For decades, Tibetans have had little choice but to watch and suffer as their land has been overrun with Chinese soldiers and their culture methodically dismantled. Their lack of resistance stems not from a lack of resolve or love of freedom but from deep-rooted teachings of non-violence. In a land where the slightest hint of protest is hammered down and traditions discourage fighting back, there are few options to express opposition.
The first Tibetan self-immolation as an act of protest occurred in 1988, but in recent years these suicides have rapidly increased. Since 2011 dozens of self-immolations have occurred, many by monks and nuns, but young fathers and mothers, grandparents, even teenagers number among the victims. While such deaths are especially wrenching, even horrifying, these immolations also have a solemn and heroic aspect. There is something uniquely Tibetan about them, the acts of proud, devout people who, left with no other means, make the ultimate sacrifice to express desperation for their country and frustration that the world turns a blind eye to its plight.
I have been careful not to exaggerate the circumstances of the immolations or the situation of Tibetans overall. The core elements of Beijing’s conduct described in this book, starting with its reaction to the immolations but including massive prisons, systematic replacement of beloved images of Buddha with images of Mao, widespread arrests without due process, and strict control of monks, nuns, and religious artifacts, all reflect current conditions in Tibet. It is sometimes painful to put that reality into words, and writing about these particular characters was often distressing. But the victims of these suicides, whom Beijing seeks to punish even after death, deserve to be more than statistics. The profound message in what they do is not only about their despairing struggle, it is also about the rest of the world and its priorities. For those interested in learning, and doing, more, the International Campaign for Tibet maintains a sobering chronicle of the suicides, including such personal details as are available, and offers opportunities to get further engaged in the Tibetan cause.
The more I write mysteries set in Tibet the more I realize that the greatest mystery may be the extraordinary resilience of the Tibetan people. Tibetans sometimes suggest that they draw strength from their rugged, powerful land and the deities that inhabit it. Certainly sacred lands remain a vital feature of the Tibetan landscape and in some form have a role in all my Shan novels. The hidden refuge of Taktsang in many ways becomes another character in this book, embodying both sacred traditions and a dissident stronghold while also offering a comforting embrace to long suffering visitors. Scholars would remind us that such spiritual power places represent one of the many ways that early animistic beliefs blended with the teachings of lamas from India to create Tibet’s unique form of Buddhism. But sacred lands are not academic or a thing of the past. Earth deities play an important role in many traditional Tibetan communities, creating a reverence for their powerful landscape that affects many aspects of life at the roof of the world. In such places a modest shrine effectively replaces the volumes of environmental laws needed to protect our own lands, just as a tattered prayer flag flapping defiantly over a monastery speaks far more eloquently about these people than hours of political discourse about them in Western capitals. Perhaps the real mystery is not what happened to the Tibetans but what happened to us.