Tibetan Independence Movement: Political, Religious and Gandhian Perspectives

THE TIBETAN INDEPENDENCE MOVEMENT

At the beginning of the 21st century the Tibetan independence movement has reached a critical juncture. China refuses to initiate meaningful dialogue. This leaves the onus for action with the Tibetan community, particularly as no country is willing to assist with their struggle. No progress has been made for at least ten years, certainly not since the Dalai Lama’s renunciation of the goal of Tibetan independence in 1988. This is the first serious political analysis of the Tibetan independence movement. It is also the first to view the struggle from a comparative perspective, using the Indian independence movement. It addresses the need to move away from Tibet being treated as a purely religious and cultural entity. This book examines Tibetan resistance through guerrilla warfare and the 1998 hunger strike undertaken by the Tibetan Youth Congress. Both of these have been condemned by the Dalai Lama for their inappropriateness in a Buddhist setting. By examining the types of resistance offered by the Tibetans against the Chinese, lessons can be drawn about the continuing reliance on the dual relationship of religion and politics in Tibetan society. While it is the Tibetan religion which has led to Tibet receiving a great deal of celebrity attention, it is time for a political assessment of the Tibetans’ plight. Ardley firmly rejects the ‘Shangri-la-ist’ approach to Tibetan resistance, jettisoning the assumption that Tibetans are primarily religious, non-violent, peaceful, and by implication, passive, to Tibetan affairs. Jane Ardley is Lecturer in Politics at the School of Politics, International Relations and the Environment, Keele University.

THE TIBETAN INDEPENDENCE MOVEMENT Political, religious and Gandhian perspectives

Jane Ardley

First published 2002 by RoutledgeCurzon, an imprint of Taylor & Francis 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by RoutledgeCurzon 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2003. RoutledgeCurzon is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group © 2002 Jane Ardley All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Ardley, Jane, 1972– The Tibetan independence movement: political, religious and Gandhian perspective / Jane Ardley p.cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–7007–1572–X (alk. paper) 1. Tibet (China) – Politics and government – 1951 – I. Title. DS 786.A78 2002 951'.505–dc21 2002074328 ISBN 0-203-22115-X Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-27581-0 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0–7007–1572–X (Print Edition)

CONTENTS

Preface Glossary

vii ix

Introduction The study of politics and the case of Tibet 3

1

1

Tibet: religion, resistance and the state The Chinese invasion and consolidation of rule 6 Culture and politics 9 The political influence of the monasteries 16 Religion, resistance and protest: an overview 21

6

2

Resistance in Tibet: violence and exile The first phase of Tibetan resistance 28 The 1959 Lhasa uprising 35 Mustang: the final phase of armed resistance 37 Why the guerrilla movement failed 40 The Tibetan government in exile 42

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3

‘Our demand is cheap’: fasting for the future of Tibet The 1998 Tibetan hunger strike 47 Can self-harming be rationalised? 51 Justifying the hunger strike 61 Implications for the future 64

46

4

‘My life is my message’: the Gandhian paradigm The principles of satyagraha 69 The birth of satyagraha 72 The types of satyagraha 74 Self-renewal amongst Tibetan exiles 83 Criticisms and limitations of satyagraha 90 Satyagraha in Tibet? 92

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CONTENTS

5

Spirituality and politics: the Gandhian and Tibetan cases The religious origins of satyagraha 96 The Gandhian re-interpretation of karmayoga 100 Gandhi and Jainism 104 The Middle Way position of the Dalai Lama 106 The satyagraha of Samdhong Rinpoche 110 A Buddhist satyagraha? 116

6

The Indian path to independence: from colonialism to nationalism Why examine the Indian case? 118 The consolidation of British rule in India 120 The Mutiny: causes and consequences 124 The development of the British Empire 1858–1914 127

7

95

118

Towards partition in India: lessons for politics and religion The impact of World War One in India 136 India between the wars 141 Towards division: India in the 1940s 150 Indian solutions to a Tibetan problem? 160

135

Conclusion: political lessons for Tibet Shangri-la-ism versus reality 166 What Tibet can learn from India 168 Religion, resistance and democracy 171 Tibet: the future 178

163

Notes Bibliography Index

182 199 206

vi

PREFACE

I first became interested in Indian politics when I visited India with my family in 1988. One of the many places we visited was Birla House in New Delhi, the site of Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination in 1948. In the garden Gandhi’s last footsteps have been marked in stone and a simple monument stands at the exact site where he died. I was struck by the emotion that was evident in the Indian visitors. The house, which is now a museum, contained Gandhi’s only possessions at the time of his death; little more than his glasses and a couple of books. These images have stayed with me and continue to impress with their humility and profundity. In 1990 I returned to India to teach music in Shimla, Himachal Pradesh, for six months. Due to political unrest over the then government’s policy of reserving a quota of university places and government jobs for scheduled castes, the school was actually closed for most of my time there. This allowed me to visit the nearby Dharamsala, the Indian home of His Holiness the Dalai Lama and many Tibetan refugees. Further unrest – a strike by transport workers – meant that I became stranded in Dharamsala, much to the amusement of the Tibetans with whom I had become friendly. Having intended to stay in Dharamsala only for a couple of days, I had nothing to read, and so turned to the many books on sale on all aspects of Tibet. The impact of Indian political life upon this mainly Tibetan town has shaped my interest in both Indian and exile Tibetan politics since then. It has always seemed logical to me to think of the two systems as working together, or at least to observe the Tibetan exile polity as working within that of India. This book addresses some of the ways in which the experiences of Indians during their struggle for independence can help those Tibetan refugees who live in India – and around the world – today. Like so many first books, this one started life as my PhD thesis (Ardley 1999a). I must therefore thank colleagues in the Department of Politics at Keele University, for my PhD would not have been possible without the help and support of several people. First and foremost must be my supervisor, Rosemary O’Kane, for all her valuable suggestions and guidance. I must also thank Brian Doherty, my second supervisor; John Barry, my internal vii

PREFACE

examiner; and my friend Ben Seel, for his lively advice on Tibetan Buddhism. Ben also introduced me to Kelsang Rabten, whose perspective on the Dorje Shugden affair was extremely helpful. I also owe thanks to John Horton, Matthew Wyman, Nick Aylott and especially Robin Porter (now at LaTrobe University in Australia) for providing me with teaching opportunities at Keele, which financially helped to see me through the PhD. I am particularly indebted to Robin for agreeing to my teaching his Chinese politics students about Tibet, and also for inspiring my interests in Chinese politics and Hong Kong. My students on Chinese politics and ‘Modernisation and Democratisation’ have also contributed useful and sometimes entertaining perspectives. Away from Keele, but equally helpful and important to my work, was Professor Bhikhu Parekh of Hull University, who was the principal examiner of my PhD. I should also thank everyone at the Political Studies Association Politics and Religion group conference at the University of Sheffield in 1999, for their feedback and analysis of my paper on the democratisation of the Tibetan government in exile (Ardley 1999b). Invaluable information was further provided by all the interviewees, and I should especially thank the Tibet Society of the UK, particularly Alan Clements and Sheila Wild, for arranging my interview with Samdhong Rinpoche. Thanks are also due to Jamyang Norbu, for clarifying details on the Tibetan guerrilla movement; to Tsering Shakya, for providing me with several elusive articles; and to Alex McKay, with whom I kept up a lively email correspondence, during which he gave me much valuable advice. Finally, though, my thanks goes to my partner, Sol, and to my mother, Bridget, without whose support and love this work would not have been possible. I dedicate the book to them.

Note on transcription of Tibetan terms English phonetic equivalents of Tibetan terms have been used where possible. The glossary contains italicised transliteration of Tibetan terms in parentheses. This transliteration follows the guidelines established by Turrell Wylie (1959).

viii

GLOSSARY

ahimsa (Sanskrit) Refers generally to Gandhi’s doctrine of non-violence. It literally means ‘non-harming’, and was interpreted by Gandhi as active rather than passive. It is a doctrine common to Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism. Atman (Sanskrit) ‘Soul’ or ‘self ’. In Hinduism it refers to God within oneself. Bhagavad-Gita (Sanskrit) Part of the Hindu epic Mahabharata. It consists of a dialogue between the god Krishna and the warrior prince Arjuna, on the eve of the great battle that is the focus of the Mahabharata. Although ostensibly about the rights and wrongs of war and violence, the Gita concerns itself with discussions about the nature of God, and the best way for mankind to serve God. bhakti (Sanskrit) ‘Devotion’. The act of bhakti (bhaktiyoga) is presented in the Bhagavad-Gita as one of the most effective ways of knowing God. bodhicitta (Sanskrit) (Tibetan: byang chub kyi sems) In Mahayana Buddhism, the intention to become enlightened for the benefit of others. bodhisattva (Sanskrit) (Tibetan: byang chub sems dpa’) A Sanskrit term meaning ‘enlightenment being’. In Mahayana Buddhism the bodhisattva has attained the enlightenment of a Buddha, but chooses not to enter Nirvana so as to stay on Earth to help others attain enlightenment. The Dalai Lama is thought to be a human manifestation of the bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara (Tibetan: Chenrezig). Bon (Tibetan) The indigenous pre-Buddhist religion of Tibet. It is still practised alongside Buddhism, as Tibetan Buddhism incorporates many of its characteristics. Brahman (Sanskrit) In Hinduism, the absolute principle, or God. The Atman is God within oneself; Brahman pervades the whole universe. chigyab khembo (Tibetan: spyi khyab mkhan po) The Lord Chamberlain of the traditional Tibetan government. chos srid gnyis ldan (Tibetan) The political ideology of the traditional Tibetan government, meaning ‘religion and politics combined’ (chos meaning religion). Chushi Gangdruk (Tibetan: chu bzhi sgang drug) One of the guerrilla movements to emerge from the east Tibetan province of Kham during the 1950s. Its name is taken from a traditional name for Kham, meaning ‘Four Rivers, Six Ranges’. dharma (Sanskrit) (Tibetan: chos) A term in both Hinduism and Buddhism. In Buddhism it refers to the teaching of Buddha, while in Hinduism it can be taken to mean law or sacred order.

