an example?"
"Yes. The abbot asks, 'Does a rabbit have a horn?' And a monk may stand up and say, 'No. A rabbit does not have a horn.' Then the abbot hits the monk with a stick and the other monks laugh. Another monk may say, 'Yes. A rabbit does have a horn. He digs a hole in the ground, and what does he use? Not his paw, but the nail on his paw. That is his horn.'"
"Does that settle the matter?"
"Maybe they argue a bit more, about whether it is a horn or not."
All this time, everywhere in Lhasa, the prayer wheels were spinning. Most pilgrims had the hand-held variety, a sort of upright pencil sharpener. The pilgrims plodded clockwise and spun the wheel — often very quickly, because the prayers uttered by the wheel (there is a scribbled mantra inside) are weaker than spoken prayers. These prayer wheels were usually copper or brass, but occasionally they were embossed with silver or else gilded. Prayer wheels were fastened in the temple enclosures — some were the size of oil drums and very hard to turn, others were no larger than nail kegs, and you could hear the flutter of the mantras in their innards as they spun. They had handles, they were greased with yak butter, and they were all inscribed in Tibetan and Sanskrit with the efficacious mantra om mani padme hum—the om is the most powerful and mystical element in the mantra, a combination of three Sanskrit sounds that sum up the three-in-one nature of the universe. These prayers are so sacred that just writing them or carving them in stone (the sacred om is frequently seen hacked into cliff faces) is regarded as much more pious than putting up statues.
Tibetan pilgrims thronged the Jokhang Temple, muttering prayers, prostrating themselves and gawking at the monks. They were from distant places, and they were dazzled by this Vatican of Tibetan Buddhism to such an extent that their pilgrims' piety seemed to vanish among the gold statues and lurid murals (of hell and heaven) and incense (sandalwood, cypress leaves) and dull, clopping drums. The pilgrims' eyes glittered in the half-dark of the cloisters, and these people took on the odd curiosity of tourists with their squints and stares, as if, so startled were they by the droning monks and the aromas and the drooping tankas, they had fogotten to pray.
Here, very recently, in the inner sanctum of the Jokhang, under the serene gaze of the holiest figure, Jowo Shakyamuni, the Precious Lord, the Chinese army had kept pigs, and the rest of the Jokhang had been commandeered as a barracks. They had been following the Mao dictum set out in the well-known essay "On Going Too Far": "To right a wrong it is necessary to exceed proper limits, and the wrong cannot be righted without the proper limits being exceeded." That was the Chinese epitaph for Tibet. You didn't close the temples — you kept pigs in them. You did not simply shut the monasteries — you defrocked the monks, put them into factories and forbade them to pray; and you used the monastery timbers for chicken-coops. The Mao policy of systematic humiliation of traditional belief reached its apotheosis in Tibet. Now the Chinese admit to "mistakes… excessiveness and errors during the ten chaotic years of the Cultural Revolution," as the Chinese diplomat Zheng Wanzhen put it in his defense of Chinese policies in Tibet which he wrote for The Washington Post in 1987. The Chinese reiterate the sums spent on restoration work, but it goes without saying that the Tibetans will never forgive the desecration of their holy places and the impertinence of the Chinese occupation. Buddhism teaches restraint and moderation and propriety. The worst, most anti-Buddhist aspect of Chinese policy was that it stipulated that liberators and revolutionaries must go too far.
Rebuilt and restored buildings in Tibet have the Disneylandish simplicity of fresh paint and characterless frippery — and it is true all over China: the style is pervasive. Only the Potala was spared the philistine fury of the Cultural Revolution, and that was because Zhou Enlai intervened. But it was in the Potala that a monk showed me a series of monasteries depicted on an old mural.
He pointed to one monastery.
"China destroy," he said.
He pointed to another.
"China destroy."
He indicated six more and said the same thing. For this information I rewarded him with a portrait of the Dalai Lama. He clasped his hands and hissed at me.
"Dalai Lama come! China go!"
The Chinese have invited the Dalai Lama back, but he has so far refused to return until his conditions are met. It is unlikely that the Chinese will agree to the conditions, the central one of which is independence. Feeling is so strong in Tibet, and his devotees are so passionate and numerous, that he would not have any difficulty leading a rebellion. He is a peaceful soul, so that is unlikely. But even if any Tibetans attempted an uprising it would fail. The Chinese would crush it without mercy — and not out of revenge, but (as they would explain) for the good of Tibet. Party officials are happy to admit their mistakes in Tibet, but the thing they find hardest to understand is why the Tibetans are not more grateful for roads and buses and schools that were brought at great expense to this plateau. They say: "It's modern! It's progress! It's civilization!"
It seems like proof to the Chinese that they are dealing with sentimental savages when Tibetans say the roads and schools are just another Chinese outrage. But that does not weaken the Chinese resolve — quite the opposite. It just means there is much more work to do in this benighted place, they say, echoing missionaries and colonizers and imperialists and encyclopedia salesmen the world over.
The Chinese have a fatal tendency to take themselves and their projects too seriously. In this they resemble some other evangelizing races, spreading the word and traveling the world to build churches, factories, or fast-food outlets — the intention may be different in each case but they are all impositions. What the evangelizer in his naive seriousness does not understand is that there are some people on earth who do not wish to be saved.
The Tibetans were too isolated to understand what a very great favor it was for them to be admitted to the Chinese world: that is the Chinese view. But it is plain that the Chinese are themselves isolated and do not understand how deeply their version of progress and modernity is hated by many sensible people. Partly this is due to their insensitivity and the clumsiness brought about by their isolation. But their seriousness doesn't help — nor does it mean they are particularly watchful or wise, since seriousness can often indicate that someone is vacant and stupid.
Not much opprobrium was ever attached to the Chinese invasion of Tibet. In one respect the rest of the world did not care greatly. The prevailing view was that the Chinese were possessed of a kind of wisdom. How could such people fail the Tibetans? But that view accepts the Chinese as inscrutable, and working out their solutions in mysterious ways.
I do not accept Chinese inscrutability. I think, like many people on earth, they are knowable, and they are a great deal more scrutable and obvious than most. Now the Tibetans know them much better and would probably agree (as I do) with Doctor Johnson who wrote 200 years ago, "The boundless panegyricks which have been lavished upon the Chinese learning, policy, and the arts, show with what power novelty attracts regard, and how naturally esteem swells into admiration. I am far from desiring to be numbered among the ex-aggerators of Chinese excellence."