“Did the Chinese beat you?” the little girl asked me. It was the first sentence I heard when I arrived in Dharamsala on a miserably cold December night in 1983. The bus shook and rattled up the winding mountain road. I was tired and my head felt swollen, but I said, “Yes.” It sounded right.

I was born in a remote village to the northwest of the immense Tibetan Plateau. We had no running water, electricity, or paved roads. The most advanced thing, to the wonderment of the villagers, was one family’s sewing machine. In the daytime, grown-ups dug canals or worked in the fields. In the evening, at the blow of the whistle, they attended meetings at the commune hall, where cadres made them recite from Mao’s Little Red Book. It was during these meetings that people were indoctrinated along the Party line to show absolute allegiance to the leadership of the Great Helmsman. At the end of each meeting, they strained their throats shouting “Long Live Chairman Mao!” Everyone learned to hold their tongue, to obey orders and instructions to the letter. No one had to think.

Occasionally, soldiers would arrive at our village on horseback, dressed in faded green uniforms and chain-smoking. They were treated with respect. Large meetings were staged in the village square, during which these important people made long speeches that were then translated for the villagers. The soldiers inspected the new canals, the commune’s prayer-hall-turned-donkey-sheds, and the barley fields where red flags fluttered. They were nice to kids, often giving us candies. They didn’t scold us or chase us away for begging them to hand out more.

Nevertheless, years later, on that wet winter night in India, I told the little girl that the Chinese beat me. “I know,” she said. “They are terrible people.”

Layers of confusion enveloped me when I was sent into exile. To begin with, I didn’t know that the Chinese were different from us. I couldn’t understand why my great-uncle hated the blue canvas shoes, steel mugs, and other items that my mother bought from the commune store; or why the Red Guards had destroyed the monastery in front of our house. I didn’t know why I had to be smuggled out of Tibet.

I have had decades to find answers to these questions, to dig into our history and the political dilemma we find ourselves in today. The years away from home have transformed me into a vastly different person from the small boy whom my parents—at my great-uncle’s advice—sent away to become a monk at the Dalai Lama’s monastery in Dharamsala.

My great-uncle was the abbot of the local monastery in Old Tibet, and his faith in religion was as unshakable as his resolution not to flee in the aftermath of the occupation. This belief was based on his understanding of Buddhism and trust that ultimately ley-gyu-dey: “The law of karma prevails.” Even during the worst years of the Cultural Revolution, when he became the commune’s shepherd, he continued to chant his daily mantras in the company of grazing sheep and goats, away from the prying eyes of the cadres. Until his death in 1988, he never betrayed his belief and steadfastly maintained his monastic vows.

When reality knocks at the door, other things flee through the window.

My father, on the other hand, was a product of the great historical upheaval that had turned his familiar world upside down and forced him into a new socialist world, where the old value system had no practical application in life’s daily struggle. His faith in religion was shallow and his understanding of the politics of occupation and suppression was even more limited. He smoked and drank. Worse still, he bought canned pork, fish, and chicken (Tibetans generally don’t eat these, and they were strictly prohibited in our house) while my great-uncle was away in the hills with the flock. My father also befriended some of the men who, I learned many years later, were the first to volunteer when Red Guards ordered the destruction of the monastery that my great-uncle had presided over.

Once, when our rationed stock of barley was running low, my father wanted to sell the bronze Buddha image that our family had managed to hide during the destructive years of the Cultural Revolution. A heated argument broke out between my great-uncle and my father. “You cannot sell it,” Great-Uncle said, sitting cross-legged, kneading his rosary. This was in the early 1980s when there was a slight relaxing of the policy over religion in Tibet.

“We need money to buy food,” my father said, rolling up the sleeves of his chupa like a butcher about to slaughter a sheep.

“It’s sinful. This will bring no good.” Great-Uncle didn’t raise his voice, but I noticed that his aged fingers were rolling hard on the beads.

Days later, the bronze Buddha was sold to a Tibetan merchant from Nepal for 200 yuan, a white nylon shirt, and a digital wristwatch. The watch stopped working a week later. We were, however, able to buy more barley with the money so that we didn’t go hungry.

The incident had a deep impact on me. When reality knocks at the door, other things flee through the window.

My belief in religion has been shaped by circumstances in exile that neither my great-uncle nor my father had to negotiate. When I was young, I held the naive belief that doing prostrations and chanting countless manis were the sole ways to accumulate merit, and that Buddhas, bodhisattvas, and deities would come to me in difficult times. Through my lonely and penniless years in school, I had never missed a single prayer session. My invocations, however, were met with silence. No deities jumped down from their gold-plated altars to assuage my pain. Doubt and skepticism soon took refuge in my impressionable teenage mind. I began to abhor the complex and often endless religious rites and rituals that consumed huge amounts of our time, energy, and limited resources. The more I tried to understand the association between the rituals and fundamental Buddhist philosophy, the more confused I became.