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GLOSSARY

dobdobs (Tibetan: rdab rdob) The monastic police force of Tibet; responsible for the discipline of monasteries as well as general policing duties during religious festivals. Gelugpa (Tibetan: dge lugs pa) One of the four schools of Tibetan Buddhism, founded by the scholar Tsongkhapa (1357–1419). The school, of which the Dalai Lama is head, emphasises monastic discipline, celibacy, non-violence and abstinence, as well as scholarship and intellectual prowess. gyaltsab (Tibetan: rgyal tshab) The regent who ruled Tibet while the search for the Dalai Lama was underway, and while the Dalai Lama was under eighteen. Harijans (Sanskrit: Hari name of Vishnu; jana person) The name Gandhi gave to the Untouchables, or those who are considered to be without caste in the Hindu system of social stratification. It literally means ‘children of God’. Today they prefer to be called Dalits (Hindi: oppressed). hartal (from Sanskrit: hattal locking of shops) A political method used by Gandhi against the British. It involves a total cessation of work, with the participants instead engaging in prayer and fasting. hijrat (from Arabic: hijrah exodus or departure) Voluntary migration by an oppressed group, as an act of political protest. It was occasionally advocated by Gandhi. Jainism (Sanskrit: jaina) An indigenous religion of India which can be traced back to the Indus River valley civilisation of 3000 . It sprang up as a reaction against the elitism of the Hindu caste system, and bears some resemblance to Buddhist philosophy. Its founder is thought to be Vardhamana Mahavira (599–527 ), the last of the tithankaras, or Jinas. These are the heroes of Jainism who taught by example the method of freeing oneself from earthly existence. Jains are strict vegetarians and are committed to non-violence. jnana (Sanskrit) ‘Knowledge’. The act of jnana (jnanayoga) is presented in the Bhagavad-Gita as an effective means of knowing God. Kadampa (Tibetan: bka’ gdams pa) An early tradition of Tibetan Buddhism founded by Atisha (982–1054), who introduced Buddhist teachings into Tibet from India. The tradition emphasises purity of the mind based on monastic discipline, and meditation. Kagyupa (Tibetan: bka’ rgyud pa) One of the main schools of Tibetan Buddhism, founded by Gampopa (1079–1153), a disciple of the Tibetan poet Milarepa. It combines tantricism with monastic discipline. kalon (Tibetan: bka’ blon) A member of the traditional Tibetan cabinet. karma (Sanskrit) The moral law of cause and effect common to many Indian religious traditions. It holds that a person’s thoughts and actions have consequences which result in either a favourable or an adverse rebirth. karmayoga (Sanskrit) Translated by Gandhi as the doctrine of ‘selfless action’. It is again emphasised in the Bhagavad-Gita as a method of reaching God. It traditionally means renouncing the results of all action and offering the results to God, but Gandhi took this further by arguing that all action should be for the service of others. A karmayogi is one who engages in karmayoga.

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GLOSSARY

kashag (Tibetan: bka’ shag) The traditional Tibetan cabinet. khadi (Hindi) Traditional home-spun cloth; its production was seen by Gandhi as symbolic of Indian self-sufficiency. He persuaded Indians to use khadi rather than British-produced textiles. khorra (Tibetan: bskor ba) The act of circumambulating religious structures or other places such as sacred mountains. In Tibetan Buddhism such acts are believed to be meritorious. Kusun Depon (Tibetan: sku srung mda’ dpon) The bodyguard of the Dalai Lama. Lama (Tibetan: bla ma) A spiritual teacher or mentor; the equivalent of the Sanskrit guru. The term is often wrongly applied to any Tibetan monk. Losar (Tibetan: lo gsar) The festival marking Tibetan New Year; it normally falls around the end of February. Mahabharata (Sanskrit) The sacred book of Hinduism, it is concerned with the epic battle between two families, the Kauravas (representing evil) and the Pandavas (representing good). Mahayana (Sanskrit) ‘Great Vehicle’; one of the two main schools of Buddhism, which stresses enlightenment for the sake of the welfare of others. Mahayana Buddhism is followed in India, Tibet, China, Korea and Japan. Mimang Tsongdu (Tibetan: mi dmangs tshogs ’du) A movement founded in April 1952; the first popular anti-Chinese group to be established in Lhasa and Shigatse. Mo (Tibetan: mo) A form of Tibetan divination; it literally means ‘to cast lots’. Moksha (Sanskrit) Liberation from earthly life in Hinduism. Nyingmapa (Tibetan: rnying ma pa) One of the main schools of Tibetan Buddhism; it traces its origins to the siddha (Buddhist saint) Padmasambhava (eighth century). Sakyapa (Tibetan: sa skya pa) One of the main schools of Tibetan Buddhism, founded by Drogmi (992–1072). The tradition emphasises scholarship and has produced historical accounts of Buddhism. sannyasa (Sanskrit) The final stage of life in Hinduism, whereby the Hindu abandons all worldly interests and directs his or her efforts toward moksha. satya (Sanskrit) Truth; one of the five virtues of Hinduism, and for Gandhi the basis of all life. satyagraha (Sanskrit) ‘Insistence on truth’; Gandhi’s religio-political philosophy and method of non-violent resistance. shape (Tibetan: zhabs pad) Another name for kalon, a member of the kashag, or Tibetan cabinet. shruti (Sanskrit) The scriptures of Hinduism that derive from divine revelation. silon (Tibetan: srid blon) The Tibetan Prime Minister. smrti (Sanskrit) The scriptures of Hinduism based upon tradition. sutra (Sanskrit) (Tibetan: mdo) In Buddhism, the discourses of the Buddha. swadeshi (Sanskrit) Pertaining to one’s own country; the use of home industries, such as khadi. swaraj (from Sanskrit: sva own; rajya rule) ‘Self-rule’; both in the sense of inner control over the self, and national Indian self-rule.

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GLOSSARY

tapas (Sanskrit) Intensive spiritual exercises undertaken in the desire to reach God. For Gandhi, self-suffering is a requirement of satyagraha. tendra (Tibetan: bstan dgra) ‘Enemy of the faith’; a Tibetan term given to the Chinese invaders. Tenshuk shapten (Tibetan: brtan bzhugs zhabs brtan) A Tibetan religious ceremony involving the making of offerings to the protector deities of Tibet to ensure the long life of the Dalai Lama. Tensung Dhanglang Magar (Tibetan: bstan srung dwang blangs dmag) ‘The Volunteer Army for the Defence of Buddhism’; one of the names given to the Tibetan guerrilla movement of the 1950s–1970s. thamzing (Tibetan: ’thab ’dzing) The term used for Chinese-initiated ‘struggle sessions’ in Tibet, whereby people are required to renounce their ‘reactionary’ past and accuse others of similar ‘crimes’, often resulting in extreme brutality and death. trung khor (Tibetan: drung ’khor) The generic term given to lay-officials in the traditional government of Tibet. trunyichemmo (Tibetan: drung yig chen mo) A monastic official, who is a member of the yigtsang, or monastic council of the traditional Tibetan government. tse khor (Tibetan: rtse ’khor) The generic term given to monastic officials in the traditional government of Tibet. tshopa (Tibetan: tsho pa) Minor tax collectors in the traditional Tibetan government. tsigang (Tibetan: rtsis khang) The finance office of the traditional Tibetan government. tsipon (Tibetan: rtsis dpon) An official of the tsigang. tsongdu (Tibetan: tshogs ’du) The National Assembly of the traditional Tibetan government. tulku (Tibetan: sprul sku) The reincarnation of a high lama; the tulku is found through such methods as divination, consultation of oracles, and the testing of potential candidates. Upanishads (Sanskrit) Hindu scriptures that form the final portion of the shruti. The Upanishads are particularly concerned with the significance of Atman and Brahman. yigtsang (Tibetan: yig tshang) The monastic council of the traditional Tibetan government.

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INTRODUCTION

You say you want independence and in the same breath you say you do not want bloodshed. Impossible! Jawaharlal Nehru to the Dalai Lama1

Over the last ten years or so, public sympathy for the Tibetan independence movement has grown enormously. A specific area of concern is the survival of Tibetan Buddhist culture; indeed, it seems that this issue is emphasised over and above the political status of the Tibetan nation. This wider sympathy for the Tibetans has not, however, been reflected in the international political community. It appears that while Tibetans enjoy moral support around the world, as political agents they are simply not taken seriously. The ambition of the book is to attempt to rectify this fundamental problem. It is the intention here to demonstrate the value of examining the Tibetan struggle from an inherently political, rather than religious or historical, perspective; and to acknowledge and examine the sometimes violent nature of the resistance offered by Tibetans. The over-arching aim of the book is to examine the relationship between resistance, religion and politics in the Tibetan independence movement. This relationship raises many issues, which relate not only to the Tibetan experience but also to that of India, the major case with which Tibet is compared. These issues include the importance of international contexts and the link between religion and perceptions of resistance. To understand something of the nature of the Tibetan independence movement, five specific areas are examined. These are: the nature of the Tibetan state prior to the Chinese invasion of 1950; the role of Tibetan religious institutions in the downfall of the Tibetan state; the characteristics of Tibetan resistance, both in Tibet itself and in exile; the Chinese response; and the transition to democracy currently being undertaken by the Tibetan government in exile. The book does not address the issue of the past political status of Tibet and, in particular, the nature of the relationship with China. This is a vast and complex area with both Tibet and China making various claims upon which 1

THE TIBETAN INDEPENDENCE MOVEMENT

there is no clear consensus. Despite the ambiguity of the exact nature of Sino–Tibetan historical political relations, the book is, however, in broad sympathy with the Tibetan people and, in particular, with the cause of Tibetan independence. The important issue here is that those Tibetans who have resisted Chinese rule believe Tibet to have been an independent nation and so rest their current claims upon this conviction. It is more or less certain that Tibet was effectively independent during the first half of the twentieth century, when China was suffering from internal turmoil; although China does not recognise this to be the case. Though in sympathy with the Tibetan case, as will become clear, critical perspectives are, however, by no means ruled out. In order to help to understand the dynamics of the Tibetan independence movement, a comparison is made with the Indian independence movement. The primary reason for choosing this comparison is the often-stated admiration that the leader of the Tibetan people, His Holiness the Dalai Lama, holds for Mahatma Gandhi. The Dalai Lama has suggested that Gandhi’s non-violence is an appropriate example for Tibetans to follow. An additional reason for choosing India for comparison is that the majority of Tibetans in exile (around 130,000) live in India, and so the Indian struggle for independence could be called a natural point of reference for the Tibetan community. A major preoccupation of the book is, therefore, whether Gandhian means are suitable for the Tibetan struggle, or if Tibetans should in fact look to other aspects of the Indian experience. The comparison between the Gandhian model and the Tibetan approach to date again raises issues of context: religious, political, pragmatic and international. A fundamental problem that is heightened by attempting to apply Gandhian methods in Tibet is the role of religion; specifically, the importance of Hinduism in Gandhian political thought. In order to assess the applicability of the Gandhian approach in Tibet, three elements of the Indian independence movement are studied: the Gandhian model of satyagraha; the religious content of Gandhi’s political thought; and the development of the Indian nationalist movement. Through comparative study of Tibet and India, lessons for each country, as well as for the general relationship between resistance, religion, and politics, will be developed. As Giovanni Sartori has argued: ‘comparing is “learning” from the experience of others and, conversely . . . he who knows only one country knows none’ (Sartori 1991: 245). This statement is particularly apposite to Tibet; as will be shown below, the culture, traditional political system, and experiences of resistance in Tibet are distinct. To study the country in isolation is to deny it the potential it has to deliver lessons on resistance and, in particular, on the relationship between religion and politics. Further, it is contended here that a study of India demonstrates that Tibetans could have much to ‘learn’ from India, a country the Dalai Lama has described as his ‘spiritual home’(Dalai Lama 1999a: 57). 2

