CHAPTER TEN

What Do We Tell the Children?

Kathmandu welcomed us with an extravagance of foliage, colors, and smells that was a stark contrast to desert-like Tibet. The taxi’s two-tone horn parted the sea of pedestrians as we sped past glass shelves heaped with pies, chocolate cakes, cookies, and slabs of dark chocolate. Indian, French, Mexican, Italian, Greek, Vietnamese, and Tibetan restaurants beckoned. Rock-and-roll bars provided a backdrop for street urchins, skeleton-like cows, and a legless man pushing himself on a skateboard.

The desk manager of the Tibetan Hotel gave us a room for half price when he learned we were the “American doctor and lawyer arrested in Tibet.” He also said we could make overseas calls at the hotel’s rate. Before our calls to our families went through, though, we had a visitor.

“Dr. Kerr and Mr. Ackerly?” said a large, distinguished-looking man wearing a white linen suit. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Kedar Man Singh. I am Kathmandu’s official Associated Press representative. I am also the Association Francaise Presse correspondent.”

Singh shook his head from side to side as he talked. “You are famous, really. The whole world is waiting for your story. I would like to take your picture and send your story on the AP wire as soon as possible.”

Neither John nor I knew what to say. Singh kept talking. “There is much for you to do in Kathmandu. I am personally knowing the BBC man here. He is a very good fellow who also wants to take your photo and interview you. Tibet is a big issue in your country right now. You were in all the papers and magazines.”

“We’re in more trouble than I thought,” I whispered to John, mimicking Singh’s accent and shaking my head from side to side. “I have 108 hours of sleep to catch up on.”

Singh wanted us to wear our packs for the picture. I also wanted to wear my wide-brimmed felt hat that smelled of yak butter and carried the many hues of the Tibetan landscape. We compromised and took two pictures, one with packs and hat and one without.

“What is happening in Tibet now you will not see mentioned favorably in our press,” Singh said. “The Nepalese are afraid of China. We have had border disputes with China since 1962. It is an explosive issue. And why is Nepal so afraid to say the least little bit of criticism about China? Nepal has very big mountains, but it is a very small country. And China’s army is so big!”

“I’m so happy you’re alive,” my mother said, crying through the long distance crackle on the other end of the phone. I said that we were safe in Kathmandu, and that I would be home once I gained thirty pounds. “We heard you were arrested. Then the police station burned down. I thought you were killed.” Her voice faded into sobs.

“It was a different police station.” I said, trying to sound reassuring.

“I’m so glad you’re safe. I’ll call the Ackerlys right away.” My mother explained that Michael Van Walt, the Dalai Lama’s lawyer, wanted us to testify at a congressional hearing on human rights violations in Tibet. We had to fly to Washington, D.C., as soon as possible. John’s parents and my mother would meet our flight. “I don’t suppose you brought a suit, so we’ll bring them. You and John are heroes to the Tibetan people. That’s what Rinchen Darlo, the U.S. representative for the Dalai Lama, said.” I didn’t feel like a hero, or able to cope with any new impositions on my life.

Then she added, “The Dalai Lama wants to see you. Do you have a pen? I’ll give you the numbers of the Kathmandu and Delhi offices of Tibet. They are hoping to hear from you as soon as possible.”

“John,” I yelled. “The Dalai Lama wants to see us!”

Paljor Tsering, the Tibetan government-in-exile’s representative in Nepal, sent a car to bring us to the Tibetan Consulate. Hidden from the street behind a high brick wall, a grapefruit tree on the spacious lawn had so much ripe yellow fruit that each branch bowed to the ground.

“I would like to get your impressions of what you have seen in Tibet on video while they are still fresh,” Paljor said. He offered us tea. “Perhaps tomorrow. His Holiness will see the video before you meet him. I have already telexed Delhi. They are preparing for your arrival. His Holiness is very interested in what happened in the riots and the demonstrations. He wants to thank you personally for all you have done to help the Tibetan people.”

