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Spirit of Dalai Lama is unbowed by wind of change
From medieval seclusion, the holy city of Lhasa has become a bustling part of China’s economic change. But the exiled Buddhist god-king is still revered
At the Tangula Wind nightclub, Lhobsang delights the crowd with an ethnic Tibetan rock song. Fans climb on to the stage to drape ceremonial white scarves around his neck. The audience roars with delight.
This is one of the music venues that draw hundreds of newly prosperous young Tibetans each night and are emblematic of the changes that have transformed Lhasa, Tibet’s capital on the Roof of the World, in the two decades since my first visit.
A small city of 30,000 that was a medieval fastness has become an urban sprawl of more than 300,000 where Nike has stores and the internet is faster than in Beijing. The change has come at a price. Civil servants have to give up the right to worship if they want a job. Perhaps for that reason, religion still flourishes.
Once, the unlit earthen road that led to the Jokhang Temple, Tibet’s holiest of holies in Lhasa, was deserted by nightfall. A lone young Khampa tribesman from eastern Tibet with a red tassel braided in his hair and a dagger at his waist would stumble into potholes in the inky darkness.
Today pillars lit in neon bands of red, green, blue and white illuminate the granite-paved street that leads to the temple. Restaurants, karaoke bars, massage parlours and fashion shops line the streets.
The Tibetan mastiffs that would roam the streets in such numbers that people carried sticks to ward off attack were destroyed a few years ago in a cull that angered Buddhists opposed to the taking of any life. Dog ownership now being permitted again, within limits, pilgrims and housewives lead lapdogs as they offer prayers.
Pilgrims throng into Lhasa each day from the remotest corners of the vast secluded land in undiminished numbers. It used to be customary for people to travel for weeks on foot or horseback to fulfil a vow, to cure an illness or just to show their devotion to their Buddhist faith. Pilgrims dressed in patched robes or in hand-sewn skins were once common.
Nuns outside the Potala Palace a quarter of a century ago (Magnum)
Such poverty is now a rare sight in Lhasa. Many still walk. I saw two nuns prostrating themselves every step of the way from Nagqu to Lhasa in a journey that took five hours by car but would take them two months. More arrive by bus, men wearing fine woollen coats and women dressed in a traditional long robe, with a brightly striped apron if they are married.
Incomes have risen steeply, partly because Beijing has poured aid in. This, and an influx of tens of thousands of ethnic Han Chinese, has created a bustling city. A broad highway busy with taxis, trucks and army convoys has replaced the tree-lined road along which I once cycled from a monastery and which was otherwise deserted but for the red-robed monks marching to demonstrate against Chinese rule.
Buses did not exist. Now people queue at stops.
Much of Lhasa’s old-world charm and ways of life unchanged for centuries have disappeared. Average annual incomes have nearly quadrupled to £570 since 1986. Chinese tourists were virtually unknown in Tibet 20 years ago. In 1987 it had 47,000 visitors; this year the figure is expected to approach 3million. Most will be Chinese, drawn by a romantic vision of a mystical Buddhist culture. With the opening this month of a railway to Lhasa, the total is set to multiply again.
The Potala Palace, which was home to Dalai Lamas for centuries, no longer towers over a warren of ancient streets. In their place is a huge modern plaza where People’s Liberation Army soldiers guard a monument lauding the Chinese rule that began when Chairman Mao’s armies arrived in 1950.
No longer do pilgrims openly approach visitors to beg for pictures of the Dalai Lama, their god-king who fled to India in 1959 amid a failed uprising. His photograph could be seen on temple altars 20 years ago but is now prohibited in public places. The ban has failed to dim reverence for the Nobel Peace Prize laureate. Even inside the Jokhang monastery tiny photographs are displayed in dark corners.
The Chinese influence has wrought scant change in beliefs. But it does have an impact. Young people import many Chinese words into Tibetan. Well-off parents send their children to school in Shanghai or Beijing, knowing Chinese language skills will ensure a career in government.
Monasteries have been ordered to stop holding public teachings. Even monks are losing many religious traditions. Robert Barnett, lecturer in Tibetan studies at Colombia University, said the possibility existed that younger Tibetans would lose interest in religion as they made more money. Yet Baima Cering, 18, travelled hundreds of miles from the second city of Xigaze to make a pil grimage around the Jokhang Temple. He said: “Of course I revere the Dalai Lama. He is our greatest lama and we are all Buddhists.”
Young and old, men and women, monks and nomads, took part in anti-Chinese riots 20 years ago. Two decades of crackdowns on monasteries and of education campaigns have done little to weaken religious beliefs even though Chinese influences have eroded traditions. Uniformed police drink tea around the Jokhang and patrol in golf carts. In a sign of continued nervousness about Tibetan loyalties, the post of Tibet Communist Party secretary is still held by a Han Chinese.
The influx of ethnic Han has deepened an ethnic divide, especially with Tibetans lacking the education to compete in a market economy. Unemployment stands at 10.3 percent, well above the national average. Many of the jobless are Tibetans who play pool by day and get drunk by night.
Greater access for Tibetans to government jobs and subsidised flats and relaxations that allow nightclubs to flourish have created a class of Tibetans apparently more content with Chinese rule. Dorje, a driver, said: “Our lives are much better now — we can afford our own houses. It’s just that I don’t like the Chinese Government.” But nor does he want a return to the theocracy and aristocracy that preceded Chinese rule.
The monks who once governed Tibet are now monitored. When riots erupted in 1987 young lamas took the lead. Monasteries have since been at the forefront of unrest. This year violence broke out at Ganden monastery near Lhasa when monks showed veiled support for the Dalai Lama. Another hanged himself at Sera Monastery to avoid signing a criticism of the exiled leader.
Monks complain softly about Chinese rule, more afraid to speak out than they were 20 years ago. But Chinese intimidation is tempered.
The lamas wear soft wool robes, not rough cloth. Younger monks make their circuit of the Jokhang while chatting on mobile phones. Tibet had 978 monasteries and 14,000 monks in 1987. Now monasteries number 1,700 and monks total 47,000 — a number fixed by the Government since 1994.
At the Tangula Wind, Lhobsang belted out a Tibetan love song while the audience drank beer. Later he told The Times: “I sing about Tibet, I sing about what I love. The only songs I can’t sing are about our sun, the Dalai Lama.”
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