INTRODUCTION

The study of politics and the case of Tibet The Tibetan exile community is interesting from a political perspective because it offers a rare example of a traditional polity – and an unparalleled example of a spiritual polity – adapting and reacting to modern political pressures. A particular aspect of the Tibetan government in exile that is examined below is the process of democratisation initiated by the Dalai Lama. The Tibetan encounter with democracy is unusual because the traditional Tibetan polity was not authoritarian. The democratisation process is not characterised by conflict between old elites and new political agents, but rather by discord between those who hold traditional notions of the place of religion in Tibetan society and those who recognise the need for change and, perhaps, secularisation. It is suggested that the process of democratisation has been initiated by the Dalai Lama in order to achieve legitimate authority as a political leader (rather than a religious one) in the eyes of non-Tibetans, more specifically Western democracies.2 A second area of particular relevance of the Tibetan case for politics is that relationships between religion and politics generally have been portrayed from a fairly negative perspective, with religious groups viewed as inherently confrontational. An example of this approach can be found in Keddie (1998). Here, the term ‘New Religious Politics’ is applied to groups which tend to be anti-secular, populist, conservative and patriarchal. The only examples cited of Buddhist political movements are militant groups in Sri Lanka, and the author further generalises that ‘communal religiopolitics focuses on controlling territory and suppressing other communities’ (Keddie 1998: 711). Tibetans do focus on controlling their territory, but do not wish to suppress the Chinese in any way. A further example is Westerlund (1996); this volume focuses on anti-secular groups and their relation to the state. The problem appears to be that the existing literature focuses on religio-political movements while overlooking the continuing existence of at least one religiopolitical society: the Tibetan community in exile. It should of course be pointed out that other religio-political societies, such as Iran, exist today. However the difference between examples such as these and Tibet – or at least the Tibetan community in exile – is that in the Tibetan example the society that exists today is an unbroken continuance of religio-political structures. Religio-politics have not arisen through revolution, through imposition, or as a form of opposition to a previous regime. Even within Tibet itself, although Chinese rule has obviously broken the jurisdiction of the Dalai Lama, the evidence suggests that the majority of Tibetans continue to regard the Dalai Lama as their rightful leader. Furthermore, the persistence of monasticism in Tibet, despite extreme repression, demonstrates the perpetual importance of religious institutions in Tibetan life. In the traditional Tibetan polity, and in exile, religio-politics were embodied within the state apparatus; indeed, the political philosophy of 3

THE TIBETAN INDEPENDENCE MOVEMENT

Tibet is chos srid gnyis ldan, or ‘religion and politics combined’. By examining Tibet as an example of a religio-political society, the focus of existing work on religion and politics can be widened. From the traditional Tibetan perspective, it is accepted that religion will play an inherent role in politics. This is, of course, embodied by the Dalai Lama, who is the spiritual and temporal leader of the Tibetan people. In Tibetan politics, religion is not a challenge to any existing structures, it is not associated with opposition groups, and religious institutions do not generally perceive themselves as threatened by secularism.3 Quite simply, religion permeates all political, cultural, social and economic aspects of society. While of course this emphasis upon religion is changing in exile, religion continues to dominate Tibetan life. My original expectation was that a study of religion and the Tibetan polity would demonstrate religio-politics to be a positive relationship; it will become clear that this view has been modified. One of the reasons why it was assumed that Tibetan religio-politics could be desirable was that Tibetan Buddhism, with its insistence upon compassion and altruism, had much to offer the modern world, and politics in particular. The present Dalai Lama certainly believes that Buddhist principles are firmly in accordance with political principles. He stresses the example of socialism, as he believes that Buddhists and socialists share the notion that we are ultimately responsible for our own destiny.4 He is also in favour of humanitarian government, believing that this too is an extension of Buddhist thought. The book also seeks to illuminate the less well known aspects of the Tibetan independence movement. Much attention has been given to non-violent resistance within Tibet, which has generally been initiated by monks and nuns.5 The punishments that the clergy receive, including long prison sentences, torture and execution, have been fairly well-documented by groups such as Amnesty International and specialist Tibetan human rights organisations. The attention which such protest has merited has meant that the impression given is that Tibetan resistance against the Chinese occupation has been almost exclusively non-violent. While such protest is significant, there has been a history of violent resistance against China which has, arguably, had a far greater impact upon the Chinese regime in Tibet. Literature (in English) on violent resistance in Tibet is scarce and largely anecdotal or historical.6 The reason for its scarcity is the violent nature of the resistance itself: the reality of Tibetan resistance does not conform to the nonviolent image of the Tibetan independence movement that is generally presented to outsiders.7 The widely-held perception that Tibetans are overwhelmingly non-violent has, therefore, resulted in a dearth of material on the role of violence in the Tibetan independence movement. Contemporary exceptions to the historical literature on violent resistance in Tibet have largely been written by Tibetans, and are generally critical of the response of the Tibetan government in exile to the Chinese occupation.8 4

INTRODUCTION

Finally, in addition to these objective concerns of the book it should again be stated that the overall moral and political position of the book is that Tibetans have a right to campaign for independence, and that furthermore, the independence movement should be taken seriously by the international political community. As Thubten Jigme Norbu, a brother of the Dalai Lama, argues, The majority of the Tibetan people realise that Tibet’s independence is a wholly realistic desire at this point in history, when we have seen dictatorships of all sorts fail and suppressed peoples take their rightful place among the community of nations. (Norbu, T. 1994: 8) It is hoped that by examining the case of India, and by analysing the various tactics that Tibetans have used to resist the Chinese occupation of their country, lessons may be drawn that can provide new strategies for the regaining of an independent Tibet.

5

1 TIBET: RELIGION, RESISTANCE AND THE STATE

History, unless it centres on religion, does not appeal to the Tibetan mind. Charles Bell1

In order to understand why Tibetans have resisted Chinese rule for forty years, it is necessary to take account of two factors: Tibetan culture, and conditions under the Chinese occupation. While the above quote from Charles Bell may seem a little patronising, it is useful as it serves two purposes. First, it illustrates how Tibetan history has been dominated by religion. Second, it is a perfect example of how outsiders, Western historians and Chinese invaders alike, view Tibet. Religion has often dominated accounts of Tibet, and the Chinese have repeatedly targeted religion during their rule. This chapter will briefly explore the nature of Chinese rule in Tibet, before examining the characteristics of the traditional Tibetan polity, which has now been replaced by Chinese-controlled political bodies. The importance of the characteristics of the Tibetan state in both the downfall of Tibet and continuing resistance to Chinese rule will then be considered.

The Chinese invasion and consolidation of rule On 1 January 1950 the British Radio Officer in eastern Tibet, Robert Ford, heard an announcement on Radio Peking declaring that ‘the tasks for the People’s Liberation Army [PLA] for 1950 . . . are to liberate Taiwan, Hainan and Tibet’ (Ford 1990: 11). This alleged liberation of Tibet took place almost a year after the Chinese Revolution of 1949: on 7 October 1950, PLA troops crossed the Yangtse and invaded the eastern Tibetan province of Kham. The regional capital, Chamdo, was captured five days later. In 1951, on 23 May, the Seventeen Point Agreement was signed by an unauthorised Tibetan delegation in Beijing, using facsimiles of the Dalai Lama’s official seals produced in Beijing. This agreement included a promise by the Chinese not to change the political system in Tibet, and not to alter 6

TIBET: RELIGION, RESISTANCE AND THE STATE

the status or powers of the Dalai Lama. China also promised to respect and protect the Tibetans’ religious beliefs and customs. This agreement was reneged upon, however, in 1956, when China replaced the traditional government of Tibet with the Preparatory Committee for the Autonomous Region of Tibet (PCART). Since then the Tibet Committee of the Chinese Communist Party has been continually presided over by the Chinese, and all local legislation is subject to the approval of this committee. At least 30 per cent of Party cadres in Tibet are Chinese; as these are Chinese figures, it would not be overly cynical to suggest that in reality there are probably many more. As well as altering the government, the Chinese have also restructured the entire country: most of the east Tibetan provinces of Kham and Amdo now form parts of Qinghai, Gansu, Sichuan and Yunnan, and the central province of Ü-Tsang is now called the Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR). In 1959 the Dalai Lama formally repudiated the Seventeen Point Agreement on the grounds that it had been broken by the Chinese, particularly with regards to the restructuring of government and lack of religious freedom. He made his announcement while on his journey into exile in India, where he remains to this day. His flight followed the Lhasa Uprising in March 1959, when thousands of Tibetans came out in open revolt when they feared that the Dalai Lama would be kidnapped by the Chinese. Reprisals for the Lhasa Uprising included the murder of 87,000 Tibetans, by the Chinese count alone.2 Human rights abuses and population transfer By the mid-1950s the Chinese had already started to enforce their unique methods of social and political control on Tibet. The most notorious method was thamzing, or struggle session, which has not only killed untold numbers of Tibetans but has also left deep psychological scars. Thamzing was a means of political re-education that aimed to make Tibetans aware of the supposed oppression they were subject to before the Chinese invasion. Artificially engineered class struggles set tenant against landlord, pupil against teacher, even child against parent. The victims of thamzing were allegedly punished by methods including burying alive, hanging, beheading, disembowelling, crucifixion, and shooting. Those who refused to take part were subject to the same punishment. Further human rights violations have continued and show no real sign of abating. These include show trials, public executions, torture in detention – the use of electric cattle prods being particularly prevalent – coercive birth control policies involving forced sterilisations and abortions, segregation between Tibetans and Chinese, and the deliberate prevention of Tibetan access to positions of power and responsibility. Tibetan exiles claim that 20 per cent of the Tibetan population – over one million – have died as a 7