“How was the riot portrayed in the Nepalese press?” John asked.

“I saved all the articles,” Paljor said. “Many mention you. The Chinese government says that you are splittist agents of the Dalai clique. They said you threw rocks at the police and urged the Tibetans to attack the police station.”

“What about the police shooting unarmed people?” I asked.

“The articles didn’t mention that.”

“That’s ridiculous,” John said.

“Of course it is. The Nepalese press says whatever China tells it to say. This is a difficult time for Tibetans. You have seen for yourselves what happens to Tibetans in Tibet who demonstrate for independence. Until the riots China was very successful at preventing any information from getting out of Tibet. Tibetans in exile wait for tidbits of news.

“Even in Kathmandu,” Paljor continued, “I am not free to say what is really happening in Tibet. The Nepalese government is angered by what has come out in the press. Two days ago an article accused a Tibetan youth organization of threatening to bomb the Nepalese Embassy. This is of course not true. I am in a difficult situation. That is why we are so happy to see the two of you. You are free to say what is really happening in Tibet. But even you have to be careful. The Nepalese may kick you out of the country if you make political statements.”

The next three days were packed with lengthy video interviews with Paljor Tsering and French and Dutch television, talking long-distance to CBS News, and sending a detailed, fifty-minute telex concerning the riot and the individuals killed and wounded to the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Nightmares and being woken up by an otherwise pleasant woman from National Public Radio at 2:00 A.M.— twice—precluded my getting more than two hours of consecutive sleep. We were so busy we forgot to get our Indian visas until the day before our press conference in Delhi.

When we got to the Indian Embassy, thirty Westerners were waiting impatiently at the visa window. When John asked for visa applications, the guard said, “Come back tomorrow.” John persisted and got two applications, which we filled out and handed back. “You see these people?” the guard said. “You have to bring your application back tomorrow, like these people have done. The day after that you will get your visas. Not before.”

“We have to be in Delhi tomorrow!” John pleaded.

“Show me your tickets.”

“We don’t have them yet,” John said. “We were going to get them after we got our visas.”

“There is nothing I can do.”

“What if we get our plane tickets and come back?” John asked.

“It is no use. Come back tomorrow.”

“We have a press conference in New Delhi tomorrow,” John said.

“You are not looking like a press conference. This is a civilized country we are living in. I am telling you, tomorrow is tomorrow.”

“Why can’t you take our applications today?” John demanded.

“It is no use arguing. Nothing can be done. I assure you.”

Two prior trips to India had taught me the futility of getting mad at government officials. The country’s institutionalized inefficiency made Westerners like John and me go berserk. The trick was to discover something that the official wanted; money usually sufficed as a last resort. I approached the man calmly and whispered. “We are coming from Tibet.”

“Why didn’t you say you were coming from Tibet?” The guard walked down a freshly raked gravel path through a garden to a building surrounded by Gurkha soldiers and manicured lawn. He returned promptly. “My superior officer will see you now.”

“I will be honest with you if you will be honest with me,” a large army officer said, stretching his pudgy hands to the edge of the desk. He wore a green khaki uniform with the collar unbuttoned. “As you men know, the Nepalese are interested in China’s military presence in Tibet. Naturally, with you just coming from Lhasa, you have seen things that would be useful to us. I will get right to the point. If you write down everything you saw about China’s army and air force at Gonggar Airport, I will arrange to have your visas ready by five o’clock.”

The officer leaned forward to inspect my crude drawing of a sleek helicopter with exaggerated propellers. “Sikorsky helicopters from America!” the officer exclaimed. “Write it all down. Come back at five.”

“I don’t trust him,” John said outside the consulate. “He told us to come back an hour after they close.”

“Relax,” I said, mimicking John. “A few drawings and troop estimates and we meet the Dalai Lama. Jesus—what are we going to call him?”

“Who started the riot?”

“Why did you throw rocks?”

“Are you working for the CIA?”

