Confrontation

Image: Gilded carving, Potala.

Contrary to what I had expected, the monks seemed much more hostile to the Han Chinese than ordinary Tibetans did. Ehud, my Israeli friend, told me one story: in the Potala, after being shown around by a monk, he said innocently in Mandarin, "Thanks." The monk was greatly offended. He raised his hand in rejection. "No, no, no, I am not a Chinese. Don't you ever speak Chinese to me." ...

Unwilling to get into any trouble of that sort, I had been largely keeping a low profile throughout my Tibet days. At times, though, I was angry. Being a young man myself, I didn't want to be pushed around simply because I am a Han Chinese.

Eventually I felt danger in the monastery in Gyantse (Jiang1 Zi4). It was inside a temple, full of monks. Fifty, I figured, sitting in rows, reading and chanting. I went in with the three Israelis. The temple was dark and crowded. We had to carefully walk along the narrow paths in between the rows. Apparently the monks were not at all excited about us, the tourists. Soon we were asked to remove our caps, and to get out. Shibati, the Israeli guy walking in front of me, was suddenly asked, above the chanting and singing in the background, if he was Chinese. The monk toned his question so clearly that we all knew he was accusing. "No, I am not a Chinese." Shibati shook his head vehemently, as if the question was an insult. I was angered, perhaps also by the way he answered. At the same time, I realized that the threat was right in front of me. Lowering my head, I was prepared for the worst. I didn't know how the Israelis would react if things turned ugly, but I did know that I could only count on myself for my own life, or death. With only a Swiss Army knife, I was prepared to fight to reach the outside.

Image: Monks at Gyangtse, the only time we were allowed to shoot pictures without a fee (Johannes later donated Y5). They sat in the order of age, and changed their hand gestures while praying.

Oddly , the monks didn't ask me: "Where are you from?" a most frequently asked question. At that moment I would surely have said: "I am a Chinese from Beijing." But I was spared.

A couple of hours later, out in the courtyard, an old monk finally asked me, in Mandarin, "You are Han Chinese, aren't you?" "Yes, I am!" Also in Mandarin, and I looked into his eyes, firmly. At this moment, Dayo, my Dutch friend, intervened in English, "Is that a problem?" The monk didn't say anything further. Fortunately, he was the most friendly looking monk that I met in Tibet. He was only curious, but didn't seem to like Han Chinese, though. He was not accusing me.

Image: Oli and the monks, the one at the center later asked me: "You are Han, aren't you?

Dayo and I met the previous day, and quickly became friends. We talked about Tibetan politics, America, and Holland, and could easily understand each other. I felt a brotherly affection for him, perhaps because he was Indonesian-Dutch, and I a Chinese living in America. He intervened nobly, with perfect timing. I realized only when writing this down that Dayo didn't understand Mandarin. He intervened apparently because he sensed what was going on. I am forever grateful to him.

Later that evening in our hotel, Johannes, the other Dutchman I became good friends with, told me one more story. When he sat and talked with an old monk in the afternoon (maybe the same monk, maybe not), the monk asked him where I was from. Knowing that I was "from China" (all foreign tourists take Tibet and China as two entities), the monk became very agitated. Johannes had to quickly assure him that I was a good man, a good Chinese (I found no reason not to believe him :)), before the old monk finally sat down again and became quiet. I was spared more than once that day.

Barkhor Street, the Tibetan market. Seldom can you find a Han Chinese here. It is completely a Tibetan world. Almost every recent riot originated here. In English, Ehud and I were bargaining with a Tibetan. Abruptly, a Tibetan sitting alongside accused me in Mandarin: "You can understand what I am saying, can't you?" And he stared at me. The hostility was evident. Looking at him, straight into his eyes, "Yes, I certainly do," also in Mandarin. My eyes were on fire ... [4] Maybe I wasn't big enough a target. The fight never started.

On my way back to Beijing, I befriended a Han Chinese armed policeman stationed at Lhasa. He told me that throughout the years in Lhasa, he never dared to visit the inside of the Potala. As a few soldiers and armed policemen were murdered a couple of years back, he usually didn't leave his base to go into the streets on holidays, not even in plain clothes.

Image: Countless military trucks. An officer to me: "Watch out what you are shooting!" "I am only taking pictures of the sky and the mountains."