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result of Chinese occupation. This includes over 300,000 who died during Tibet’s first famine in 1960. This famine occurred after enforced agricultural changes resulted in crop failure. The International Commission of Jurists (ICJ) concluded in two reports in 1959 and 1960 that the Chinese had committed genocide. A further report published in 1997 by the ICJ found that repression had increased steadily in Tibet during the 1990s. Particular characteristics of the renewed crackdown included heightened control on religious activity and intensive re-education programmes in the monasteries, specifically designed to remove the influence of the Dalai Lama from Tibetan politics. Apart from actually murdering scores of Tibetans, the Chinese government has also pursued less obvious policies that appear to be aimed at obliterating the Tibetan nation. A major concern of the Dalai Lama is population transfer, meaning resettlement of vast numbers of Chinese migrants. This has resulted in the Tibetans allegedly becoming a minority in their own country – according the Dalai Lama, six million in the TAR compared with a Chinese population of seven million – as well as being reduced to a significant minority of the populations in those Tibetan areas incorporated into Chinese provinces. The influx of Chinese settlers has meant that unemployment is rife amongst Tibetans, not least because Chinese is the principal language of secondary education and is required for most jobs. Population transfer is also a concern in the most recent ICJ report, although their figures for the Chinese population in Tibetan areas are not so dramatic. The ICJ estimate that in traditional Tibetan areas Chinese now number about a third of the population, and about 14 per cent in the TAR. Although there is disagreement about the numbers of Chinese settlers in Tibet, what is clear is that population transfer is now a deliberate policy of the Chinese government. At the 1994 Third Work Forum, a meeting of senior Chinese officials, the strategy was publicly endorsed for the first time. An article published in Tibet Daily at the time of the meeting supported the policy of Chinese migration into Tibet: We should intensify opening up to various provinces, municipalities, and regions; encourage and support economic entities and individuals in the hinterland to set up enterprises of all kinds in Tibet. . . . We should take effective steps to maintain the current ranks of Han cadres and transfer Han and other minority cadres from the hinterland into Tibet. (ICJ 1997: 110) Population transfer is identified by the United Nations as an unlawful violation of human rights. In Tibet the most serious implication of the policy is that it effectively negates any exercise of political autonomy for Tibetans. The greatest fear of the Dalai Lama is that this population imbalance will 8

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result in the death of Tibetan culture and religion, which is struggling to survive both its suffocation and outright destruction. Such destruction was at its most overt during the Cultural Revolution. The Cultural Revolution in Tibet The Cultural Revolution was launched in China in 1966, and was aimed at eliminating the old order, both in China as a whole and particularly within the Communist Party. Student followers of Mao Zedong, known as the Red Guards, rampaged through China while trying to replace the ‘Four Olds’ – old ways of thinking, old habits, old customs and old culture – with Mao’s utopian ‘Four News’. All of China suffered greatly during the Cultural Revolution, but the scale of oppression in Tibet is unparalleled. All religious activity was banned and practically all of Tibet’s monasteries were destroyed. It is important to remember, though, that many of the TAR’s monasteries had already been destroyed prior to 1966. However, it is clear that many monks and nuns were killed during the Cultural Revolution. The general population was also subjected to torture, both physical and psychological. An important aspect of the Cultural Revolution in Tibet often overlooked is that many Tibetans joined the Red Guards and took part in the destruction. Reasons and explanations for this are varied; perhaps Tibetans became Red Guards because by doing so they gained the opportunity to attack Chinese political factions with impunity. Shakya suggests that Tibetans had no choice over whether to participate in the Cultural Revolution, as they were under intense pressure to do so at work and at home (1999: 343). Rather than having their cultural identity completely extinguished, however, the Tibetan survivors of the Cultural Revolution were left with a determination which, Donnet argues, ‘laid the foundation for a wide-ranging and enduring reawakening of Tibetan nationalism’ (1994: 89). This renewal would be later reflected in protest in the 1980s, which is discussed below.

Culture and politics Tibetan culture is totally dominated by Buddhism, the religion of Tibet. Buddhism permeates every aspect of Tibetan society: art, dance, literature, medicine; even politics. The traditional Tibetan head of state, His Holiness the Dalai Lama, holds his position on the basis of the belief that the incumbent is the reincarnation of the previous ruler. The Dalai Lamas are believed to be the human manifestations of Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion, and hold the dual role of spiritual and temporal leader of Tibet. 9

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Buddhism was first introduced into Tibet in the seventh century , but was only actively disseminated from the eighth century, under the influence of the Buddhist master Padmasambhava, who is also known in Tibet as Guru Rinpoche. Padmasambhava is thought to have come from Oddiyana, an ancient kingdom in the north-west of the Indian subcontinent, and was responsible, with King Trisong Detsen (ruler of Tibet  755–97), for the building of Tibet’s first monastery, Samye, in  792. Samye monastery is believed to have been modelled on the well-known Otantapuri temple in the Indian state of Bihar. Padmasambhava was also the inspiration for the translation into Tibetan of much of the Buddhist canon. The tradition of Buddhism established by Padmasambhava, King Trisong Detsen and another Indian monk, Shantarakshita, became the Nyingma tradition of Buddhism, or ‘Ancient Tradition of the Early Translation’. With the establishment of Buddhism in Tibet in the eighth century, the existing religion, Bon, was discouraged. Bon is a shamanistic religion that may have drawn some influence from traditions in Iran and India, and with the arrival of Buddhism it assimilated many Buddhist ideas. Some followers of Bon have even maintained that their founder, Shenrab Miwo, was an incarnation of the Buddha. Bon was revived in Tibet in the eleventh century, and it continued to develop alongside Buddhism until the twentieth century, when there were 330 Bonpo monasteries in Tibet. Unfortunately the Bonpo monasteries have suffered the same fate under the Chinese as the Buddhist establishments, with the major monastery of Menri, to the west of Lhasa, being totally destroyed. When Bon experienced a revival in the eleventh century, it did so alongside a resurrection of the Buddhist faith. Two further traditions of Tibetan Buddhism were formed at this time: Kagyu and Sakya. Kagyu was founded by Tilopa, a spiritual master from India, while Sakya took its name from an eponymous monastery built in Shigatse in 1073. Sakya was built by a member of one of Tibet’s prominent religious families, another member of which was a disciple of Padmasambhava. The Sakya tradition assimilated hundreds of Indian sutras – the original discourses of the Buddha – and tantric teachings into the Tibetan form of Buddhism. The final tradition of Tibetan Buddhism is the Gelug school, which held political dominance in Tibet through the rule of the Dalai Lamas from 1642 until the Chinese invasion of the twentieth century. The founder of the Gelug tradition, which was established in the fourteenth century, was Tsongkhapa (1357–1419). Tsongkhapa was heavily influenced by another tradition, Kadam, which was established by the Indian master Atisha, particularly with regard to Kadam’s emphasis on compassion and altruism. These basic elements of Gelug can be clearly seen in the teachings of the present Dalai Lama, who sees non-violence as the natural consequence of the two qualities. The three major monasteries of Ganden, Sera and Drepung, in the Lhasa valley, were established by the Gelug tradition in the fifteenth century. It was 10

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mainly through the formation of these vast monastic universities (Drepung was the largest monastery in the world until 1959) that the Gelug tradition was able to exert such dominance over Tibetan Buddhism, and thus the political life of Tibet. The nature of the Tibetan political system Although Tibet is generally assumed to have been an autocratic theocracy, similar perhaps to the post-revolutionary regime in Iran, in fact political control prior to the Chinese invasion in 1950 was heavily decentralised. The Dalai Lamas, until the beginning of the twentieth century when the Thirteenth Dalai Lama attempted greater centralisation, exerted real political power only over central Tibet. Areas such as Amdo, in north-eastern Tibet, fell under the local control of monasteries or secular leaders. Even within the areas under the Dalai Lama’s control, local monastic estates exercised political autonomy, although the actual control they had over their tenants was limited by Lhasa. Religion was generally a unifying force, although Goldstein argues that as well as being homogenising, it could also be ‘fragmenting and conflicting’ (1989: 37). This is because there was, perhaps inevitably, an element of rivalry between the Dalai Lama, the monk officials and the more powerful monasteries. It is for this reason that the political process in Tibet has been described as ‘typified by a network of crosscutting interests and alliances’ (Goldstein 1989: 36). Overriding any conflict of political interests, however, was Tibetan Buddhism, which, according to Carrasco, supplied ‘a common ideology [and constituted] a complexly organised church that [brought] together in the same monastic . . . groups members of different political units’ (1959: 13–14). The Tibetan government The Tibetan government consisted of two civil services, one monastic (tse khor) and one made up of lay nobility (drung khor). It was established by the Fifth Dalai Lama, who became ruler of Tibet in 1642, when the Gelug tradition of Tibetan Buddhism assumed political dominance over the country. The government expressed its political ideology via the term chos srid gnyis ldan, which loosely translates as ‘religion and politics combined’. This term is crucial as it both demonstrates the commitment to a religious state made by this government, and also represents the essence of Tibetan national identity. The duality of religion and politics is of course also exemplified by the presence of both monks and lay people in the government. The 175 monks in the government were specially trained, and the members of the nobility, also numbering 175, held their positions on a hereditary basis. Richardson explains these bureaucratic arrangements thus: 11

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[The monks’ activities extended into] almost every sphere of government, including that of district administration, so that there was a dualistic arrangement by which a monk was to be found in almost every government office as colleague of one or more laymen. (1962: 18) The core components of the Tibetan government, with the Dalai Lama at the head, are listed below. The Dalai Lama A Dalai Lama would generally assume power at the age of eighteen, although he would have been discovered and declared the holder of the lineage while a small child. The present Dalai Lama assumed power earlier than usual, at fifteen, in an attempt to take some political control during the Chinese invasion. The position of the Dalai Lama was for life. Theoretically his power was absolute, although he was bound by certain customs and was heavily influenced by other monks and lamas. In reality, however, many of the Dalai Lamas tended to leave secular affairs to their prime ministers. For two centuries following the death of the Fifth Dalai Lama, many of the Dalai Lamas died young, which left power in the hands of other secular and lay officials.3 The Thirteenth Dalai Lama reversed the trend and ruled from 1895 to 1933, during which time he exercised considerable power. Significantly he is known as the ‘Great Thirteenth’, mainly because he was able to distance Tibet from Chinese influence. His ability to remove the Chinese from Tibet was due to fortuitous circumstances: the 1911 Chinese republican revolution. Smith argues that ‘had the Ch’ing dynasty not . . . fallen, Tibet would very likely have been incorporated within the Chinese state’ (1996: 45). China’s internal turmoil at the beginning of the twentieth century enabled the Tibetans then to assert their independence; conditions have not been so favourable to the present generation. Tenzin Gyatso, the Fourteenth and present Dalai Lama, is a great admirer of his predecessor, Thupten Gyatso. There are many similarities between the two. Both were forced into exile by foreign invaders (the Thirteenth by the British in 1904 and again by the Manchus in 1910), and both expressed an unusual – for Tibet – interest in modern technology: the Thirteenth Dalai Lama introduced electricity and cars into Tibet in the early twentieth century. A further similarity between the two is their dislike of the protocol that surrounded Tibetan politics: the Thirteenth abolished procedures regarding the presence of servants, and the Fourteenth reduced protocol once he was in exile, as he felt it tended to separate him from the Tibetan people. As well as their wish for political modernisation, their pragmatism in the face and threat of foreign aggression is also similar. The Thirteenth attempted to reform the Tibetan army as he feared Chinese invasion, and the 12

