BACK AT THE SIDDHARTHA SCHOOL, OUR WORK WAS PRETTY MUCH done. We listened to the children sing traditional Ladakhi songs and drank more tea, feeling more like honored guests than volunteers. Without any real assignments, we just tried to interact. Logan and Jackson played keep-away with a baseball cap while tiny herds of first graders nipped at their heels, shrieking with joy. And Traca and I sat and talked with the older students to help them with their conversational English—which was surprisingly good.
When Khen Rinpoche first opened the Siddhartha School in a rented one-room house back in 1995 (the year Jackson was born), all the students were illiterate and none could pass the government proficiency exam. Today, every Siddhartha School student is taught in four languages: Tibetan, Ladakhi, Hindi (the national language of India), and English, with the graduating seniors now receiving some of the highest marks in the region.
As we talked with some of these soon-to-be graduates, we weren’t testing them, just wondering: What did they want to be when they grew up? Some said pilot, doctor, nurse. Most of the girls said “tee-cha,” which was probably the only profession other than farmer that they’d ever been exposed to. Beyond that, we talked about their homes, their families, their hopes and dreams. Then, for no real reason, I asked one of the oldest girls with the best English what she was most grateful for, and she answered without hesitation.
“I am most grateful for my beloved parents,” she said. “They provide me with all that I have and they are like the precious jewels I have been given but do not deserve.”
Her answer was so sincere, so articulate, so immediate, it really struck me: Why don’t all children answer in this way? Parents are the two people in a child’s life who—when they do it right—give and give and give some more: time, money, energy, concern, carrying their helpless infants to maturity and beyond, sacrificing on a dozen levels to ensure their safety, happiness, and development. But in exchange for all of this, how are we treated? “Unappreciatively” is the mildest term that comes to mind.
I remember attending Logan’s graduation from middle school, an overdone affair that was held in the school gymnasium. While I watched my son and his friends posing as adults for possibly the first time in their young lives, the principal took the podium and made a short speech. I don’t remember anything of his standard-issue congratulatory spiel until he addressed me directly.
“And to you parents,” he said, snapping me out of my blank stare, “remember: Your child is going to push you away, if they haven’t already. This is normal. It’s their job.”
This was meant to be comforting, but it didn’t comfort me at all. In fact, it seemed to me like the worst possible message to give to our kids as they sat there preparing for their next big step in life. It’s the same message they hear all day long from nearly every movie, TV show, and music video they see. Push your parents away. Kids have all the answers. Parents are idiots. Haven’t you heard? They certainly are not precious jewels to be grateful for.
For all its simplicity and old-world customs, there’s a lot we can learn from the village of Stok: the sense of community, the humility, the respect. Still, I wonder what the culture will look like in ten years, or in twenty. If the glaciers all melt and their water supply disappears, the town is doomed and will simply cease to be. But more immediate dangers have already arrived. A single power line has snaked its way into town. Propane tanks fire gas stoves in some homes; satellite dishes capture TV signals in others. Many students I spoke with want the progress they see in the rest of the world, not realizing that it can be destructive, too: undermining traditions, eroding families and self-esteem, creating pollution, urban sprawl, unemployment, poverty, slums.
For the moment, though, Stok has none of that. Even the street kids have the whole game backward.
I took a walk by myself one night before dinner, the last of the sun still holding off the creeping purple of night. As I walked, I passed Stok villagers, like extras in a period piece about Tibet, everyone saying julley (pronounced jew-lay, meaning “hello”) while raising one hand to their nose in a quick friendly wave. A few shaggy yak–cattle hybrids known as dzos ambled past, uninterested in me. All was quiet as the Karakoram reflected the last orange light of day.
I saw the three boys just as they spotted me. Instantly, they started to run in my direction, shouting, “Sir, please. Sir!” As they approached, I stopped and reached into my left pocket, finding the familiar roll of small rupee notes. I knew this drill and I was ready to pay up this time.
“Please, sir,” the oldest boy said as he stopped in front of me, arriving just ahead of his two friends. His face and clothes were dirty, his teeth bright white in a broad smile. He was reaching into his pocket just like me. Then he held out his hand.
“Apricot,” he said.
The apricot was filthy, like the hand that held it, but the message was perfectly clear. “Oh, thank you,” I said. “That’s … nice.” I tried not to receive the apricot as if it were a used Band-Aid. I just took it and held it in my hand.
Seeing this, the second boy’s face lit up. “Please, sir,” he said, “Please.” At which point he offered another apricot from his own dirty pocket. I didn’t think it was possible to find a dirtier fruit than the one I was already holding, but there it was. I took it with as much reverence as I could muster.
“Thank you,” I said. “These are great.” Without expecting anything, I looked at the third boy, and his face flashed concern. His eyes darted to his two friends and back to me. It was an expression of almost comic panic. “It’s all right,” I said. “I’m good.” But the third boy was already reaching into his pocket. With extreme reluctance, ever so slowly, he raised his arm and extended his hand. As I watched him, trying not to laugh at the exaggerated hopefulness on his face, he spread his own dirty fingers and revealed a mostly eaten apple, the only thing he had.
I took it, and as I looked down at the least desirable snack I have ever held, I thanked him. When I did, the third boy’s smile exploded onto his face before he ran off with his friends, sprinting toward the setting sun.