"With truth, courage, and determination Tibet will be liberated."

-The 14th Dalai Lama, 1989 Nobel Prize acceptance speech

Recurring images spun like prayer wheels across my closed eyelids, as I replayed scenes of Old Tingri, Damxung, and Lhasa. Leaving Tibet was like trying to swim against an incoming tide with a leaden body and an even heavier mind. When I opened my watery eyes, we were at 30,000 feet, winging along at 500 miles an hour. Yet, time stood still.

Below us loomed Mount Everest at 29,028 feet, so high that she generates her own weather. Lhotse, Nuptse, and Makalu, all spectacular 24,000-plus feet massifs, paled in comparison to Everest, the mountain Tibetans call Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the earth. From the aerial perspective, the Goddess Mother was even more arresting than from the various viewpoints we had while trekking in the Khumbu region of Nepal, or while traversing the Tibetan plateau by bus. I gazed upon her in reverence, as snow blasted horizontally from her summit.

One month earlier, eleven people died on Everest's icy slopes, more than any season in history: Sherpas, solo climbers, experienced guides and their paying clients. Never before had the ascent of Everest been such a public spectacle. Three different websites provided real-time, cyberspace links to the climbers, while the towering peak became a headstone.

I took a few quick snapshots and became lost in thought. Closing my eyes again, I discovered a collage of faces--Tseten Dhondup ("Papa"), the hateful man on the Chinese bus, Cham Chong, the Dalai Lama, climbers on Everest, a lively pilgrim at the Barkhor who I taught to use my camera. I didn't even learn her name. I tried desperately to make sense of the tragedy on Everest and our many unsettling experiences in Tibet. I longed for some sort of closure.

Closure came, nearly one month later, in Dharamsala, India, the home in exile of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government. Emboldened by the stories we heard from other travelers who had met the Dalai Lama, we went to Dharamsala hoping to be granted an audience with His Holiness. On the morning we arrived, the Dalai Lama left for Australia on a world tour of his own. Just two hours earlier there had been a grand procession, during which the Dalai Lama handed out good luck necklaces made by Tibetan monks in exile. Several travelers proudly showed us theirs--handmade of twisted, colored threads.

We had our own necklaces--braids of colorful memories and long, twisted strands of unanswered questions about our experiences in Tibet. We spent hours reading Tibetan journals and newsletters in the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, until we couldn't stomach any more stories of Chinese oppression, torture, and cultural genocide. On the way back to our hotel, we stopped at the Namgyal Monastery, which faces the Dalai Lama's residence. Inside the monastery was the most intricate Buddhist painting I have seen, an extraordinary Kalachakra mural that depicts how the universe is reflected in every human being. As I was reading the English description of the mural's significance, a stooped Tibetan man handed me a Reader's Digest opened to an article entitled, "The Mission of the Warrior Monk." I read the title out loud, thinking this elderly Tibetan wanted to hear how the words sounded. Then, he flipped to a picture on the next page. His picture.

I sat down on the floor beneath the vibrant mural, with the Tibetan to my right, his hand clutching my knee, and Ann to my left, her hands circling my bicep. I read the whole article, choking back tears and snuffling nose drips, before passing the dampened pages to Ann.

This skeletal monk, Jampa Phuntsok, led other monks in armed resistance, when the communist Chinese army stormed the Potala in 1959. Although taking up arms was against his Buddhist beliefs, Jampa prayed for forgiveness and fought for survival. He was 30 at the time and he spent more than thirty years in Chinese prisons in Tibet--thirty years of physical and psychological terror too brutal for me to even comprehend. He was tortured, beaten, and interrogated so many times that the Chinese didn't know what to do with him and finally turned him loose. In 1991, at the age of 62, Jampa escaped from Tibet into Nepal over a 17,000-foot pass called Nangpa La. With assistance from the Tibetan refugee community in Kathmandu, Jampa eventually found his way to Dharamsala, where the Dalai Lama has given him the special mission of helping the Tibetan cause by telling his story. Jampa is revered in Dharamsala as a national hero. He has inspired hundreds of political prisoners in Tibet not to give up hope.

Although he could speak no English, Jampa indicated that he badly wanted to communicate with us. He kept squeezing my hand and patting my arm in an affectionate, paternalistic manner. He pointed with surprising vigor at the Kalachakra mural. I simply nodded and smiled. With the help of another monk who could speak a little English, we made arrangements to meet Jampa the next morning at his room in the monastery. Jampa's whole face lit up when the monk explained to him that we had slides from our visit to Tibet.