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Fourteenth’s stance on non-violence is, to him, the most effective position to take against the Chinese. The Fourteenth’s most recent stance on local autonomy for Tibet rather than full independence can be interpreted as pragmatic, given the steadfast determination of Beijing to precondition negotiations with a demand that the Dalai Lama shall not seek independence for Tibet. This is despite the fact that the Dalai Lama’s position is opposed by many Tibetans. It is not after all uncommon for political pragmatism to conflict with the idealistic wishes of the people. Of course the similarities between the successive leaders should be expected, for the Dalai Lamas are held to be reincarnations of the same spiritual entity. They are discovered on the basis of physical likeness and shared personal characteristics, so in theory there is no reason why their political styles should not also be alike.4 The present Dalai Lama has only one major criticism of his predecessor: his autocratic rule (Dalai Lama 1990: 37). Again pragmatism can explain why the Fourteenth should not share this: an autocratic ruler would not enjoy Western support and admiration, which is so vital to his cause. Another difference between the two to which the present Dalai Lama draws attention is their powers of prophecy. The present Dalai Lama says he has none. In 1932 the Thirteenth Dalai Lama left a ‘Political Last Testament’ which not only predicted his own death (he died in 1933) but also forewarned the country of Chinese invasion, which would be characterised by ‘red ideology’. This is what he predicted: In the future, this system [communism] will certainly be forced either from within or without on this land that cherishes the joint spiritual and temporal system. If, in such an event, we fail to defend our land, the holy lamas, including ‘the triumphant father and son’ [the Dalai Lama and Panchen Lama] will be eliminated without a trace of their names remaining; . . . our political system . . . will be reduced to an empty name; my officials . . . will be subjugated like slaves by the enemy; and my people, subjected to fear and miseries, will be unable to endure day or night. Such an era will certainly come! (Goldstein 1989: 205) This remarkable statement was used for policy decisions made by the Regency after the Thirteenth Dalai Lama’s death, for in between Dalai Lamas or while a Dalai Lama was under eighteen, the role of leader is taken by a Regent. The Regent (gyaltsab) The Regents, unlike the Dalai Lama, were answerable to the National Assembly of Tibet, the tsongdu. The Regent was invariably a lama, chosen 13

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from monasteries connected with the monastic universities of Sera or Drepung, in the Lhasa Valley. Thus, ‘indirectly the monasteries exerted more influence on . . . political affairs through the Regent, who came from these big and influential monasteries’ (Burman 1979: 47). From the Sixth to the Twelfth Dalai Lamas, the Regents were hugely influential for the very reason that many of the Dalai Lamas had died young. Beneath the Regents came the rank of Prime Minister. Prime Ministers (silon) The Thirteenth Dalai Lama appointed two prime ministers to rule jointly while he was exiled in Mongolia in 1904. That there were two reflects the dualistic nature of government: one was a lay member, one a monk. On his return from exile, the Dalai Lama reduced their role to that of a link between his cabinet, the kashag, and himself. The Fourteenth Dalai Lama appointed two silons himself for similar reasons: in 1950 he ordered them to stay in Lhasa while he was exiled in southern Tibet, where he had gone to facilitate any necessary escape from the Chinese into India. These prime ministers had to resign under Chinese pressure in 1952; Lukhangwa, the lay silon, was labelled an ‘imperialist reactionary’ by the Chinese (Dalai Lama 1990: 83). The cabinet (kashag) The kashag, an equivalent to a cabinet, was the highest office of the lay administration. It consisted of three lay members and one monk official, the latter being formally treated as senior, but this was actually just ceremonial. All secular business was handled by the kashag, with each member (kalon or shape) having collective responsibility. Goldstein describes the kashag as the ‘throat between the head (the ruler) and the body (the other secular offices)’ (1989: 14). The power of the kashag was limited by its lack of authority over the monastic administration and over religious affairs. In the lay government hierarchy, the kashag came above the executive department of finance. The executive This consisted of five departments: military, judiciary, foreign affairs, education and finance. All departments, with the exception only of finance, were headed by one lay and one monk official. The finance department (tsigang) was headed by four lay officials called tsipons. Apart from maintaining the finance office, the tsipons also acted as spokesmen for the National Assembly, as did the yigtsang, the monastic council. 14

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The monastic administration Monks were first brought into the Tibetan government by the Fifth Dalai Lama, who created sixteen positions to be filled by monks. As government activity expanded, so too did the number of monks in political positions. By the time of the Chinese invasion of Tibet in 1950, monks controlled monastic and other religious affairs, and also had influence in the secular sphere. The monk officials did not, however, truly represent the monastic community at large, as many were groomed by their families specifically for political life, and spent very little time actually in their monasteries. Richardson describes the monastic administration ‘as watchdogs of the Church in the civil administration, [who] seemed to fall between two stools and were often viewed with some suspicion by the main body of monks’ (1962: 24). The most important monk official was the Lord Chamberlain (chigyab khembo), who was the head of the Dalai Lama’s household and was in charge of two treasuries: that of the Dalai Lama, and that of the Dalai Lama’s palace, the Potala. Beneath the chigyab khembo in the hierarchy came the yigtsang, or monastic council. The yigtsang was the monastic counterpart of the kashag; its four members were called trunyichemmo. They were responsible for the administration of the monasteries – except for the three monastic universities in the Lhasa Valley – and for the selection and training of the monastic administration. With the tsipons, the yigtsang presided over the National Assembly. The National Assembly (tsongdu) The tsongdu was not a permanent body; it met only when required by the kashag. The basic assembly consisted of the yigtsang and the tsigang, and it usually met to consider a proposal that was to be presented to the Dalai Lama. The full National Assembly consisted of the above, plus all the abbots and ex-abbots of the three monastic universities, Ganden, Sera and Drepung; all the monk and lay officials available at the particular time; representatives from important monasteries such as Reting, Tashilhunpo and Sakya; captains and lieutenants of the Tibetan army stationed in Lhasa; minor tax collectors (tshopa); and about thirty clerks.5 The kashag did not actually attend the assembly, although it was convened at their behest. The main function of the assembly was the selection of Regents, and it was also the voice of the monasteries of Sera, Ganden and Drepung, which together housed around 20,000 monks. Richardson describes the tsongdu as the ‘mouthpiece of Tibetan conservatism and independence; more particularly it was noted for its constant opposition to Chinese pretensions’ (1962: 25). 15

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The political influence of the monasteries Monasticism was, and still is, fundamental to Tibetan social and political life. Figures suggest that in 1733 there were over 300,000 monks, and that by 1950 this had risen to 600,000. The Tibetan refugee population in 1992 was around 100,000, of which 23 per cent were monks and nuns.6 Such an emphasis on a mass monastic population is peculiar to Tibetan Buddhism; in Thailand, for example, only 1 to 2 per cent of the male population are monks. Monks enjoyed a special status within Tibetan society because the monasteries were treated as semi-autonomous units, with control over internal discipline. Despite this relative independence the monastic community was nevertheless directly involved in the political life of Tibet. The Gelug tradition held that ‘since the Tibetan state was first and foremost the supporter and patron of religion, the needs of religion should take primacy’ (Goldstein 1989: 21). Thus they often intervened in government affairs when it was felt that the government was not acting in the monks’ best interests. This intervention was, however, mostly limited to Sera, Drepung and Ganden monasteries, the three monastic universities in the Lhasa Valley. During the nineteenth century, the ‘Three Seats’ (densa sum), as the three monasteries are collectively known, gained ascendancy in the political administration. It is claimed that the Three Seats opposed ‘any innovation which seemed to threaten their particular religious interests’ (Snellgrove and Richardson 1986: 230). The interesting question is how these monasteries were able to exert such power over the Tibetan government. Their greatest advantage was numbers: between them, the Three Seats in 1951 contained from 16,500 (official figures) to 22,000 monks.7 A peculiarity of the monastic system in Tibet was the dobdob, or fighting monk. The dobdobs were in effect a monastic police force, with access to the guns and ammunition that monasteries typically held. As many as 10 to 15 per cent of the monks of the Three Seats were dobdobs, and as such they dwarfed the actual Tibetan army. Goldstein argues that the dobdobs ‘traditionally afforded the three monasteries tremendous coercive leverage vis-à-vis the government’ (1989: 26). As well as forming a monastic police force, the dobdobs also acted as bodyguards, escorts or treasurers. In an account of his life as a dobdob, one monk addresses the issue of homosexuality amongst the fighting monks: [I]t is true that their fights were often about favourite boys, but what else can be expected in a community of only men and boys . . . the people of Lhasa preferred that monks should keep to themselves and not worry their womenfolk. He goes on to say that while many dobdobs never fought at all, most ‘usually had a knife about them somewhere, and sometimes in a fight a monk might 16