These were three simultaneous questions from reporters at the New Delhi press conference. We were trapped at the back of a room where eighty reporters were clamoring to ask us questions. The air conditioning didn’t work. The room was so humid that beads of water trickled down the wallpaper. Forgetting that we were in a hotel in Delhi, where even the air could give me dysentery, I guzzled ice water.

“Are you a military expert?” shouted one reporter, whom we later learned represented the city’s communist paper.

“Were you ever in the military?”

“Did the Tibetans have guns?”

“Why did you even talk to Tibetans?”

I was so nervous I spilled my glass of water into a nest of wires, microphones, and tape recorders on the white tablecloth. Two waiters in white coats brought fresh glasses of water and towels to mop up the spill. No one was electrocuted. John and I forsook our prepared statements and tried our best to answer the aggressive barrage:

“How many people were killed?”

“How many were wounded?”

“Why did the Tibetans kill a Chinese policeman if they’re pacifists?”

“What about the public execution? First the Chinese said three were executed, then two.”

“How many foreigners were in Lhasa at the time?”

“How many saw the riot?”

“There were hundreds of Westerners in Lhasa,” John said, trying

to keep up. “Dozens of foreigners must have witnessed the riot. It was widely felt that there would have been a massacre if the foreigners had not been present in such great numbers in the crowd.”

“Why did you throw rocks at the police?”

“I did not throw rocks at the police,” John said. “I took photographs.”

“What is China’s military presence at the border?”

“We flew over the border,” I said.

“What is the condition of the Tibetans versus the Chinese?”

“The Tibetans live under military occupation,” I said. “Chinese is the official language of government and industry. Monks do not have religious freedom. Children don’t learn Tibetan in schools. Protesters are tortured.”

“Mr. Ackerly, what is your view of the whole thing?”

“What the Chinese are doing in Tibet has already happened in Inner Mongolia and Xinjian, the old East Turkestan,” John said. “It’s a racial situation. No matter how you feel about Tibet’s autonomy, the Tibetan language and culture have always been separate from China’s. Some of the policies of the Cultural Revolution are still going on, and Chinese colonization in Tibet is a serious threat to their culture.”

“What will happen to Tibet?”

“As long as the Tibetans are treated as second-class citizens in their own land, there will be revolts.”

One hour of questions whizzed by and we found ourselves being served a sumptuous feast of chicken and lamb curries, dal bat, yogurt, and salad. Everyone shook our hands and assured us that we had done a good job.

We played rummy on the roof of the Old Delhi train station while waiting for the 5:00 A.M. train to Dharamsala, home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile. Hundreds of skeletal Indians slept on the platform surrounding us, their gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes at peace for a few hours. The fortunate had a blanket or piece of cloth to lie on. A deformed boy held my hand as we played. My arms were bigger than his legs. Two of my fingers were wider than his arm. He had no neck and his jaw rested on top of his chest, which was pinched forward into a grotesque prow. We let him shuffle the cards and deal.

We glimpsed the Indian countryside on the train from New Delhi to Petan Court. As the sun burned through the layers of mist that blanketed the fields, we saw Indians squatting on cracked, parched earth. Children splashed in a muddy trickle of water that meandered through a desiccated river bed. Deprived of this year’s monsoon, India was left hot but not humid; the rains had gone north of the Himalayas to Tibet. The papers also reported a 99.9 percent crop failure in India’s southern provinces. The bleak forecast of famine in a country where 15 million children starve to death every year had a sobering effect on our journey.

A young Tibetan had been sent from Dharamsala to pick us up at Petan Court train station. We left the arid plains and started winding toward the snowcapped foothills of the Himalayas. I had wanted to meet the Dalai Lama for fifteen years, but never thought it would be possible. I am neither an avowed Buddhist nor a statesman. My lifestyle is far from holy. The prospect of meeting the Dalai Lama made me so nervous I decided to write down questions to ask him. I got stuck on the first one: What do you think about foreigners in Tibet throwing rocks at the police?