Yak Hotel

It was a traditional Tibetan compound, with a courtyard surrounded by two-story buildings. A path led to an inner courtyard, which was also surrounded by the hotel buildings. The house facing the crowded commercial street, however, was occupied by the local Tibetans. All tourists stayed inside. A small but different world. No dogs, no beggars, no money changers, no handicraft sellers. They were all at the gate, waiting. And yes, this was a tourist hotel. The Tibetans spoke some English. The tourists were from Israel (Tibet was very popular among Israeli travelers), England, Holland, Norway, Japan, Hong Kong, Singapore, Taiwan, and Tibetan monks from India. No local Tibetans, and no Han Chinese from the inland -- except me. (I met no North Americans either.) It was cheap. One bed in a five-bed room cost only Y25-28 ($3+). Notes of all kinds were posted on the bulletin board at the gate, in English, Japanese, or Hebrew, but not Chinese, not even the postings from the hotel office itself.

The toilet, though smelly, was clean. I could also take a hot water shower. All the hot water was from the parabolic shaped solar heaters scattered in the courtyard, with the water pots sitting at the focal points. The hot water guy, the funniest Tibetan I had met, whose job was supposed to be aligning the heaters toward the sun, left the job mostly to the girls, and killed his time fooling and kidding around. His dream city in all the world? Bangkok, because of the street girls he saw in videos.

Centered in the courtyard was a row of faucets, the washing place, where the Tibetan girls washed the hotel blankets, sheets, and their clothes -- with a washing machine; and tourists washed their clothes, teeth, faces -- with their hands. I washed my clothes every day, after the shower. It was marvelous, under the bright summer Tibetan sunshine, the clothes and the towel dried in a few hours. I left them outside until the next morning. One never had to worry about a moist morning, nor a rain. Or nearly so. The water was ice cold but for the sun-bath while washing, I had to use sun block, particularly because I wanted to hang around and talk to fellow washers. One day I was washing my socks, apparently not a champion of it, a Tibetan girl giggled, took them over, and showed me the Tibetan way. Her hands were strong, mine not.

Two big shelters sandwiched the faucets, the tables, the benches, the views, the breeze, ... That was our sitting room. We were chatting, reading, napping, drinking, flirting, day-dreaming, relaxing, ... One man even slept there. He was a big guy, a typical Beijing-er, skin shaved head, big round red eyes, muscle shirt, blue pants, and Kongfu shoes. I spotted him quickly from his accent. Quickly we became friends, the only two Beijing guys in the hotel. Well, he was a painter, actually living in Canada, and painted Tibet exclusively. He had to quarrel his way into the hotel, because he had a Chinese passport, and they wouldn't let him in. (Why did they take me, when seeing my Chinese passport? I never figured it out.) He coughed bitterly and had to sleep on the bench so as not to disturb his roommates. I gave him half of the best medicine I had. He also complained about having female roommates: "Too inconvenient." But he was hilarious. Minutes after he started chatting with a Japanese girl who lived in Beijing and spoke fluent Mandarin, he tried to fix us up. "Hey, you guys are both single. Why don't you go somewhere and talk privately?" He was so funny, and so natural, we all looked at him and laughed.

Lady: "Hi, I am a Swedish living in Germany."

Me: "Chinese from Beijing, living in America. He is Chinese from Beijing too, living in Canada."

He: "Beautiful!"

Lady: ??

Me: ?

He, pointing to the Lady: "Beautiful!" waving his hands and outlining a human figure.

Me: "You are, indeed!"

She waved us off and smiled. We all smiled.

Being shy, I knew nobody (except the Israelis, with whom I went to the lake the previous day). Although a newcomer, he knew everybody, and instantly. It was through him that I met Mr. Don't Know, and the others, from Taiwan.

The forever popular Mr. Don't Know was again surrounded, this time by all the Tibetans in the hotel. It was tea time. The two young gentlemen, the hot-water guy, and the office guy, pushed the girls away and sat on each side of the mister. Mr. Don't Know to me:

"Bring your cup and have tea with us together."

"But I don't have a cup." (Toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a faucet, that was how I cleaned my teeth in travel.)