The next morning, in better light, Jampa's bent body seemed burdened, but his face looked free. He spent hours looking at our slides from Tibet, postcards from our home in Washington, and photos of our families. Jampa showed us photos of himself with other tourists that he has met while serving as caretaker of the Namgyal Monastery. Jampa's friend, Tse So--a monk in his early thirties who met Jampa in prison in Lhasa--served as an interpreter. Jampa smiled warmly and thanked us again and again for visiting Tibet and for American's help in Tibet's freedom movement. We didn't have the heart to explain that the U.S. government had once again given China most favored nation trade status; that for the U.S. the issue is money and access to the world's largest market, not the sanctity of human life.

Jampa was a gentle man with bright eyes and a warm smile; hardly the "warrior monk." Yet, he moved his withered 67-year old body in a tortuous way that made my soul ache. How could anyone, I asked myself, violate this decent man with an electric cattle prod? The proud look in Jampa's eyes will forever remind me that his body was relentlessly beaten, scrambled like an egg, but his spirit was never broken.

Like our friends in Damxung, Jampa was also extremely gracious and generous.  He served us yak-butter tea and sugar cookies. He even showed us how to make our own tsampa balls, the national food of Tibet, by mixing yak butter, hot water, sugar, and barley flour with our fingers, and then molding little doughnut hole-size balls that we could easily pop into our mouths.

We noticed Jampa wasn't eating any tsampa.  According to Tse So, Jampa eats very little and suffers from constant headaches, nightmares, and nausea. Tea and traditional Tibetan herbs are his sustenance. Tsampa makes him vomit. Thankfully, Jampa has many friends who take care of him, like Tse So and Phurbu, a shy Tibetan refugee who cooks and cleans for Jampa and supports herself by hand-weaving extraordinary yak-wool rugs.

Jampa stood with difficulty and removed a photograph from his wall. His face glowed, as he handed it to Ann. The photo was taken in the Barkhor at a March 5, 1988 peace demonstration. Jampa, standing rigid in his monk's robe in front of the Jokhang temple, raised a fist and cried out, "We want Tibetan independence!" An American journalist captured the priceless image just moments before Chinese security forces stormed the Barkhor with bullets and tear gas. The peaceful demonstration erupted into a full-scale riot involving 2,000 Tibetans. An estimated 16 Tibetans were killed--some were shot, some were beaten to death with iron bars, and at least two were hurled from the roof of the Jokhang Temple. Several days later, we saw a haunting documentary that captured their horrific freefalls on film. Eight hundred Tibetans were arrested and thrown in prison. Official Chinese reports put the death toll at one, a Chinese soldier.

I asked Jampa, through Tse So, what Ann and I could do to best help Tibet's cause. Both seemed uncertain how to answer. Tse So disappeared and returned ten minutes later with a smiling monk named Lobsang, who spoke fluent English, as well as Tibetan, Nepali, and Chinese. We told Lobsang about our sojourn in Tibet--the Chinese guards who searched us for photos of the Dalai Lama; the murder of four monks at the Ganden monastery; the arrest of several monks at Sera monastery; our journey to Damxung; the Tienamen-style square and disco across from the Potala, and our gut-wrenching exposure to the ubiquitous Chinese oppression. As we ranted on and on, he listened calmly, patiently, and then responded with great wisdom.

"Compassion," he said soothingly, "is always better than anger." None of what we told Lobsang shocked or even surprised him. Like the Dalai Lama, Lobsang is filled with unwavering hope. He shares the Dalai Lama's belief that anger is unproductive. Lobsang advised us to pressure the U.S. government for economic sanctions against China, and to personally boycott Chinese products. He urged us to return someday to Dharamsala to learn the Tibetan language, so that the next time we visit Tibet we can have an even richer experience communicating with the people. He spoke of how anxious the Dalai Lama is for westerners to meet Tibetans and exchange ideas. According to Lobsang, such exposure will ultimately assist the Tibetan cause. Awareness fosters compassion.

Lobsang also translated the address of our friends in Damxung into both English and Chinese characters. He became quite concerned, though, when we explained our hopes of sending pictures and letters to our friends. He explained that staying in the home of a Tibetan family anywhere in Tibet was illegal, and that our friends in Damxung could be imprisoned or even shot if the Chinese government intercepted pictures of us with them. As we parted company, Lobsang whispered that, if we sent the letters and photos to him in Dharamsala, he would do his best to get them to Damxung via their underground network.

