The fateful
nation and her people diaspora and within: Tibet and Tibetans, the game of
obeisance, the high hope of a Tibetan in the West to be
taken so, as per the
smiling image and dedication of His Holiness the Dalai Lama for the
far-reaching global issues ranging from ‘universal responsibility’ to ‘warm-heartedness’.
The game is risky for a Tibetan in the West, especially for a newcomer with
such high hope that isn’t so much an illusion as one’s hold or belief of His
Holiness the Dalai Lama’s globally accepted popularity, among the top 10
globally loved people. But to be taken so is like wishing to be cuddled by
everyone as per our firm hold of ‘mother sentient being’. And how is it once
the primary motive is detected as ‘self-interest’, far worse than an accidental
rebuff when one finds oneself in a quandary for being unable to speak the
foreign language ‘guttural accent’ even after years? I have found the illusion
is still mounting high as per those ones who have gone so far as carrying a
smiling portrait of His Holiness the Dalai Lama visibly in a folder to be taken
so just by seeing the image. And such act, thought out by one and readily
imitated by many without the means of communication, is really foul for being
bound with just self-interest—then what about wasting one’s hours in a day
(thanks for Wechat and facebook) rather than spending an hour for learning the
language.
Really,
French wine must have been tasted and so her cheese, the two stuffs the longer
fermented, the better. So I have so far despite still with the minimal
knowledge. I am not hurt when I present my Microsoft PowerPoint presentation,
which I have prepared over weeks, titled Un clin d’oeil au Tibet and
have to face the handful of classmates’ rather sincere reactions this morning
like seeing the way I have gleaned the web-based information as too readymade
despite my own labor of arrangement, editing and adding extra texts. The
learning point is from a black classmate named Christian from Uganda. Looking
at him in modest dress, his blackness, the quadrangle head as of the flat
temples and forehead, I had times of fancying that he looked like a black
Hollywood actor whose name I don’t know (the one in Collateral with Tom Cruise
as an accidentally and ill-fatedly bound hostage). Even though his French
accent is so thickly blended with his native singsong accent, he speaks
fluently. As per his fluency in spoken French he must have been in France for
long but it’s hard to get the right information from his rather wavering
self-introduction: like saying ‘married’ at one session and ‘single’ at the
other. He is of medium frail build with strong body odor that I found once. I
did also find one time he tried to rub the bare skin of his hand with mine as
to test how I was to react. So I found he was so sensitive with the rawness or
self-awareness that is stark different from mine; his is about racial equality and
mine is of self-levied price of not finding a ground to stand on worsened by
the communication defect but not sort of autism. His is as per my learning
through reading VS Naipaul like that of a mimicry of what a black in US does,
self-awareness and its manifestation as naïve as how a nouveau riche behaves. And
this morning he first listens intently with a few questions. Once when it comes
to the national flag Le Drapeau, he twists his eyes behind the narrow
white glasses. He expressly says those things (snow lions, the burning jewel,
the wishful jewel like yin yang) are ‘not essential’ as the long explanation,
the text to be followed.
The worst
thing happens when it comes to the national anthem L’hymne national. As
he finds more words of Buddha and Dharma, he pushes up the bridge of his
glasses twice.
“What, is
Tibet, are all Tibetans Buddhists?” He says looking from side to side.
Our class
teacher, Madam Franceline is seated next by him. She smiles and casts glances
at me. It’s like saying she knows how Christian is. There was a time when he
rather importunately held his ground like a wayward child. It was just about a
kind of French cake. When Madam Franceline showed the picture of the cake we
were talking about after googling it on her smart phone, he flatly disagreed and said it wasn’t the right stuff.
“No, almost
3% is Muslims, I think,” say I.
“Then what
about only Buddha and Dharma,” says he and chuckles smugly.
I am at my
wit’s end how to explain, not as to gloss over the fact with something to say.
He is right. And I wonder about the case of Bhutan, the neighboring small
country where maybe 20% or more are non-Buddhists. How is their national anthem
written. And I search on internet and find the following translation in
English:
The
Thunder Dragon Kingdom
In the
Thunder Dragon Kingdom, where cypresses grow
Refuge of
the glorious monastic and civil traditions,
The King
of Druk, precious sovereign,
His being
is eternal, his reign prosperous
The
enlightenment teachings thrive and flourish
May the
people shine like the sun of peace and happiness!
‘The
enlightenment teachings’ (Choe Sangye Tenpa, namely the religion, Buddha Dharma)
are the overt words there too.
But the
bespectacled Pakistani lady, one of the students, with bright complexion, who
is bit chubby, comes to my rescue. She says it can be that it was written long
time ago. And, yes, she is right, I presume. It could be written when every
Tibetan was Buddhist. Is it so? Can the information on Wikipedia be relied on?
And the
other case is about when learning about our hold of ‘mother sentient beings’
that every life, even of a tiny insect, is revered like killing an insect is a
sinful act. They all laughed at the idea like it’s the funniest thing they have
ever heard but Madam Franceline says it’s regarded so by a Tibetan. For the latter
I can say they can laugh. But for the former I really can’t say that it can be left
so.
The presentation
is done like being able to shed a load. Now I am eager to see Christian’s presentation.
I want to learn from his country.
Reading
Tsering Wangmo Dhompa's A Home in Tibet, Portrait of a Lama, one of the ending
chapters, said as the 'maiden' literature work by a Tibetan woman, and doing so
with the suspended breaths as to have the utmost effect in being able to
reconstruct a glimpse of the notorious Cultural Revolution's pallor marked by
intensive adversity, starvation, struggle sessions to re-education sessions, I
came to this conclusion despite her surviving oldest relative, the uncle monk's
taciturnity to virtually slipping away into yonder thought-world: George
Orwell's 1984, published in 1949, could be reckoned now and then through his
terse narration over days in terms of telling again and again that the world
outside is 'evanescent' despite seemingly well-ordered, the sudden
commissioning to excavate trench after Mao's death for an impending unknown
enemy to the mode of keeping every head in a reeling mania by secondly
galvanizing into a desperate spree that one yields to when in desperation. Then
their means of Socialist Transformation was just borrowed one, a copycat's game
tested on the mass of Chinese and Tibetan. And the question arises naturally
who was the real sinner in the first place to lay out such monstrously cruel
examples for torturing human by human—ranging from the sterilization of female
reproductive organ to the systematic overpowering mode of racial assimilation
in keeping the figure down to down? 