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get killed’ (Richardson and Skorupski 1986: 50, 58). The paradox illustrated by the existence and acceptance of these monks in Tibet is that violence amongst Buddhist monks was not only relatively commonplace, but even part of the monastic fabric. That monks should later support, and even participate in, violent resistance against the Chinese invasion is not, therefore, particularly surprising.8 The Reting Conspiracy As noted above, the Regents were invariably chosen from the Three Seats, or from monasteries affiliated with them. Although the Regents were not actually chosen by the Three Seats, the Three Seats were a fundamental part of the National Assembly, which did carry out their selection. Goldstein describes the National Assembly as ‘the platform for the great Gelugpa monasteries’ (1973: 557). The influence of the Regency on Tibetan politics should not be underestimated: for about 150 years from 1751, the Regents ruled for 94 per cent of the time (Goldstein 1973: 447). More recently the activities of a Regent and one of the Three Seats exploded into violence. In 1941 the Regent Reting Rinpoche resigned, saying he had had a dream that showed his life was in danger if he did not devote his life to prayer (Shakabpa 1984: 286). It is also suggested that he had no choice but to resign because he was not celibate. While this was not especially unusual in itself for a senior monk, Reting as Regent would have been expected to administer the monastic vows to the young Dalai Lama. The fact that he was not celibate meant that he had broken his monastic vows, which would have rendered the Dalai Lama’s vows invalid. Reting was succeeded by Taktra Rinpoche, but Reting organised a coup in 1947, which was supported by the Che college of Sera monastery. There was suspicion that both Reting and Sera Che were, to the point of collusion, pro-Chinese. A parcel bomb was sent to Taktra Rinpoche by the Reting supporters, and when it killed a servant rather than its intended target, the monks of Sera Che murdered their abbot and prepared for open rebellion against the Tibetan government. This was quelled by the forces of the government after about two weeks; 200 of Sera Che’s monks were killed. While the Lhasa government did not see the Reting Conspiracy as any great threat to internal stability, the episode is important. Not only does it show a willingness of at least some of the monastic community to become involved in politics to the point of violent conflict; it was also seen as ‘proof of continuing Chinese machinations just at a time when the transfer of power to a National Government of India was about to sever Tibet’s traditional link with the British government.’9 Furthermore, the Reting Conspiracy had illustrated the lack of unity in Tibetan religious and political society, for popular opinion was sharply divided into pro-Taktra and pro-Reting factions. A similar lack of unity was much in evidence some years later, after the Chinese invasion, when attempts 17

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were made at consolidating a national resistance force. Goldstein maintains that the Reting incident had destroyed ‘any chance that Tibet would be able to present a unified front to the inevitable Chinese threat to its de facto autonomy’ (1989: 521). The monasteries and the fall of the Tibetan goovernment The core of Goldstein’s thesis is that the reactionary forces of the major monasteries prevented political modernisation in Tibet, and allowed the Chinese to take over the country easily. This is a controversial position to take because it appears to blame the religious system of Tibet – of which the Dalai Lama is leader – for its own downfall.10 It also, of course, ignores the fact that the Chinese forces were vastly superior in numbers to those that the Tibetan government were able to muster. Goldstein suggests that the monasteries played a major role in thwarting the progress of Tibet because they were overwhelmingly concerned with preserving their own prestige (1989: 37). He identifies three events in the early twentieth century that mark excessive monastic interference in political affairs: in the 1920s, a dispute over the expansion of the army; in 1933, the appointment of the Regent; and in the 1930s, the attempted reforms of a lay official, Lungshar. After the Thirteenth Dalai Lama’s return to Lhasa from exile in India in 1913, he set various reforms in motion, including the reform of the Tibetan army along British lines. The army commanders believed that the future of the country depended upon the ability of Tibet to defend itself not only from China and Nepal, but also from the power of the monasteries. While this no doubt irritated the monasteries, what really made them oppose any army expansion was the prospect of having to pay larger taxes. As most of Tibet’s resources were directed towards the monastic establishment, the additional revenue needed to improve the efficiency of the army had to come from the monasteries. Not only this, but the army was also being heavily influenced by the small British contingent in Tibet, and had taken to wearing western clothes. This was seen by the monks as a huge threat to the dominance of Buddhism in Tibet, characterised as it was by large-scale monasticism. As Goldstein says, the monasteries ‘and other religious conservatives [saw the army] as a threat to the very foundations of the Lamaist state’ (1989: 818). The monastic leaders managed to convince the Thirteenth Dalai Lama that the expansion of the army constituted a threat to both the country and to his own position, and in 1924–5 all the offending commanders were dismissed. It is not surprising, then, that when the People’s Liberation Army invaded Tibet twenty five years later, the country was unable to defend its domain in a conventional military manner. The other two events that demonstrate the propensity of the monasteries to intervene in politics are directly related to the Reting Conspiracy. When it came to deciding on a Regent after the death of the Thirteenth Dalai Lama, 18

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many members of the tsongdu wanted someone who would have a good grasp of world affairs. The monastic leaders, however, once more mindful of their own position, insisted on an incarnate lama. Reting, who was by all accounts rather inexperienced in political affairs, was chosen. Four months after Reting’s appointment, a lay official, Lungshar, attempted to introduce various government reforms designed to modernise the military and administrative structures in Tibet. Most importantly, Lungshar advocated the limitation of the powers of the kashag, by making it partially responsible to the National Assembly. His ultimate aim seems to have been the establishment of a republic based on the model of France, because he felt that the Tibetan aristocracy, who monopolised Tibetan lay politics, should take notice of the fate of the French monarchy. While Lungshar had initially been supported by the monasteries – particularly because the prospect of having some control over the kashag was naturally appealing to them – eventually [T]he monastic mind began to wonder whether any sort of republic would really be compatible with the conservative rule of religion and to have doubts whether the layman Lungshar might not be getting too much power. (Richardson 1962: 140) The monasteries thus withdrew their support from Lungshar, and he was arrested by the kashag. As a punishment for recommending the curbing of their powers, it was ordered that his eyes be removed as well as that he be imprisoned for life. Lungshar’s harsh punishment ensured that for the rest of Reting’s regency, criticism of Reting – or indeed of any lama in a political position – was practically non-existent. The few officials who did speak out against Reting were removed from their positions. An official who suggested that Reting should not be given any further estates was publicly whipped and exiled for life, after having all his own estates confiscated. During this period the government tended to err on the side of caution, avoiding radical or even moderate change; not surprisingly, tensions remained. Goldstein contends that in the first half of the twentieth century the monasteries frustrated even the smallest steps made towards modernisation in Tibet, so they could preserve their value system and maintain their political positions. While it has been shown that monastic interference in government affairs contributed to the divided state of the country post-Reting – even though the government did not perceive the conspiracy as a threat to stability – other factors leading to the downfall of Tibet must be considered. However, it seems justifiable to say that due – at least in part – to the power of the monasteries, Tibet was indeed hopelessly unprepared for the Chinese invasion and was in a vulnerable position, particularly with regard to the state 19

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of the army. Other obstacles to modernisation for which the monastic establishment was responsible included the closure of an English school, which the monasteries believed would ‘inculcate alien, atheistic ideas and would thus harm the religious value system’.11 However, as Goldstein goes on to point out, by attempting to preserve Tibet’s Buddhist heritage and political system from the evils of the west – particularly Britain – the monks inadvertently created a situation that left the country unable to defend itself against China. Even the present Dalai Lama testifies to a culture of inaction that was partly responsible for the Chinese invasion: Tibet had totally neglected to make any preparations . . . The whole society, the religious and official circles and the regent himself were far too ignorant. They had no idea about the outside world. (Donnet 1994: 17) It seems incredible that the monasteries could have failed to appreciate the significance of events in China, particularly as nationalism and expansionism were essential elements of the Chinese communist revolution in 1949. The drive for unification that would ultimately include Tibet had been central to political machinations in China for the years prior to 1949, and it was certainly fundamental to Mao’s ideology: The unification of our country, the unity of our people and the unity of our various nationalities [italics added] – these are the basic guarantees of the sure triumph of our cause. (Mao 1967: 257) Furthermore, upon the founding of the People’s Republic of China, the Chinese government made it clear that any kind of self-determination or nationalism amongst the so-called national minorities would be prohibited in the new state. The first meeting of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference, in September 1949, produced a list of principles that would be the basis of the Chinese state. It included the following: All nationalities within the boundaries of the People’s Republic of China are equal. They shall establish unity and mutual aid amongst themselves . . . [China will become] a cooperative family composed of all its nationalities. Nationalism and chauvinism shall be opposed. (Smith 1996: 344) The Chinese constitution of 1954 reiterated these principles, and stated that autonomous areas were inalienable parts of China.12 Although China was most keen to reclaim the areas that in their view were historical parts of their territory, in order to consolidate the new state, they also had more practical 20

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reasons for emphasising their claim to Tibet. These were concerned mainly with territory: the separation of areas such as Tibet and Xinjiang, or East Turkestan, were not in China’s defence interests.13 Furthermore, these areas were rich in natural resources, which were clearly necessary for state-building and China’s economic development. Also, the vast expanses of Tibet provided the expanding Chinese population with valuable space. Perhaps the only excuse for the ignorance of the Tibetan monasteries was their isolation: the monasteries of Ganden, Sera and Drepung, in the Lhasa Valley, separated as they were by enormous mountain ranges and huge rivers, were hundreds of miles from China.14 The fall of Tibet: external factors While the Tibetan establishment was partially responsible for its vulnerability, external factors that played against the country would have challenged even a modernised, unified state. This is not the place for an assessment of who was to blame for Tibet’s invasion and subsequent occupation, but it is vitally important to remember that Tibet had no international allies who were prepared to be overt with their support.15 Britain abandoned any interest it had in Tibet in 1947 with Indian independence, while Jawaharlal Nehru was more interested in pursuing successful Sino–Indian dialogue, to which Indian recognition of Tibetan independence was a threat. His position was confirmed in 1954 with the signing by India and China of the Panch Shila, or Five Principles of Peaceful Coexistence. This agreement, to which the Tibetans were not party, was concerned with Sino–Indian trade relations in Tibet. One of the principles was ‘mutual non-interference in each other’s internal affairs’; in other words, a promise by Nehru to accept Chinese rule in Tibet. The only state that gave Tibet any assistance was the United States, and their assistance came via the covert channels of the CIA during the years of guerrilla resistance. This is discussed in the following chapter, but it is fair to say that in aiding the guerrillas the United States was pursuing its own antiCommunist agenda, rather than working towards an independent Tibet.