The lasting influence of Buddhism on my life is its principle—that everything is interdependent and that every action will have an equal consequence in this or the next life. This guides me through the perils of exile, and I try to conduct my life based on these values. In this sense, perhaps I am closer to my great-uncle’s understanding of Buddhism, and yet I certainly don’t share his unshakable faith. Though I don’t wave away Buddhist symbolism as easily as perhaps my father did during those terribly difficult times, my eyes always glance cynically at the rituals involved.

Tibet’s spiritual leader, the Dalai Lama, often remarks that we have had enough elaborate religious ceremonies over the years since Buddhism was introduced in Tibet in the 7th century. He advises that the time has come for us to focus on its practical values. “My religion is simple,” the Dalai Lama has famously said. “My religion is compassion.” Even then, His Holiness still performs many rites and rituals. Furthermore, his remarks to simplify some of the extremely elaborate rituals have caused confusion and anxiety in the monastic community. Monks have been unable to decide which ceremonial rituals to discontinue and which aspects to retain.

Despite Buddhism’s newfound popularity, only a handful of parents in my generation want their children to join monasteries as opposed to the traditional practice of putting at least one child from each family in robes. We may still visit monasteries or light butter lamps on special holy days, but we do these with a pinch of salt, a dose of doubt. A friend complains that his very religious friend makes offerings of soft drinks and wine by opening them and placing them on his altar. “Such a waste,” he says. “We can’t drink them afterward.”

Born and raised in exile, today’s youth are equipped with the linguistic skills and technical know-how to absorb the shock of harsh reality far more maturely than the generation that came into exile in the late 1950s and early 1960s. This gives them the confidence to venture into other communities and to migrate to places that the older generation never dreamt of. The interactions with diverse groups of people and exposure to other spiritual practices make our beliefs less conservative. We ask more questions and rely less on faith.

However, the common dream etched in the collective consciousness is to go back to a free Tibet. Connected by the invisible thread of our common history, culture, and language, each of us has created a mini-Tibet within. As Salman Rushdie writes in his essay “Imaginary Homelands,” we know this is “one version of all the hundreds of millions of possible versions.” For the moment, this mini-Tibet in our heart is the home we inhabit in our dreams even as we transport ourselves into newer environments and more unfamiliar circumstances. 

From The Penguin Book of Modern Tibetan Essays, edited by Tenzin Dickie © 2023. Reprinted with permission from Penguin Random House India.

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His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama is many things: Nobel Peace Prize laureate, Tibetan spiritual leader, beloved popular culture figure, and now—as of July 6, 2020—record producer. At the age of 85, the Dalai Lama has come out with his debut album, titled Inner World. Fusing music with Buddhist chants, His Holiness uses his resounding voice as an instrument, reciting traditional Tibetan Buddhist prayers and presenting teachings on issues close to his heart. The first track, “One of My Favorite Prayers,” opens with the soothing sounds of a bamboo flute while the Dalai Lama recites a prayer composed by Shantideva, the 8th-century Indian Buddhist philosopher of the historic Nalanda University: “As long as space endures / And as long as living beings remain / Until then may I too remain / To dispel miseries of the world.” But why did one of the world’s foremost spiritual leaders decide to embrace the music industry to disseminate his message of peace?

Inner World is the product of collaboration with musicians Junelle Kunin and Abe Kunin, a husband-wife duo from New Zealand. Several years ago, Junelle had suggested an album of mantras and conversations with the Dalai Lama. His office turned down the idea, but in 2015, during an audience with the Dalai Lama in India, she again pitched the idea, in a letter she handed to one of his assistants. This time, His Holiness accepted.

When asked why he agreed to make the album, the Tibetan spiritual leader told Junelle that music has “the potential to help people in a way that I can’t” and that it has the ability “to transcend our differences. It can return us to our true nature of good-heartedness.”

The album, which took five years to produce, contains eleven tracks. In seven of them the Dalai Lama chants sacred mantras of several important buddhas in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, including that of Manjushri, bodhisattva of wisdom; Menlha, the Tibetan name for the Medicine Buddha; Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion; and Tara, a Buddhist deity and female counterpart to Avalokiteshvara. In a track titled “Compassion,” widely released online last month, His Holiness recites the six-syllable mantra Om Mani Padme Hum, one of the most well- known Tibetan Buddhist prayers. 