“Are you sure you want to tell the Dalai Lama about throwing rocks?” John said, ever the lawyerly strategist.

“With all the media attention we’re getting, he has to know who he’s dealing with.”

“Just because you have a guilty conscience doesn’t mean you have to tell him everything. This won’t be a confession.”

“If I don’t tell him I’ll regret it later.”

Dharamsala had changed since I had visited the old British Hill station seven years earlier during a trip to India. The mountains still leapt off the subcontinent, but more houses covered the hillside. Deep cuts from erosion scarred the mature pine forest on the hillside.

We stopped for a troop of monkeys sitting on the road, their red rumps high in the air as they sauntered across the strip of asphalt intruding on their forest. Young monkeys clung upside down to their mothers’ fur as tenaciously as the trees clung to the steep scree slope. The largest male berated our jeep with a bone-chilling cry, stared it down to a standstill, then dragged his pendulous red testicles into the trees.

Thubten Samphel greeted us at the Information Office with cups of sweet tea and effusive thanks. “We do not wish to impose on your time,” Thubten said, “but many of the younger Tibetans at the children’s village have never seen Tibet. You have seen more of their country than they have, and they are Tibetan. We have 800 children eight to seventeen years old. We didn’t used to have so many. Ten years ago many of our children were orphans. Their parents were killed by the Chinese army in Tibet, or else while trying to escape. Sometimes women come out of Tibet to have their baby here, then return; if they do not, their families will be suspect.

“We try to give the children Tibetan and Western educations,” Thubten Continued. “They study Tibetan, English, religious texts, science, and mathematics. Soon we will be getting a computer. If you would share your impressions of Tibet with some of the organizations in Dharamsala, it would mean so much to them. Many of the older Tibetans are anxious for any news of their homeland. We will provide you with a jeep and driver.”

John and I both smiled at the thought of a jeep to drive us around. “It would be our privilege,” John said.

Thubten beamed. “Then tomorrow you will give a talk at the Tibetan Children’s Village at ten in the morning. In the afternoon, if you are not too tired, you will address the Tibetan government-in-exile and staff at two? The Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts has arranged a special performance for you tomorrow night. After this the Welfare Office would like to take you out to dinner. Your audience with His Holiness has been scheduled for the day after tomorrow at 9:00 A.M. After that the monks at His Holiness’s monastery would be most grateful if you could also talk with them. All Tibetans are very happy that you two made it out of Tibet and came here to tell us what you have seen.”

Before leaving the Information Office, Thubten loaded our arms with books about Tibet’s religion, culture, medicine, struggle, and reconstruction, the XIV Dalai Lama, and dialectics in Buddhist education. “It is the least we can do,” he said.

“Do you have Seven Rivers and Six Ranges?” John asked.

Thubten rummaged through a cabinet crammed with papers and books and produced two copies of the cherished memoirs of a Khampa resistance fighter.

“I have been trying to find this book for years.” John said.

That evening as the sun melted into the Indian plains, we had drinks with Tenzin Choegyal, His Holiness’s youngest brother, on the porch of the Kashmiri Cottage Guest House. “As you can see, I’m the bad sheep of the family!” Tenzin said, introducing himself with a tray of Indian XXX brandy and cold bottled beer. Tenzin’s wild laugh put me at ease. Sitting on the patio overlooking the scorched plains, Tenzin said, “Now tell me what really happened during the demonstrations.”

John extricated a handful of bullet casings from his pocket and asked Tenzin if he could identify them. “Seven and nine millimeter automatic pistols,” Tenzin said. “The large one’s from an AK-47. Where did you get these?”

“On the rooftop of the police station,” John said. “I paid children one yuan for each casing they would bring me. You can have these if you want. I have a whole pocketful.”

