Flight from Tibet

A Tibetan Buddhist monk in-exile looks at photographs of alleged victims of a crackdown by Chinese authorities in Tibet, outside his Holiness the Dalai Lama's Palace Temple in Dharamsala on March 22, 2008.

22 March 2008

By Tali Heruti-Sover

NEPAL - "Show them, show them," the old woman in a colorful apron urges the bald boy. The boy hesitates for a moment, then removes his red robe, bends down and carefully removes the girls' sport shoes he is wearing. Silence descends on the large kitchen. The boy shows a black, twisted foot, the toes swollen, toenails missing. It's a repulsive sight. "This is what happens when you are ready to cross the Himalayas in the winter, even if you have no shoes," the old woman says, sighing.

Ani Choedon has seen many sights like this, and worse: amputated limbs, gunshot wounds, hunger and fear and sickness. Since her arrival from Tibet 25 years ago, her home in this small village on the Nepalese side of the Himalayas has become a stopover haven for Tibetan refugees fleeing Chinese occupation across the world's highest border, in search of freedom. She was particularly touched by the story of young Pema. "For weeks he walked hand in hand with his little brother from the village where they lived to the border," she relates. "They evaded the Chinese patrols, crossed the frozen plateau and reached the Nepalese side. They wore only plastic bags on their feet. They kept walking in the terrible Himalayan winter until they collapsed. A nun who found them was shocked at the sight and knocked on my door, crying. Could I say no?"

Choedon smiles even when describing horrors. She speaks in a torrent of words and doesn't rest for a moment. Now she adds logs to the stove, now she pours more salty tea into glasses. Tsezin, the diligent interpreter, tries to keep pace. In the meantime, Pema puts his shoes back on and limps to another room. "A Tibetan tragedy happens every day in the mountains around us," Choedon whispers and removes another large pot from the fire. "And the world? Busy getting happily ready for the Olympics, and silent."

That conversation took place less than a month ago. Last week, hundreds of Tibetans in India set out on a "peace march" to the Tibetan border, but were stopped by the Indian police. In Tibet itself, monks staged a protest procession to mark the 49th anniversary of the 1959 uprising against the Chinese occupiers. They were dispersed with force by the authorities. The protest spread, and dozens of Tibetan demonstrators were killed in clashes with the Chinese security forces.

Not for the view

Tibetan-born Tsezin, 25, who speaks excellent English, lives in the community of McLeod Gang, in northern India, and works at the Center for Himalaya Method Massage. He was born, he says, in a small village in Amdo, one of the provinces that formerly comprised Tibet. At the age of 18 he decided to become a proud Tibetan. "For 58 years the Chinese have done everything to prevent us from being a free people in our country," he says. "They are killing us and contaminating our country, rewriting history and damaging freedom of religion. It is impossible to be a Tibetan in Tibet nowadays. That is why we are escaping. Six years ago I joined a group that crossed the Himalayas, and since then I have been here."

In addition to his personal experience, Tsezin has compiled information about the difficulties Tibetans encounter on the road to freedom. An average trek into exile lasts 28 days and is undertaken by some 3,000 people a year. They make the climb by night - men, women, children - with only the clothes on their back and a blanket to wrap themselves in against the bitter cold. The Chinese hunt them from helicopters, shooting to kill; snow slides bury them; their food often runs out on the way; and when they finally cross the border into Nepal the local police are often abusive and hand them over to the Chinese authorities, who jail them.

Our journey began in Lukla, in northeast Nepal. This colorful town is reached from Katmandu by a light plane that seems about to be hurled against the mountainside by every gust of wind. After 25 minutes of terror, we land at an elevation of 2,600 meters above sea level. The sky is blue, the sun is shining, the cold is savage. Tsezin and I set out with small knapsacks on our backs.

It's lovely in Sagarmatha National Park. The way to the base camp from which expeditions to Mount Everest set out draws tens of thousands of hardy tourists every year, who embark on days-long walks through the stunning scenery: the snow-capped roof of the world, the frozen waterfalls that adorn the slopes, the cascading blue rivers, the cordial Sherpa people. It is this postcard landscape that the Tibetan refugees reach, drained and exhausted, after walking for 10 days or more and crossing the border in a nerve-wracking experience. They have not exactly come for the view. Their only desire is to keep going, elude the police posts that dot their path, find reasonable places to bed down at night and reach - after two more weeks of trekking - the village of Jiri. There they will get a bus to the Tibetan absorption center in the capital, Katmandu.

Across the entire region, for hundreds of kilometers, walking is the only mode of transportation. On the way, we meet many Nepalese porters laden with cargo of different kinds, ranging from food to doors and metal rods for construction work. We walk slowly, keeping a constant vigil, and Tsezin starts to identify the route he himself followed. "We slept here one night," he says, pointing excitedly at a cave with a blackened ceiling. "In this house good people gave us tea."

We stop for the night at a small guest house in the village of Phakding. Yes, the proprietor is well acquainted with the Tibetan refugees who pass through the village quickly. They saw a group of them a month or two ago. None since. The next morning we set out early. Our destination, Namche Bazaar, is 3,860 meters above sea level. This is the main village at which, according to the residents, the Tibetans come to rest.