What’s striking about Inner World is that it blends musical genre and Buddhist teachings. In the track “Ama-la” [mother] that features Bengali sitar player Anoushka Shankar, daughter of Ravi Shankar, the Dalai Lama states, “the real teacher of compassion in every human being’s life is our mother” and in another track titled “Humanity” he says “…too much emphasis on self-centred attitude and too much emphasis on we and them are the basis of killing, exploitation or injustices.” In the seventh track, “Wisdom,” His Holiness pays homage to Manjushri in Tibetan and chants the mantra of transcendent wisdom in Sanskrit, while a slow guitar weaves a mellow tune alongside saxophone and bass.

The overall soundscape of the album has a slow and sustained tempo, interspersed with flute, guitar, and sitar solos. Though the rich and resonant bass is rife throughout the record, it does not dominate the Dalai Lama’s voice, which comes across clear and crisp. I found Inner World both meditative and inspiring, and think it will charm its way into the consciousness of both Buddhists and non-Buddhists alike. According to Rolling Stone, proceeds from the album will go to Social, Emotional, and Ethical (SEE) Learning, an international education program founded by the Dalai Lama and Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia, and to the Mind and Life Institute, an organization that encourages conversation between contemplative thinkers and scientists.

While the album is a pleasure to listen to, it may seem odd to some that His Holiness is breaking into the world of music. While some Buddhists take precepts that encourage them to abstain from listening to or making non-religious music, the Dalai Lama is, in fact, no stranger to the world of entertainment. Reportedly a fan of The Beastie Boys, who put together a series of Tibetan Freedom Concerts in the 1990s, he has in the last few decades met with a number of prominent musicians, including the late Adam Yauch of The Beastie Boys, Patti Smith, and even Lady Gaga. Since the 1990s, he has also met with many Hollywood film stars, some of whom have used their platforms to support his fight for a free Tibet.

 Yet it is important to remember that His Holiness’s journey to become a global icon—and a living symbol of peace and nonviolence—has involved considerable hardship. The Dalai Lama fled his summer palace, Norbu Lingka in Lhasa, Tibet’s capital city, in early 1959, sometimes walking eighteen hours a day crossing the Himalayan mountains. After 15 days, he and his entourage reached a small village in southern Tibet, from which he crossed into India on a dzo, a cross between a yak and a cow.

“The country was equally wild on each side of it, and uninhabited,” the twenty-four-year-old Dalai Lama wrote in his memoir. “I saw it in a daze, of sickness and weariness, and unhappiness deeper than I can express.”

The Dalai Lama lost his country and everything that he knew. But he never lost his charisma and aura, which has captured the hearts of many around the world. To the Tibetans the Dalai Lama came to symbolize more than ever their spiritual tradition, culture, and identity, which were in danger of being lost forever in their homeland under Chinese occupation.

Without ruminating too much on his own loss and seeing the enormity of the crisis at hand, His Holiness established a government in exile and educational, cultural, and religious institutions to empower a new generation of Tibetans, who now carry on the nation’s rich traditions. In 1960, on the first anniversary of the March 10 National Uprising Day, when Lhasa rose up against Chinese forces, the Dalai Lama stressed the need to take a long-term view of the situation in occupied Tibet. In exile he told his people that the “priority must be resettlement and the continuity of our cultural traditions.”

He has, on several occasions, described himself as “a simple Buddhist monk.” And it’s clear to anyone who hears the Dalai Lama speak or teach—and now, chant—that this spiritual leader has maintained his humility and childlike inquisitiveness despite facing terrible difficulty. (Once, while visiting a nomad, His Holiness asked the nomad to show him how to operate bellows made from a sheepskin. When the Dalai Lama failed to ignite the fire with the bellows, he filled the tent with his laughter.)

To me, it is not surprising that Dalai Lama has come out with this album Inner World. It has been his lifelong mission to promote inner peace and happiness. As we trudge through this dark time of a global pandemic, mass job losses, the dangers of war, and revolutionary actions in the streets, His Holiness’s wisdom and compassion through this recording can bring inner transformation in how we look at ourselves and the world at large.

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I have a vivid memory of the 1987 March 10 Tibetan National Uprising Day. An eighth grader, I walked up from our school in lower Dharamsala, India, to Gangchen Kyishong, the location of the government-in-exile, where His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama was to address the gathering. China’s paramount leader, Deng Xiaoping, had signalled the possibility of dialogue less than a decade prior, and the new policy in Tibet was relaxed with a special focus on economic progress.

That day, however, the Dalai Lama told us, “It is a mistake to presume that mere economic concessions and liberalizations can satisfy our people. The issue of Tibet is fundamentally political, with international ramifications, and as such only a political solution can provide a meaningful answer.”