I started telling Tenzin about the carnage. He jumped up when an American man appeared on the porch. “You rascal,” Tenzin said, pinching Avedon affectionately. “Did you meet anyone in the hills? A young woman?” Tenzin introduced us to John Avedon, the author of In Exile from the Land of Snows. Avedon was in Dharamsala for a week-long symposium on the brain with five Western scientists and His Holiness. He was full of energy, and playfully tried to pinch Tenzin back.

“Tibet is finally getting some attention from the U.S. Congress,” Avedon said. “I testified at a Senate hearing in Washington last week on human rights violations in Tibet. At last Tibet is getting looked at; since Nixon and Kissinger opened relations with China in 1972, Tibet has been aggressively ignored.”

“If your CIA hadn’t stopped economic and military assistance to the Tibetan freedom fighters,” Tenzin said, “Tibet might be a free country today.”

“How was your testimony received?” John asked.

“They grilled me because I haven’t been there,” Avedon said. “China is about to undergo a massive industrialization. The Chinese market has overwhelming appeal to international business. That’s what Tibet is up against.”

“We better get this over with,” I said. John rolled his eyes and I continued, “I threw rocks at the police during the riot.”

“They are freedom fighters!” Tenzin exclaimed delightedly. “How many rocks?

“Several,” I admitted, explaining my rage reaction.

“A toast to the freedom fighters!” Tenzin said. “I wish I were your age. I’d love to go to Tibet again.” Tenzin was so good-natured and easy to talk to that I felt comfortable asking him why so many Tibetans were named Tenzin. “You see,” Tenzin said without any mischief in his face. “My older brother’s name is Tenzin Gyatso. So naturally every Tibetan child who is taken to His Holiness is named Tenzin.” He laughed again and did his best to pinch Avedon.

“What if Congress finds out about Blake’s rock throwing?” John asked. “It will bolster the Chinese charge of foreign instigation.”

“You shouldn’t have anything to worry about,” Avedon said. “You have great reputations: the American physician and lawyer who were arrested in Lhasa for helping the Tibetans.”

“What if they ask direct questions?” John asked.

“Whatever you do,” Avedon said, “don’t ever lie to a congressional hearing, and don’t let anyone fluster you, even if they harp on one point. Just stick to your personal experience and explain why you did what you did.”

Tenzin successfully pinched Avedon, which ignited cackles of laughter from both of them. Avedon continued, “The State Department has just released a report assessing the status of all minority peoples in China. Ninety percent of the report is on Tibet. The irony here is amazing. The report was published on October 1, the same day as the riot. It states that the Chinese are improving the human rights of the Tibetans.

“You can imagine how embarrassed the State Department was to read that the largest antigovernment rioting since 1959 coincided with the publication of their report. The report puts the Chinese population in the Tibet Autonomous Region at 70,000. They also laud the wealth of economic and social improvements.

“The question that interests me now is what effect all this publicity will have on China. Tibet has gotten more media attention in the last two weeks than since the PLA invaded in 1959. Tibet is a thorn in the Chinese side. Tibet represents the threat of a civil and human rights movement in China. But it remains to be seen whether any of this media attention will budge China.”

I was afraid to go into the Tibetan Children’s Village auditorium, packed with 800 students, and then have to describe to them the atrocities we had seen. At the Delhi press conference we had eluded the reporters’ accusations of throwing rocks. I would have no defense against the acumen and brutal honesty of these children.

Two young boys kicked a clay ball wrapped in plastic with a feather top. John and I made a circle and other children joined in. The children kicked the ball expertly several times from one foot to the other before passing it to the next person. Soon more than fifty children crowded around our circle of hackers. An adult yelled for us to get inside.

Two hundred teachers sat in chairs. Six hundred students sat cross-legged on the floor. Everyone turned to stare as we walked from the back of the hall to a table on the stage. After a brief introduction by the school principal we were left alone with an older student who would translate. Unlike the press conference, we made it through our prepared statements before questions. I said that I had a favorable impression of China and the Chinese people until we got to Tibet. Before discussing the riot I apologized for having to describe horrible things and said that it was important for students to know what was really happening in Tibet, even if it was bad. John covered our arrest, how there was little freedom in the monasteries or schools, and the demonstrations.