The road is breathtaking - metaphorically and physically. We climb slowly, taking in the natural beauty. In one village a group of six young men passes us by. Tsezin abruptly whirls around. "It's them," he says, and runs to the group. Hearing Tibetan, the six stop. They are somewhat taken aback by his request, but after a brief consultation agree to be interviewed.

"First we eat," I say to Tsezin, who invites all six to a full lunch. At first they eat politely, but soon loosen up and gobble down everything set before them. From our knapsacks we take out all our cookies, fruit and energy bars and put them on the table. In short order nothing is left. They are hungry. Slowly they start to break into smiles. Now they can tell us why they are here.

Five refugees and a guide

The group consists of five monks and a guide. Average age: 20. They set out 10 days ago, after stuffing warm clothes and a little food into two small knapsacks. Two of them paid the guide 4,000 yuan (about $560). Three paid nothing; maybe they will pay in the future. Dugpa, 20, who has been a monk since the age of 13 at Drepung Monastery, outside Lhasa, opens: "I decided to run away because monks are disappearing all the time, and no one knows where to or when they will return. For example, one of my friends hung a picture of the Dalai Lama in his room, and next to it a Tibetan flag. Someone must have informed on him: soldiers came, entered the monastery in the middle of the night and took him away - no one knows to where."

The Chinese are unsparing in their punishment for every "improper" step. Last October, the Dalai Lama received the Congressional Gold Medal in a ceremony held in Washington. "We painted the walls of the monastery white as a mark of esteem for His Holiness," Dugpa said. "The Chinese told us to stop. When we refused, they placed us under siege. Three rings of soldiers stood around the monastery with rifles at the ready and did not allow anyone to enter or leave for a whole month. We are talking about hundreds of monks. I decided that enough was enough. I want to be free."

The Chinese employ divide-and-rule tactics between Tibetans who live in the "Tibet Autonomous Region" and those who live outside, in the Amdo and Kham provinces, which in the past were part of Tibet. "The Chinese allow only people from U-Tsang [part of the Tibet Autonomous Region] to live in the monastery, not people from Amdo or Kham," Dugpa says. "What monk who has come to learn can afford to rent an apartment outside? He will go home bitter and angry, both at the Chinese and at the monks who received authorization [to stay in the monastery]."

Dawa, another monk of 20, has a somewhat different story. In the past year he violated the Chinese ban on the dissemination of books by the Dalai Lama. He and a friend, he says, wandered across the country and distributed 4,000 copies of four different books, which were printed in the underground. When he returned to his monastery, he received a message from his family: the Chinese police had visited their home. "I had to decide whether I wanted to enter a Chinese prison," Dawa says. "The Chinese do not want us to tell what really happened in Tibet and are doing all they can to make people stay there."

And if they catch you?

"That will be very bad," the guide, Thupthen says. He will accompany them to a safe haven and then return to Tibet to take out the next group. "They will get a vicious beating, be tortured with electric prods and be thrown into jail for an indefinite time. The Chinese are particularly ruthless in their treatment of monks who try to flee: they know they are listened to in the West."

No one would know you are monks - your heads are not shaven and you are not wearing robes.

Thangzin "Monks in Tibet are permitted to grow hair in the winter, because of the cold. During the three months before we set out, we did not shave our hair. As for the robe, it is impossible to walk in the mountains with it and it also attracts attention. We got some of our clothes and shoes from friends, and we bought some things in Lhasa before we left. It feels strange to be in these clothes, but there is no choice."

They know they will not be able to return to their country anytime soon, if ever. A few of them left with their family's blessing, and the others say their families did not know about their plan to flee.

Why do you make the journey in winter?

"Because the Chinese are less vigilant and go down to the villages from the mountains, and also because the snow is packed and easier to walk on."

They started to climb in the dark, walked for hours in the wicked cold and managed to evade the Chinese guards, but when they crossed the border they encountered Nepalese soldiers. Tsezin translates, and is visibly moved, recalling his story. He was already on a bus on the way to Katmandu when he was seized by the Nepalese police, thrown into jail and then handed over to the Chinese. After a few weeks of incarceration, he took advantage of his guards' laxness and escaped - and had to repeat his trek across the Himalayas.

The group of monks we met were somewhat better off: they had money. First of all, they related, the Nepalese soldiers beat them, then body-searched them and went through their belongings, robbing them of all their remaining funds - 11,000 Nepalese rupees (nearly $200). They then divested the group of the cellular phones they had bought before setting out. "We did not resist, so they robbed us - and released us."

Many refugees who manage to reach Katmandu tell similar stories about the police and the army. A large portion of the Sherpa people have Tibetan roots, hence there is much sympathy for the refugees, but the security forces view the fugitives mainly as an extra source of income. Still, the moment the refugees arrive in Katmandu, they feel absolutely safe. The government's representatives, they say, only abuse them along the way.

