Tibetan Truths

There was some truth to these comments. Before China’s takeover, there were few roads and virtually no electricity in Tibet. Health care and education were only available to religious leaders. Thanks to the Chinese, Tibetans now had public schools, medical facilities, transportation systems and—in Lhasa—Internet cafes and karaoke bars.
      
But was modernization worth the price of religious freedom?
  
My inability to draw a conclusion frustrated me. In an effort to clear my thoughts one morning, I rented a two-speed bicycle from a hostel and pedaled out of town. An hour into the journey, I stumbled upon a monastery more than half a millennium old. The front gate was draped with a strand of prayer flags that had been bleached into pastels by the sun. I parked the bike and entered the crumbling edifice. Its corridors were dark and damp; incense and yak wax lingered heavily in the musty air. The walls were shrouded with fading thangkas—paintings depicting Buddhist deities. It seemed I was alone until I noticed a monk sitting near a window, his round face illuminated by a thin stream of sunlight. He didn’t appear much older than me—twenty-five or so. I greeted him in Mandarin, but he responded in English as he strode over to join me. I asked about the eleven-headed deity whose mural adorned a nearby wall and he explained it was Chenresig, the Bodhisattva of compassion. “And this Bodhisattva with the thunderbolt is Channadorje,” he offered.
       
The tour that ensued lasted nearly three hours and took us deep into the labyrinths of the monastery. Afterward, we shared a lunch of bread, yogurt, and milk tea—a buttery cocktail of boiled yak milk sprinkled with curly yak hairs—on a terrace overlooking Tibet’s rock and yak strewn landscape. The monk asked how I came to his part of the world, which gave me considerable pause. I rarely admitted I was a journalist in China, as most Chinese instinctively distrusted the media. But how can you lie to a monk? I confessed my profession and he gazed off into the distance.
         
“I’ve never spoken to an American journalist before,” he softly murmured.
        
He let this piece of information tumble in his mind a few moments before quietly asking if I knew what the Chinese had done to his land. Was I aware that, in the past year alone, several monks had “disappeared” from this very monastery?
     
My stomach tightened as my eyes darted around the terrace. I had a thousand questions to ask. But what if our conversation was overheard? Chinese secret police had been known to pose as Tibetan monks. What if one was listening? It seemed too great a risk—for both our sakes, but especially his. I changed the subject instead. “Do you speak Mandarin?”
       
“I can, but I don’t,” he said, then switched the topic of discussion again. He had an English class to teach and needed to go. Taking that as a polite invitation to continue my day solo, I stood up to leave.
          
“No,” he said, his face brightening. “I want you to come with me.”
        
The only light source in the classroom was the sun.