Religion, resistance and protest: an overview There are two main phases of resistance to Chinese rule in Tibet: armed resistance from the mid-1950s to the mid-1970s, and non-violent protest from the late 1980s to the present. Armed resistance The name of the amalgamation of the resistance movements of Tibet, Tensung Dhanglang Magar, reflects the nature of the movement. Tensung means defender of the faith; the whole name translates roughly as the ‘National 21

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Volunteer Army for the Defence of Buddhism’. This movement, which was active in Tibet from the early 1950s until the mid-1970s, was dominated by Khampa tribesmen from eastern Tibet and practised random acts of violence as well as more organised guerrilla campaigns. Dawa Norbu has argued that the armed rebellion was an expression of the preference Tibetans felt for their own value system rather than for the one that was imposed by the Chinese (1979: 74–93). As religion in Tibet was inseparable from the social and political system, by attempting so-called ‘democratic reforms’ the Chinese were undermining the religious foundations of Tibetan society. Norbu claims that the ‘Tibetan Rebellion was in defence of Tibetan Buddhist values, and the political and sacred institutions founded upon such values’ (1979: 81). Tibetans, although frequently divided politically, were united in their religious beliefs, and the Chinese invasion was seen as a direct threat to these beliefs. The Chinese were popularly known as tendra, or enemies of the faith. This faith gave the resistance movement popular approval in other regions than just eastern Tibet; it inflamed antiChinese sentiment in central Tibet, even when the people there were still being treated comparatively well by the Chinese.16 The real reason why the movement was able to keep going for so long and enjoy mass popular support was as the Dalai Lama has himself indicated: it was he who was at the heart of what the guerrilla fighters were trying to defend. This loyalty to the Dalai Lama remained absolute, even when the country was politically divided, and despite the fact that the Dalai Lama did not actually approve of the violent tactics of the guerrilla movement. The Chinese badly misjudged this when they tried to introduce ‘democratic reforms’ in eastern Tibet, for although parts of Kham were de facto part of Chinese provinces, their fundamental mistake was to assume the people there had no loyalty to Lhasa. The basic mistake of the Chinese forces was in trying to impose change on a functioning Tibetan society. That is why the Tibetan people rose in armed revolt against the Chinese: because their society, defined as it was by Buddhism, was under serious threat. Non-violent protest Armed resistance came to an end in 1974. The various reasons for this are discussed in the following chapter, which deals specifically with armed resistance. On Mao’s death in 1976, policy in Tibet was revised and China’s hold over the country was slightly relaxed. In 1980 Hu Yaobang, then Party General Secretary, visited Tibet and is said to have been shocked by what he observed, particularly the poverty of the people. The economy was totally devastated, and the Cultural Revolution had succeeded in almost completely destroying Tibet’s cultural heritage. By 1979 most of the estimated 600,000 monks and nuns were dead, disappeared, or imprisoned, and the majority of Tibet’s 6,000 monasteries had been destroyed. Hu made various 22

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recommendations that included full autonomy for Tibet and that efforts should be made to revive Tibetan culture. For a while these reforms had some effect: religious practice was once more tolerated, and monasteries began to be rebuilt. The Chinese were obviously keen to correct the mistakes of the Cultural Revolution: in 1983 Ngabo Ngawang Jigme, then the Chairman of the People’s Government of the Tibetan Autonomous Region, said that the Party would ‘set things to rights’ after the ‘ten-year period of turmoil’, and that the Party’s policy on religion had been ‘sabotaged’ during the Cultural Revolution (Su 1983: 9–10). Hu Yaobang, however, was ousted in January 1987, in part because he was blamed for dissent in Chinese universities in 1986, and Beijing’s Tibet policy was again cast into uncertainty. It is fairly clear that the fluctuations in the Tibet policy were little more than a reflection of the conflicts within the hierarchy of the Communist Party in Beijing. In the 1980s it was politically prudent for pragmatic Chinese leaders to admit to the mistakes made during the Cultural Revolution, for which the left of the Party could be blamed. As Schwartz points out, Hu’s reforms drew attention to the Cultural Revolution, but were also a means of placating discontent ‘while mobilising support for the economic reforms in Tibet’ (1994: 209). With commitment to economic reforms secured in Beijing, there was no longer any need to draw attention to the Cultural Revolution. Hence, Hu’s reforms were no longer politically useful to the Beijing leadership. Unfortunately, however, it began to look as though the liberal policies initiated by Hu were of little practical significance anyway: for example, although Tibetans were supposedly granted religious freedom, in the early 1980s it remained an offence to carry pictures of the Dalai Lama, and there were restrictions on religious teaching. Perhaps as a result of frustration with the ambiguities of so-called liberalisation during the mid to late 1980s, serious unrest broke out in Lhasa in September 1987. Three demonstrations took place over ten days, which were triggered by the public execution of two Tibetans.17 Another catalyst for the demonstrations was the Dalai Lama’s address to the US Congress on 21 September, during which he outlined his ‘Five Point Peace Plan’.This called for: 1 2 3 4 5

The whole of Tibet to become a ‘Zone of Peace’; China to abandon the population transfer policy; Human rights and democratic freedom in Tibet to be respected; Tibet’s environment to be protected, including the removal of the nuclear industry; and Serious negotiations between Tibet and China.

This plan was immediately denounced by the Chinese government; they regarded it as another attempt by the Dalai Lama to split the Motherland. The ensuing demonstrations marked both a new pattern of resistance in Tibet 23

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and a highly significant development in the relationship between religious practice and political protest. On 27 September 1987 a group of thirty monks from Sera monastery turned a traditional ritual into an act of defiance against the Chinese regime. While undertaking khorra, or circumambulation, around the Jokhang temple in Lhasa, the monks waved Tibetan flags (which are banned in Tibet) and chanted slogans denouncing the Chinese and calling for Tibetan independence. The monks were joined by about 200 bystanders, and twenty seven of them were immediately arrested. During a similar demonstration four days later about sixty protesters (including thirty-four monks) were arrested and, according to eyewitnesses, beaten with shovels. A demonstration against the arrests descended into chaos when the police station in which the detainees were held was set alight and shots were fired into the crowd. A correlation of official figures and eyewitness estimates suggested that dozens of Tibetans were injured and seven killed (Donnet 1994: 114). These demonstrations sparked a renewed crackdown in Tibet. Foreigners were expelled, hundreds of Tibetans were imprisoned, and the monks of Sera, Ganden and Drepung were subjected to intensive political re-education. This did not, however, dampen the spirits of the demonstrators. News of the demonstrations in Lhasa spread rapidly. In Amdo demonstrations took place against birth control policies and population transfer, and in Lhasa monks and nuns staged two more demonstrations. Nationalist sentiment was growing in Tibet, and as one Tibetan has remarked, ‘[they] were all conscious of a new sense of unity’ (Craig 1992: 266). Ritual as protest The new wave of demonstrations in Tibet that began in 1987 has not abated. In the five years following the initial protest, many more demonstrations took place, even though martial law was declared in March 1989. More recently, in May 1996 seventy monks at Ganden monastery were arrested and seven feared killed after a demonstration. Political re-education has continued with renewed ferocity in the form of a new campaign introduced in 1996, known as ‘patriotic education’. This aims to eradicate all monastic support for the independence movement. Further campaigns introduced by the Chinese government include ‘strike hard’ and ‘spiritual civilisation’. These campaigns all originated from the Third Work Forum on Tibet in 1994; basically, they are designed to challenge both the religious and political authority of the Dalai Lama, and focus on ‘the adaptation of traditional Tibetan ideas, customs and religious beliefs to suit socialist society’ (Marshall 1999: 5).18 This has obviously meant a sustained attack on Tibetan religion. Monasteries and nunneries have always been a target for the worst excesses of the Chinese regime, and for the most intense political re-education. This is because, as Schwartz suggests, 24

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[T]he basis of Tibetan resistance lies in religion and culture, the revival of which was encouraged by Chinese policy during the 1980s, but which has had consequences unanticipated by the architects of reform. (1994: 1) The monastic influence on modern protest in Tibet has been reflected in the use of religious rituals in political demonstrations. Schwartz argues that the ‘pattern of performance’ of the 1987 demonstrations ‘became the model for protest in Lhasa’ over the following five years (1994: 20). The pattern, that of khorra (circumambulation), was still in evidence in the late 1990s: in June 1996 four nuns were imprisoned for calling for a free Tibet while circumambulating the market in Lhasa. Khorra consists of making clockwise circuits of any religious structure while repeating prayers. It has a central place in Tibetan Buddhism and is seen as a means of accumulating merit. As a form of protest, most particularly in Lhasa, khorra is performed around the central Jokhang temple, but instead of prayers, independence slogans are shouted. It almost always ends in arrest and detention for the protesters. The monks and nuns who protest in this way are emphasising the way in which religious ritual can easily become an act of rebellion, and the lay-people have been presented with a new way of resisting the Chinese presence that is sanctioned by the religious community. Furthermore, in terms of Buddhist ideology, the action brings both individual spiritual merit and collective political merit. The area surrounding the Jokhang, the oldest temple in Lhasa, continues to be a site for protest. In March 1999 three monks were arrested for shouting pro-independence slogans in the Barkhor, the market that surrounds the Jokhang.19 Repression and protest have also moved directly into the monasteries, particularly as a result of the ‘patriotic education’ campaign. In July 1997 a number of monks were evicted from their monastery in Shigatse following their refusal to co-operate with the Chinese cadres who had entered the monastery as part of the campaign.20 In late 1998 some of the monks of Kirti monastery in Amdo were arrested as they resisted the campaign and refused to denounce the Dalai Lama.21 This is a requirement of ‘patriotic education’, because for the Chinese the Dalai Lama is a ‘splittist’. The Dalai Lama’s reaction to the Chinese campaigns has been to urge Tibetans inside Tibet to denounce him rather than to suffer beatings or imprisonments.22 These instances of repression and the Dalai Lama’s response indicate that monks and nuns continue to lead non-violent protest inside Tibet. The ideology of non-violence The other important factor in current modes of protest in Tibet, in politicoreligious terms, is ideology. The single most important variable in modern protest, as distinct from armed resistance, is non-violence. Quite simply, the 25

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new clergy-led protest has never been violent. The monks who initiated the first demonstration in September 1987 had three self-imposed rules: to be non-violent, even when threatened with death; to welcome lay-people into the demonstration; and never to reveal the names of fellow demonstrators, even under torture (Craig 1992: 259). The rule of non-violence is a clear legacy of the ethics of Buddhism. The Dalai Lama interprets Buddhist thought as consisting of two principles, the second of which is ‘leading a non-violent and non-harming way of life’ (1995b: 16). The first principle is that all phenomena are interdependent; this too logically entails non-violence. More particularly, non-violence is advocated on the basis of two premises in Buddhism: first, that as sentient creatures, no human being wants suffering; and second, that suffering originates from causes that lie in humanity’s ignorance. Schwartz reports that many Tibetans believe the truth inherent in the second premise is enough to defeat the Chinese: [T]he best way and the only way is to talk using the power of truth, otherwise we can’t fight them. Even if we have the power to fight them, we won’t do that. Instead we will fight with the truth. (1994: 130) Tibetan protesters also identify with truth because they believe that by challenging the Chinese interpretation of history, they are emphasising their own true history. For many Tibetan monks, truth has become a weapon with which to fight the Chinese occupation. Such an insistence upon truth, as will be shown below, has clear analogies with Gandhi’s satyagraha movement in India; indeed a leading Tibetan parliamentarian, Professor Samdhong Rinpoche, has advocated the return of refugees to Tibet to launch a satyagraha campaign there. Unfortunately there does not appear to have been a response to Samdhong Rinpoche’s proposal. Tibetan protest therefore appears to be at much the same stage as it was over a decade ago. Whether this means that there will be a return to violent resistance – as resistance theorists have suggested is inevitable when nonviolent strategies fail – remains to be seen.23

