The Messenger
By Paige Wilson

“I would give my life for Tibet,” Phurbu told me over a cup of cha ngarmo (Tibetan sweet tea), in a small teashop in the back streets of Lhasa, Tibet, behind the Potala Palace. “And I dream of meeting His Holiness the Dalai Lama before I die,” he added.

When I met Phurbu, an apprentice sculptor of Tibetan religious statues, his straightforward attitude initially shocked me. He spoke openly about his hatred of the Chinese occupation of Tibet and wore an illegal amulet depicting the Dalai Lama around his neck. Photos of His Holiness had been classified as “reactionary literature” and banned more than 10 years ago. Still, Phurbu, like a number of defiant Tibetans I knew, refused to denounce his leader and to cooperate with the Chinese government.

Arriving in Lhasa in summer 2007 on a service-learning grant from Emory’s Center for International Programs Abroad (CIPA) to volunteer at a Tibetan orphanage, I had not known what to expect. My Tibetan friends living in exile in Dharamsala, India, had described to me the tall snow-capped mountains, grassy plains, and black yaks. Nonetheless, when I stepped out of the airplane, the Tibetan landscape took me by surprise.

I had never imagined the extent of the Sinicization of Lhasa. In many ways, Lhasa looked like any other Chinese city. Recently constructed concrete buildings flanked the broadly paved roads. A large military barracks stood at the west of the city, and a vast military parade ground called the New Potala Palace Square sat at the foot of its namesake. Nightclubs, karaoke bars, and plastic palm trees lined the streets. Mandarin characters covered shop signs and advertisements.
As I toured the city and its surroundings outside of my time teaching at the orphanage, I began to gain a better sense of Tibetan sentiment toward the Chinese government inside Tibet. Watching a cadre of Chinese troops march by the Jokhang, the holiest temple in all of Tibet, my friend Lhakpa whispered to me, “People say Tibet is surrounded by mountains, but I think it is surrounded by the Chinese police.” Gesturing towards graffiti on a wall near the Jokhang that read “UNKWWFT,” Lhakpa quietly barked, “See! United Nations Knows We Want Free Tibet.” Like the other Tibetans with whom I had become close in Lhasa, and all of the Tibetans I knew in exile in Dharamsala, Lhakpa had become frustrated waiting for Tibet to regain independence, or at least some degree of autonomy.

Whenever I let it slip that I had spent a few months studying in India last year, Tibetans asked me if I had met the Dalai Lama or if I had any pictures of him. In some cases, I quietly refused. “La me,” I told them. “No, I do not.” It is well known in Tibet that the Chinese Public Security Bureau hires undercover Tibetan informants, some of whom even pose as monks in the monasteries. I had heard stories of foreigners deported for bringing illegal pictures and videos of the exiled Tibetan leader into Tibet.

Other times, however, I revealed that I had met His Holiness and that I carried pictures with me. Near the turquoise blue Lake Yamdrok, I showed three yak-herding nomads the digital photos of the Dalai Lama that I had on my iPod. One after the other, they studied the smiling face of the elderly monk, touching the device to the crowns of their heads in a Tibetan act of reverence.

Toward the end of my stay in Lhasa, I told Phurbu that the Dalai Lama was coming to my school in October. “Gunchoksum?” he asked. “Swear to the three jewels [the Buddha, his teachings, and his disciples] swear to God?”

“Gunchok,” I replied. “I swear.”
“If I write a letter to him, will you give it to him for me?” he asked.
“I will do my best,” I replied.

A day before I left Lhasa, Phurbu met me at the teashop behind the Potala and handed me the letter he had written, wrapped in a khata, a Tibetan ceremonial silk scarf. “Promise you will not let anyone read it,” he told me.

Once I arrived home, I stashed Phurbu’s letter amongst my Tibetan books on my bookshelf. I told Geshe Lobsang Tenzin-la, a Tibetan scholar, former monk, and professor at Emory, that I had a letter from inside Tibet to give to the Dalai Lama. Geshe-la assured me that I could give the letter to His Holiness while he was visiting. He said he would arrange a brief audience with His Holiness for Students for a Free Tibet, a group of which I was president.

A week before the event, I began practicing what I would say to the Dalai Lama. At the Drepung Loseling Institute, the local Emory-affiliated Tibetan Buddhist center, Tsepak, the Tibetan assistant director of the Institute, assisted me with my Tibetan grammar.

By the time I stood outside the exit of the “Mind and Life Conference” where the audience was to be held, I had recited my short speech in my head at least 100 times. Tibetans have a phrase to describe what happens when one meets the Dalai Lama – ma sem joe me – which roughly translates as “rendered completely speechless.” Seconds before he arrived to greet us, I continued to mumble my words under my breath.

When His Holiness finally emerged from behind the door, I held up towards him an ashi, a ceremonial silk scarf of the highest quality, and Phurbu’s letter. He stopped in front of me and his entourage circled around me. As I began speaking, he looked into my eyes and listened closely to my words. Halfway through my speech, he reached out his hand, touched my face, and chuckled to help calm my nervousness. When I finished, he accepted the letter, opened it, and began reading. He read aloud certain sentences to the other Tibetans traveling with him. Looking up, he muttered, “sad,” and passed the letter to his attendant. Then he lifted the ashi from my hands, touched it slowly to his head, and placed it around my neck as a blessing. Elated, I began thinking about the coded email I would soon write to Phurbu’s friend to let him know that the letter had been delivered.

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A second-place winner of CIPA’s study abroad writing contest, Paige Wilson is a senior from Atlanta, Ga., majoring in Asian and Asian-American Studies.