“These are the biggest health problems in Tibet” I said, raising bullet casings. Sixteen hundred silent, watery eyes stared back. Many of the children cried during our talk, before their questions were written on scraps of paper and passed to the front of the room. They were questions only children could ask: Do the Tibetans in Tibet hate the Chinese? Will Tibet ever be free again? What happens to our Tibetan brothers and sisters who are taken to prison?

After two hours the jeep whisked us to another hall, where 300 men and women in the Tibetan government-in-exile and staff waited. I had managed to hold back tears in front of the children. Large drops tumbled down my cheeks and splashed on the table as I described the ten year-old boy who had been shot during the riot. The children were more interested in the current conditions in a Tibet they had never seen. The Tibetan government and staff focused on Tibet’s future and the possibility for a free country. For the second time that day we talked and answered questions for two hours.

I felt numb as we were driven on the narrow ribbon of asphalt to the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts. We were ushered in next to four Mongolian abbots in the front row. I fell asleep on one of the abbot’s shoulders as the M.C. talked about Genghis Khan encountering the Tibetan army in the sixteenth century. Instead of fighting the Tibetans, Genghis Khan adopted Tibetan Buddhism as the state religion. Contemporary Chinese scholars draw on Tibet’s succession of military control from Tibet to Mongolia as prima facie evidence that Tibet was part of China; they fail to mention that the same reasoning can be used to show that China was equally a part of Mongolia.

Loud music and acrobatic folk dancing suddenly woke me up, to the abbot’s mirth. The dancers slapped their feet loudly and somersaulted across the stage in whirls of color. The men danced and sang and played their guitars for the amusement of the women, who were alternately seductive and independent. Their operatic rendition of nomad life among the spirited yaks left me exhilarated as we stepped out under the stars.

“The Welfare Office wants to take you to dinner at your hotel,” Thubten reminded us after the show. For the first time in my life I understood how someone could be killed with kindness. We couldn’t refuse. Every Tibetan we met was desperate for news of the their homeland. “The Chinese will do anything to keep information from coming out of Tibet,” Thubten explained.

The members of the Welfare Office were waiting to ask the same round of questions we had already answered in detail twice that day.

At least, I thought, we were getting practice speaking in public. After dinner we met a stooped Tibetan man who had been waiting in the hall. He unrolled white katas to drape around our shoulders. Tears streamed down his face. Thubten translated, “This man spent twenty years in a Chinese prison. He heard you speak this morning at TCV. He wants to thank you for telling people what is really happening in Tibet. He hopes you will continue to tell the people in your own country.”

“It will be our privilege,” I said, for the first time realizing our responsibility to speak out against the Chinese disinformation campaign. My training as a physician had prepared me to document the atrocities; traveling in Tibet introduced me to the collective ills of a people.

We decided to call the Dalai Lama “Your Holiness,” the standard greeting. I caught myself holding my breath as the jeep took us to his residence. John tapped his fingertips on his knees, a sure sign of nervousness.

A towering Gurkha soldier with an antiquated rifle and fixed bayonet stood at attention beneath a rounded arch. His piercing gaze sent chills down my spine as we were led to a waiting room where an enormous Hindu couple sat on a bench. A man in a suit recorded our full names, addresses, and passport numbers, after which we were escorted up a hill to a second waiting room filled with Tibetan artifacts in glass cases.

“We had an audience with His Holiness last year,” the man said, showing us a picture of them standing next to the Dalai Lama. “I am not saying we are Buddhists. We are Hindus. But His Holiness is a living God! And the blessing of any God, whether he be Hindu or Moslem or Buddhist, can only help in the next life.” I hoped that this pair would not accompany us during our precious minutes with His Holiness.