Underground network? Had I heard him correctly? I was reminded of the underground railroad during the time of slavery in the U.S., and the network of Germans hiding Jewish refugees during World War II. We profusely thanked Lobsang, Jampa, Tse So, and Phurbu for making us feel so welcome in their home in exile. And for the third time in two days, words turned to tears. The gift of freedom I take for granted is for these people just a distant dream.

It's a dream being kept alive in Tibetan refugee settlements in Nepal, Burma, and India. Tibetan culture is flourishing in exile in Dharamsala, India, which is sometimes referred to as "Little Lhasa" because in many ways it is more Tibetan than the Lhasa in Tibet. In Little Lhasa we visited Tibetan schools, a children's village, a performing arts institute, the library, and numerous temples and monasteries. We learned that under the guidance of the Dalai Lama, Tibetans in Dharamsala have formed their first democratic government. By good fortune, we stumbled upon a performance at a local school, where we watched in amazement as four-to-ten-year-old Tibetan refugees, dressed as ethnic groups from around the world (including Chinese), sang in English "We are the world, we are the children." The melding of these innocent voices still resonates for me, as an uplifting chorus of hope.

Our journey to Tibet was an unprecedented intellectual and spiritual pilgrimage for me. Four years later, I am still discovering how deeply Tibet penetrated my core. I am burdened by the knowledge that the atrocities I had read so much about are real and ongoing, and the guilt associated with discovering my own capacity for hatred on a Chinese bus outside of Lhasa. I am humbled by the realization that, despite everything they have endured, the Tibetan people feel only compassion for their Chinese oppressors, not anger.

And I am grateful for my brief exposure to new sources of inspiration: The Dalai Lama--ocean of wisdom; Chomolungma--Goddess Mother of the earth; Jampa Phuntsok--the embodiment of hope. Lofty company for a wide-eyed traveler.

I know in my heart that Tibetans' Buddhist faith will ensure that their
culture survives. I have met the Tibetan people and felt the power of compassion. With each new Tibetan we met, it became clearer that the Tibetan people as a whole radiate an inner light, an inner peace. In all my travels, I have never met people so at peace as Tibetans. They exude humor and compassion. Chinese oppression cannot prevail.

"Many times I am asked if I am angry at the Chinese for what has happened," the Dalai Lama writes.1 Sometimes I lose some temper, but afterwards I get more concern, more compassion towards them. In my daily prayer, I take in their suffering, their anger, and ignorance . . . and give back compassion. This kind of practice I continue . . . Brute force, no matter how strongly applied, can never subdue the basic human desire for freedom."

I pray that I may one day return to a free Tibet; that I may visit my friends in Damxung without fear for their lives or my own; and that I can retell the story of Jampa Phuntsok with a new ending about his return to his homeland, a magical place called Po. Until then, I will cling to my vivid memories. And one image. One image, among four thousand slides from our travels, that speaks to me and reminds me of a simple truth--compassion dwells in everyone.

It's early morning. Juniper smoke fills the air. Prayer flags flutter. Prayer wheels spin. Tibetan pilgrims are making their daily circuits around the Jokhang Temple, as they have for 1500 years. Young. Old. Men. Women. Crippled. One man among the sea of pilgrims stands out. It's not his tan felt hat with a wide black band, the gray tuft of his billygoat goatee, his worn beige jacket, or his methodical gait . . . It's his eyes. It's his look of utter peace.

I click the shutter, as he rounds a pillar draped with prayer flags. The
ball of his prayer wheel is frozen in mid-air, suspended against the muted backdrop of the quivering flags. The blurred bodies of the other pilgrims provide a sense of perpetual motion. He alone is in sharp focus. He is gazing forward and slightly down, his eyes half squinted yet resolved.

This timeless image visually defines for me the power of compassion. But only now, by defining the image in words, have I discovered its deeper meaning. The ten-letter word compassion is the fortuitous union of compass and passion: seven-tenths compass, seven-tenths passion. Like the Tibetan's prayer wheel, my spiritual compass may oscillate as I circle through life. The world around me may at times seem blurry, out of focus, like the backdrop of the slide. And like this man, resolute in the face of all life' s troubles, I can still live life with passion. For within compassion, I have found a compass to guide me, and passion to feed my soul.

Copyright @2000 Dave Shreffler