Rescue and aid network

Notwithstanding the ongoing Chinese repression, the Tibetan informers, the Nepalese army and the forces of nature, the path of the Tibetan refugees is also studded with good people - a network of aid without which they would hardly be able to complete the journey. In a town in the far north, which the refugees reach after several days of walking in Nepal, an unusual guest house has been operating for years. Its proprietor asked us not to photograph it or reveal its identity, for obvious reasons. By education he is a social worker. His grandparents are Tibetans, like many of the Sherpa people. When refugees arrive, worn out and hungry, often in the middle of the night, he gives them a good meal and offers them rooms to sleep in. "Whoever can, pays," he says, "and whoever can't, doesn't."

The refugees stop there for a few days of rest. Sleeping in a bed in a closed room, hot meals and the chance to do laundry are a true gift in the middle of the journey. The owner's mother looks after the children, particularly those who arrive without parents. "I see them and my heart cries," she says. "They have such a long, dangerous road ahead, and it is important for them to gather their strength."

The refugees also get money for the road; in some cases small amounts to buy food along the way, or perhaps a loan, such as the proprietor of the guest house gave "our" group of monks, in the hope of one day being repaid. "Our problem is not the money but the informers," he says. "The Tibetans stay in the rooms and do not go out, but there are people in the village who tell the police about their arrival. Sometimes the police give them money, sometimes they do it from sheer wickedness."

What happens then?

"When the police arrive, I hustle them all into my room and tell the policemen: Go ahead and search, but not in my room - respect my privacy. So far the police have agreed to this condition, and sometimes it is enough simply for me to invite them to search to make them believe that there is no one here. It's scary sometimes, but there is no choice other than to protect them. Otherwise they will be taken to jail, or worse - be sent back to China."

You are placing yourself and your business in great danger.

"I have learned to live with that. I want to tell you one thing: business is not everything. These are human beings. They arrive in the winter, in the great cold. I cannot leave them outside. We act out of compassion. It is nothing special."

The hospital in the village of Khunde follows the same principles. Mingma Temba Sherpa has been working here for 27 years as a medical assistant and has met hundreds of fleeing Tibetans. "We do not allow the police to enter here," he says, "not even if the refugees are hospitalized for two-three months." To reach the hospital, the refugees have to deviate from their route, but sometimes there is no choice. "They arrive with pneumonia, serious cold burns on hands and feet, injured organs, and problems of the respiratory and digestive systems," Sherpa says. "Children from the age of five, all the way to aged people, hungry, sick, exhausted. They are dressed so wretchedly. Their clothes are simple and their shoes are worthless, and they encounter terrible snowstorms. It is hard to see them like this, and we treat them all."

Treatment in this hospital is, in principle, given in return for payment. "We ask for money from all the others, but not from them," Sherpa says. "Even if we should ask, usually they just would have nothing to pay with. They receive medicines and aid and, if needed, also clothing and shoes. The food is provided by village residents and by the local monastery. Occasionally we get payment from the absorption center in Katmandu."

When did you get the last payment?

"In 1998."

He remembers Pema, the young monk, vividly. "Ani Choedon, who became a legend in the area, brought him to us, and we were able to save his feet," he relates, and asks, "What ever happened to his little brother?"

"I dressed him in a small monk's robe and hooked him up with a monk who was on the way to Katmandu," says Choedon, the Number 1 friend of the Tibetan refugees, with a broad smile. "We smuggled him in under the mustaches of the Nepalese soldiers. He is already in India, in a boarding school for Tibetan children. I hope he has a successful future."

The journey of the younger brother cost Choedon a fortune in local terms. No one will pay her back, nor does she expect reimbursement. "Compassion," she says. "How can one see what is happening and not help?"

At the end of an eight-day trek, we returned from the mountains by the same route - on a light plane from Lukla. At Katmandu airport, we hired a taxi that took us directly to the absorption center. "Our" monks were there. They had arrived that morning, more or less safely. A little before Jiri, they told us, they discovered that large numbers of police were posted in the region, and they had to execute another night flanking maneuver. Thangzin is limping, one of his toes appears to be gangrenous, but he says he will be all right.

Where did you sleep all those nights?

They smile: "We walked until we could not walk anymore, and that is where we stopped to sleep. In some places they let us sleep with the animals. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but at least it was not on the road."

Now they are sitting on beds in the large absorption center after having showered for the first time in almost a month. They are still bone weary, and trying not to think about the future.

Also here is Tashi, who for some years has made secret trips back to Tibet in order to take one family at a time to freedom. This time he took his younger sister, "because she deserves to learn something, not just follow the herd. The Chinese want us to remain ignorant." In the center's wide but empty yard five small children, orphans, are playing. They made the journey with their 12-year-old sister. No, they do not want to talk about the trip or about their parents. Yes, they would like sweets. When there are enough refug ees to fill a bus, they will all be sent to McLeod Gang in India. After a tearful meeting with the Dalai Lama, the children will be sent to Tibetan boarding schools and the adults will make their independent way.

"Maybe Israel will stand by us and boycott the Olympic Games?" Thangzin asks just before we say our farewells.