Tenzin Geyche, His Holiness’s personal secretary, escorted the Hindu couple out of the room. John tapped his fingers. I stared at a tanka. Time slowed to a standstill. I was too nervous to talk when Geyche returned with the beaming Hindu couple. He led us up the path to a porch where His Holiness stood in the door. The Dalai Lama was much taller than I expected. He wore maroon and yellow robes.

“Welcome, my friends,” His Holiness said, looking each of us in the eye. We unrolled our katas awkwardly into his outstretched arms. He laughed and returned a firm handshake. We were seated next to him on a couch beneath a topographical map of Tibet that filled the wall. Sunlight warmed the dragons depicted on the Tibetan rugs and tankas decorating the room. Geyche sat across from us.

“On behalf of six million Tibetans,” His Holiness said, “I want to express my gratitude to both of you. As a human being who very much believes in truth as a human value, I also want to express my deep thanks. When tourists saw the true situation, their hearts went toward the Tibetan side. This really gives us some kind of inspiration and courage.”

“Do you mind if I use a tape recorder?” Geyche asked. “There are so many things we must ask you.”

“One thing,” His Holiness said. “During the event that took place in Lhasa, how many Tibetans came from eastern Kham and Amdo?”

“We couldn’t tell,” John said. “The Khampas cut off their red

tassels.”

His Holiness’s deep, jolly laugh was infectious. We couldn’t help laughing when he asked us how we had come to Tibet, and John said that we had hiked to 22,000 feet on Chomolungma in sneakers. We chatted for fifteen minutes before His Holiness asked again about the demonstrations.

“Did any Tibetans fire guns?” His Holiness asked. John said that a Tibetan child picked up a machine gun after a Chinese policeman was hit on the head with a rock. The gun was passed over several Tibetans’ heads, then smashed on the street. His Holiness was intent on learning the individual details of each man, woman, monk, and child who had died, the numbers of Tibetans and Westerners at each demonstration, and whether the police had shot deliberately.

“You see,” His Holiness began, “reporters are asking for news. From Delhi, we hear some whispers that something happened in Lhasa. The radio explained little bits. Actually, you see, we also were taken by surprise.” He showed us a photograph of a few monks carrying a Tibetan national flag. “The people around them are looking passive,” he said, describing the picture. “So besides the monks, were the Lhasa people fully…”

“Involved?” I interjected.

“That’s it,” His Holiness said. “Were the Lhasa people fully involved?” John gave me a look I hadn’t seen since our interrogation by the police. I couldn’t help interrupting. We had no idea how much time we would have to speak with the Dalai Lama.

John said that there were approximately a thousand travelers and tourists in Lhasa, and several times that many Tibetans during the October 1 riot. “Dozens of Westerners actually witnessed the event. When the Chinese refused to treat wounded Tibetans, Blake snuck out to treat them. I worked with twenty other foreigners who gathered information for the press,” he added.

We identified the picture His Holiness had shown us as having been taken during the September 27 demonstration. “On October 1, the people were ready,” John said. “The mistake the Chinese made was to put the monks in the PSB right next to the Jokhang. That became a focus for the crowd’s anger. It wasn’t a riot in that there was undirected anger. The violence was very much directed at the station in the hope of freeing the monks. And that’s exactly what happened. The monks were able to escape.”

“Some,” I interrupted, and mentioned the three monks who had been shot while trying to escape.

His Holiness asked how many Tibetans were involved with the Chinese police, and if the Tibetan policemen fired on Tibetans. He was particularly interested in people’s reactions to Tibetans who worked with the Chinese police. John said that no one had seen a Tibetan policeman fire a weapon, and that initially the Chinese police appeared to fire warning shots over people’s heads.

“How many bullets?” His Holiness asked.

“Thousands,” I said. “The police fired machine guns and automatic pistols for several hours.” John pulled out his handful of bullet casings and gave some to His Holiness. His Holiness felt the weight of the AK-47 casing in his hands. “I have never seen bullets like these. How did you get them?”

“I paid children one yuan for each one they would bring me from the rooftops of the buildings,” John said.