A girl rushed to fetch me a cup, filled it with buttered (Su1 You2) tea, and offered me the Tibetan snacks. From that minute on, as soon as the cup is not 100% full, it would be filled immediately. Today's gossip, a true story that happened in Lhasa in mid June, 1994 (or so it was told):

"A Tibetan policeman sent his pregnant wife to the hospital. The doctor (a Han Chinese, I was told later) demanded money. When the man rushed back with the money, the wife and the unborn baby were already dead. Furious, the man shot the doctor with his pistol, and then himself."

Sensing my apparent comprehension of and fluency in Mandarin, the hot water guy to me:

"Where are you from?"

"Beijing."

"No, we all thought that you were Japanese." The girls agreed.

"No, I am 100% Chinese. I was born, grew up, and went to my schools, all in Beijing."

The story ended. I thanked and said goodbye to them, and goodbye to the hot-water guy,

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Japanese." He was kidding again, this time maybe hoping too.

"No, Chinese."

"We don't like Chinese," the outspoken girl interrupted.

"But I am a Chinese. Not all Chinese are evil!"

...

" Something is wrong. They were nice to me, thinking I was Japanese. They are still nice to me, but don't want to believe that I am Chinese. I should do something." Unfortunately, I was so ignorant that I had no hard facts, names, numbers, dates, and so on, to convince them. And I had to be careful not to say anything stupid to lose my credibility. I had to listen patiently, and showed them with my own example that a "bad" Chinese could be less evil, once in Tibet.

The next day, my last day in Lhasa, I sat down with the girls and the hot-water guy, not in the sitting room, but in the courtyard, on the ground, under the sun.

Outspoken girl: "In Lhasa, even a kid hates Chinese nowadays."

Me: "What do you want? Suppose you could have everything you wanted. Tell me, what do you want?"

Outspoken girl: "We want human rights."

Me: "... Can you be more specific?"

Outspoken girl: "... Well, I can't put it well ... but we want our Dalai Lama back. We want freedom."

Me: "Is that all you want?"

Outspoken girl: "Yes."

Me: "Do you want Tibet to be independent?"

Outspoken girl: "... Ah, yes, we do. Why not?"

Me: "What are the things that you don't like?"

Outspoken girl: "Hey, you must be a spy!" We all laughed.

All: "Inflation. Corruption."

Hot-water guy: Gold and timber shipped out from Tibet to the inland. (Whisper: "Some Tibetan businessmen are terribly corrupt too.")

Outspoken girl: "All big officials are Han Chinese. Therefore a Tibetan will surely lose to a Han, say, in taxing in business."

Pretty girl: "Before, bright Tibetan kids went to schools in the inland and everything was paid. Now they have to pay everything themselves, plane tickets, boarding, food, ..."

Hot-water guy, pointing to the pretty girl: "She likes Chairman Mao and Zhou Enlai." The pretty girl said no word, apparently agreeing.

...

Finally, time to go. I took out my medicine, umbrella , canned pork, soap box, ... everything that I wouldn't need before reaching Beijing, gave instructions on how to use the medicine, distributed them to all the Tibetans, and took pictures of each of them. I didn't give anything to the office guy though. Mr. Don't Know told me that he, the son of the manager, was a bully. He once stole tourists' belongings. He mistreated the girls, and even harassed them indecently. I had no words to him.

To the outspoken girl: "Please remember, not all Chinese are bad. There are good, kind-hearted Chinese as well (i.e., meeeeee :))." A bit uneasy, she lowered her head and smiled.

To the old man that I liked the most in the hotel: "Please, do take care of yourself. I will come back to see you next time."

"We all thought that you are Japanese."

"No, I am from Beijing. I am a Han Chinese. I have been, however, studying in the U.S. for the past six years."

"In the U.S.? Your parents must be big officials."

"No, they are ordinary intellectuals. Anyone can go to the U.S. Tibetan kids can too, by taking exams ... We all hope that Tibet is fine and in peace. As long as the economy is good, as long as people's lives are getting better and better, most problems will be easier to solve. If anything happens, it will be good for nobody."

He agreed sincerely.

Image: On my way to the airport, the last hours with my Taiwanese friend, Wang X Ying.

Goodbye , X Ying, my new friend. Goodbye, Tibet. [5] [6]