With the official speeches over, we schoolchildren marched downhill, clutching cardboard signs with anti-China slogans and chanting rallying cries until our throats gave out. At lower Dharamsala, we formed a circle around an effigy of Deng. After another round of fiery speeches and noisy slogans, a tall man in a white sheepskin robe approached the effigy with his dagger raised. He stabbed the ersatz Deng in the chest and produced a sheep’s heart concealed there. As we all shouted, “Down with Deng Xiaoping!” “Free Tibet!” “UN, We want justice!” the man sliced off a piece Deng’s heart and chewed a morsel. He spat on the figure and set it on fire; flames licked the wounded effigy, firecrackers burst in the air, smoke rose, and sparks whizzed in all directions. And so we’ve continued the annual demonstrations over the decades, though the effigy-burning has stopped.

This year, March 10 marks the 60th anniversary since Tibet lost her freedom, and Tibetans and friends of Tibet must reflect on how we ended up where we are and the challenges that are still ahead.

Immediately after coming into power in October 1949, Communist China began its military takeover of the Tibetan Plateau, and by early 1959, over 20,000 People’s Liberation Army (PLA) soldiers were billeted in Lhasa. Tension mounted in Tibet’s capital city.

In early March of that year, the PLA invited the young Dalai Lama to attend a dance show at its headquarters in Lhasa with a directive that no Tibetan bodyguard was to accompany him, as the PLA would assure the Tibetan leader’s safety. Furthermore, they said that the trip must be kept secret. This was impossible, since the Dalai Lama’s visits were always public events with tens of thousand lining the streets to glimpse their leader.

So Lhasa’s population became suspicious. Around that time, in Eastern Tibet, high lamas had been invited to such shows by Chinese military commanders and were never seen again. The date for the theatrical show was set for March 10. On that day over 30,000 Tibetans gathered at Norbu Lingkha, the Dalai Lama’s summer palace, pressuring him not to attend the Chinese show.

The Dalai Lama, who was then 24, faced a difficult dilemma. It was, as he writes in his autobiography, “as if I was standing between two volcanoes, each likely to erupt at any moment. On one side, there was the vehement, unequivocal, unanimous protest of my people against the Chinese regime; on the other hand, there was the armed might of a powerful and aggressive occupying force.” With the huge crowd surrounding his palace, it was nearly impossible for him to leave.

The PLA generals were enraged when three of the Dalai Lama’s ministers told them he would not be attending. A couple of days later, the Chinese army fired two mortars at the summer palace. With the situation at a boiling point, on the night of March 17, the Dalai Lama escaped into exile. Disguised as an ordinary soldier, he marched out of his palace “unchallenged [and moved] towards the dark road beyond,” according to his autobiography.

Related: His Holiness: A Life

In the early morning of March 20, Chinese troops began bombardment of Norbu Lingkha and the surrounding areas, which lasted for several days. A confidential official Chinese document, Tibet’s Status and Basic Duties and Education, published by the Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR) Military’s Political Bureau in October 1960, states that “from March 1959 [to 1960] 87,000 enemies were exterminated.” Irrespective of whether the number of Tibetans killed was in Lhasa alone, this is damning evidence that thousands were slaughtered. This pivotal moment in modern Tibetan history led to China’s overall occupation of Tibet.

In exile, the first March 10 anniversary was held in Mussoorie, a small town in the northern Indian state of Uttarakhand, where the exiled government, the Central Tibetan Administration, was also established. In 1960, the Dalai Lama and his nascent administration moved to Dharamsala, a tiny abandoned hill station in Himachal Pradesh, and since then, all subsequent March 10 anniversaries have been held there.

Being born in Tibet during the Cultural Revolution, I had no concept of Tibet as a separate or occupied country. I didn’t even know that the Chinese were racially and ethnically different from Tibetans. My political awareness, like my education, only began at refugee schools in India. Taking part in the annual March 10 anniversary had a deep impact on me—listening to speeches and witnessing older Tibetans shout slogans, often in broken English and Hindi. They displayed so much passion.

Related: Remembering Lodi Gyaltsen Gyari, Envoy to the Dalai Lama

For me, the 10th of March is not merely another day to be marked on the calendar or an empty ritual. It is a historical link to what befell Tibet in the past, what we honor now, and what must be passed down to the next generation. Like the Buddhist principle of the interdependence of all things, March 10 connects me to our history, memory, resistance, and resilience.

The large-scale migration of Tibetans from India, Nepal, and Bhutan to the West beginning in the 1990s has made the 10th of March a global phenomenon observed in Toronto, New York, Paris, and Sydney. The last time I took part in the Uprising Day protest in New York City, over 2,000 people marched in the streets and gathered in front of the Chinese Consulate, which battens down on this day every year.

As this year marks the 60th anniversary, the protest marches, demonstrations, appeals, and sloganeering are likely to be more extensive, more numerous, and more vocal than in all previous years. Like I have for over three decades, I will join this year’s March 10 anniversary right here at the seat of the exiled government in Dharamsala. This is a fervent reminder to me that our struggle for freedom endures and that the long road will lead us back to our homeland.

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