Once again, His Holiness’s laughter caught me off guard. “You see,” he said, marveling at the size of the AK-47 casing, “some people bring me flowers. You bring me bullets…. Is it true that monks threw rocks at the police?” I looked at the tape recorder nervously. “Would you feel more comfortable if we turned the tape recorder off?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I think people were mostly throwing rocks at the burning police station.” John said, giving me a look.

“After seeing several people killed from bullets,” I said, unable to contain myself any longer, “and one boy beaten to death by the police, I threw rocks at the police. I didn’t know what else to do to stop the police from shooting unarmed people. I was so angry I wanted to kill. This still bothers me very much.”

“You must not hate the Chinese for what they are doing,” His Holiness said. “The Chinese are wonderful people. It is their government that makes trouble,”

“How do you feel about monks throwing rocks?” John asked.

“You see,” His Holiness said. “Buddhism is a religion that respects all life on the planet. We try not to even slap mosquitoes, but we don’t always succeed. Just because a monk takes vows and wears robes does not mean that he stops being human. For a monk to throw a rock at a policeman is very sad. But I understand how throwing rocks could be a natural response to an extreme situation. Tibetans have been living under very sad conditions for more than forty years.

“The Chinese are very good at preventing information from leaking out of Tibet,” His Holiness continued after a long pause. “Even if I had known what happened during the demonstrations, there are so many constraints on what I can say. The Indian government has been very generous to the Tibetan people, but still I am not free to make any political…” His Holiness looked again to Geyche for help with word choice.

“Statements?” I interjected. John kicked me under the table.

“Yes, that’s it. It is the same in every country I visit. I am always told not to make any political statements. It is a difficult position. What am I to do?” His Holiness smiled benevolently.

John said, “When we were arrested we found out a little of what Tibetans go through when they are arrested. The Chinese tried to get us to denounce you and say that Tibet had always been a part of China.”

“The monks are tortured in prison,” I said, and described the monks who had bones broken in prison and were refused medical treatment, and that at least one monk had died from beatings during and after the riot. “The monks are especially afraid of lethal injections.”

“We must always be thinking of solutions,” His Holiness said. “For some time now I have had this idea of, how should I call it…Buddhocommunism. You see, Buddhism and communism have many things in common. If the conditions of my people are ever going to improve, there must be some compromise. This compromise is Buddhocommunism.”

“Do congressional resolutions put pressure on China to stop human rights abuses?” John asked.

“Everything helps. Tibet is getting more publicity now than ever before. So far China has not changed.”

“We should boycott goods made in China,” I said. “As long as the State Department is primarily interested in big business, we have to organize grass roots organizations.”

His Holiness looked at me quizzically. “Even in your State Department you will find people who are sympathetic with oppressed people all around the world.”

“Blake generalizes easily,” John said.

“One of the great things Tibetan Buddhism has to offer to this world is the Bodhisattva ideal,” His Holiness said. “In Tibetan Buddhism, we do not believe in gods. We believe that perfection is possible in this lifetime. Ever since Shakyamuni, Bodhisattvas have shown that it is possible to reach enlightenment.” His Holiness laughed again and I felt lighter. “This is lucky for me. You see, with so many things to do for my people, I have not had time to keep up with my meditations.”

Sensing that our audience was about to end, John asked, “Is it true that West Germany and Switzerland are negotiating with China to dump nuclear waste in Tibet?”

“I have read something to this effect in the Western press,” His Holiness said, and continued to discuss his concern that nuclear waste on the Tibetan Plateau could pollute all of Asia’s great rivers. I didn’t interrupt him when he occasionally paused to search for a word. This surprised John.

“Do you have any difficulty answering the press?” His Holiness asked suddenly. He looked worried. John said that the historical record was clearly in Tibet’s favor. I was pleased that the Dalai Lama sought our advice, even if we could not answer his last question: “Do you know anyone close to Ronald Reagan who is a good human being?”