26

2 RESISTANCE IN TIBET: VIOLENCE AND EXILE

The Khampa guerrillas . . . fought and died for Liberty, for Buddhism, and maybe even for the Democracy that the Dalai Lama promised to them in the future. Jamyang Norbu1

The violent resistance offered by Tibetans against the Chinese has often been overlooked, particularly by Westerners who are attracted by the non-violent, or ‘Shangri-la-ist’, image of the Tibetan movement.2 This image has been perpetuated by the Tibetan government in exile, who are aware that a nonviolent struggle lends itself to more favourable public relations. For example, at the end of 1996 in the aftermath of bomb explosions in Lhasa, Kalon (the Tibetan equivalent of a cabinet minister) Tashi Wangdi declared that the deed must have been carried out by the Chinese to discredit the Tibetans, despite there being little evidence to suggest that this was the case.3 The Tibetan government has been consistent in its policy of distancing itself from acts of violence in the name of the independence struggle, from the guerrilla campaigns described in this chapter to the more recent suspected terrorist activity.4 It perhaps comes as a shock to many of Tibet’s supporters in the West that practising Buddhists could commit themselves to a violent struggle and simultaneously profess to be dedicated to their religion. The Tibetan guerrilla fighters, furthermore, were not only committed to both Buddhism and a violent struggle, but were actually fighting for Buddhism. While the common – and correct – perception of Buddhism is that it is inherently non-violent, Kraft reminds us that in fact ‘one influential sutra states that in order to protect the truth of Buddhism it may be necessary to bear arms and ignore the moral code’.5 This, as shall be shown, is exactly how the Tibetan guerrillas justified their struggle: it was necessary to protect dharma. The people of eastern Tibet showed their violent antagonism to the Chinese long before the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) crossed the Yangtze to invade Tibet on 7 October 1950. Wangyal says that the people of 27

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Kham and Amdo (provinces of eastern Tibet) had ‘fought the Chinese for generations to safeguard their homeland’ (1974: 25). While on the Long March in 1935, the Chinese communists entered Tibetan territory and, it is reported, ‘for the first time faced a populace united in its hostility to them, and their sufferings on this part of the trek exceeded anything of the past’ (Snow 1972: 234). However any resistance prior to 1949 is unconnected to the rise of the guerrilla movements of the 1950s.6

The first phase of Tibetan resistance Although the invasion of Tibet proper did not take place until 1950, resistance first occurred in 1949 in areas of south-east and eastern Tibet that were under Chinese administration. It is possible to identify an early example of the monastic community’s inextricable link with Tibetan resistance. The Dalai Lama’s elder brother, Thubten Jigme Norbu, abbot of Kumbum monastery in Amdo, received a letter from the Governor of eastern Tibet that instructed his monks to resist the impending invasion. The reason for the monks’ resistance was clear: in 1949 the Chinese had already begun their destruction of monasteries in eastern Tibet. For many Tibetans, it was the Chinese attempts to destroy their religion that gave them the will to resist, even though the violence inherent in a guerrilla struggle was ideologically opposed to Tibetan Buddhism and the Dalai Lama’s message of non-violence. The aim of the Tibetan resistance was to defend the Tibetan nation, which was defined by Buddhism. This is reflected in one of the names the guerrillas gave themselves, tensung, meaning ‘defenders of the faith’.7 Popular resistance to the Chinese occupation in eastern Tibet (specifically the province of Kham) continued to grow during the early 1950s, although it is difficult to pinpoint a precise date for the beginning of a guerrilla struggle. Gompo Tashi Andrugtsang, described by some as the field commander of the Tensung Dhanglang Magar, states that the Khampas’ struggle began in 1952 (Andrugtsang 1973: 7). In 1953 tribesmen in Amdo were said to have used the advantage of their local knowledge to attack and kill Chinese troops. These tribesmen, the Goloks, were apparently well-equipped because they had been air-dropped supplies by the Chinese Nationalists (Patterson 1960: 93). It was estimated that at this point there were 80,000 rebels ready and willing to take up armed struggle against the Chinese occupiers. Throughout 1954 various rebellions took place, particularly when the Chinese attempted to establish co-operatives in the Kanze and Lithang areas of Kham, and in September the rebellion achieved international media attention.8 The situation deteriorated throughout 1955, and in October of that year the Chinese authorities declared that the religious establishment had to be eradicated, prompting much of the male population to move to the hills in readiness for a sustained period of fighting. 28

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By 1956 armed rebellion was established in Kham and Amdo. The Goloks maimed 2,000 Chinese troops by cutting off their noses and killed up to 8,000.9 These tribesmen were clearly able to take advantage of the mountainous terrain when they forced the Chinese to retreat; terrain with which they were obviously familiar while the Chinese clearly were not. Another major factor giving the Tibetans an advantage over the Chinese was altitude: the guerrillas were able to fight easily at altitudes where the Chinese had difficulty breathing. Co-ordinated attacks on Chinese garrisons took place on the eighteenth day of the first Tibetan month (roughly February), when monasteries and tribes throughout eastern Tibet responded to a call for action from the chief of the Lithang nomads, Yuru Pon. This loose alliance of tribes was the first group to give itself the name Tensung Dhanglang Magar.10 It has also been suggested that by 1956 Taiwan – the refuge of the Guomindang – was training Khampa guerrillas and parachuting arms and supplies into Lithang (Mullin 1975: 31). In August 1956 the chairman of the Nationality Affairs Committee of the Chinese National Congress admitted that a rebellion had taken place in eastern Tibet, a sure sign that the situation was becoming very serious for the Chinese. This period of fighting is referred to by the Chinese as the ‘Kanting Rebellion’. Anna Louise Strong, a Chinese sympathiser, estimates that at the time of this rebellion there were around 10,000 rebels, with access both to weapons left over from the warlord era and to arms supplied by Taiwan (Strong 1960: 65). Resistance in Lhoka and the role of the CIA From 1956 to 1957, the rebellion slowly began to spread from eastern Tibet into the rest of the country. The most important reason for this was the influx of refugees from Kham and Amdo into the relative peace of Lhasa. Also, Chinese troops were moved into eastern Tibet to combat the rising rebellion there, and the guerrillas, not surprisingly, responded by concentrating against the Chinese in central Tibet. From the beginning of 1956 the Chinese had dramatically increased the scale of their response to the guerrillas’ campaign, using technology that would overcome the natural advantages of the Khampas. The Khampas’ knowledge of the terrain and adaptation to altitude was no match for Chinese air raids and shells. An event that stands out for the sheer ferocity of the Chinese response is the shelling of a monastery in Lithang while 8,000 people were effectively held hostage inside for over two months. The aim of the Chinese air raids was to destroy every likely place where guerrillas might hide: such as forts, villages and monasteries. Monasteries were the main target of Chinese destruction, as the Chinese firmly believed – wrongly – that the leaders of the guerrilla movement were from the monastic community. Karzey Nyinrey Sargyur, a Tibetan language newspaper from eastern Tibet, stated that 29

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[E]ver since the introduction of Socialism the religious reactionary leaders under the banner of religion and nationalism, have carried on an armed resistance against the reform. Several days later, this was reiterated: [T]here are 300 monasteries in Karzey district which are engaged in lawlessness and sabotage. All the monasteries are reactionaries under religious guise . . . they are the centre of rebellions against the reform. (ICJ 1959: 40–41) The Dalai Lama said at a press conference in India in June 1959 that over 1,000 monasteries were destroyed in Tibet before 1958. It was the scale of this religious persecution that drove thousands of Khampas towards Lhasa, which inevitably meant that the guerrillas also moved into central Tibet. At the beginning of 1957 the guerrillas began to infiltrate Lhoka, an area to the south of Lhasa, which became the centre of guerrilla action until 1960. Some members of the guerrilla movement also began to receive training from the CIA in Camp Hale, Colorado. The Dalai Lama’s older brothers, Thubten Jigme Norbu and Gyalo Thondup, had approached the CIA for help, though without the Dalai Lama’s knowledge. Although the CIA aid was undoubtedly of some benefit, it was not the essential lifeline that some writers have claimed.11 Areas of training included Morse code, radio signalling, map reading, parachuting, small arms use, sabotage, and first aid. A former CIA agent has admitted that the aid received by the guerrillas came ‘far too late’, a circumstance he implicitly blames on the Tibetan government for not making an official request of the Americans (McCarthy 1997: 244). The Dalai Lama has alleged that the CIA deliberately provided the Tibetans with poorly made weapons so that their aid would not be attributable (Craig 1997: 207). The involvement of the CIA with the Tibetan guerrilla movement is a controversial issue. It was of little importance to what the Tibetan guerrillas actually did, but is perhaps more significant for the subsequent history of the movement. Jamyang Norbu suggests that the fact that the ‘resistance committed the sin of taking weapons from the CIA’ accounts for the lack of information about the guerrillas (1994: 195–6). After all, the thought of Buddhist guerrillas accepting aid from the unacceptable face of American imperialism does not sit happily with the peaceful image of the Dalai Lama which, it is assumed, is also the image of all Tibetans. A former guerrilla fighter has described the CIA’s involvement as [A] tragedy . . . because our whole movement was then treated as an anti-Communist movement which was really not true . . . We were fighting the occupation only – which happened to be Communist. 30

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America, and the CIA in particular, [were] waging a war against Communism, and saw Tibet as a great opportunity.12 This is confirmed by a guerrilla named Athar, who recalls being told by the Americans that the Khampas were ‘no more than a rebel group’ and that the signing of the Seventeen Point Agreement had ‘effectively ended Tibetan independence’ (Shakya 1999: 172). However, although the CIA had some involvement, it was still the Khampas who were fully in control of their own movement. In July 1957 the tenshuk shapten ceremonial religious offering to the Dalai Lama in Lhasa was used as a meeting point for various Tibetan leaders (including Gompo Tashi Andrugtsang, a Khampa merchant and leading member of the guerrillas), and the decision was taken, and later conveyed to the Dalai Lama, to establish a formal resistance movement.13 This ceremony was chosen because it was a religious celebration of which the Chinese had approved. Consolidation of resistance forces A date that seems to be a milestone in the Tibetan resistance movement is 16 June 1958. Several writers agree that on this date in Lhoka the various guerrilla outfits were amalgamated to form a single resistance army, most likely under the leadership of Gompo Tashi Andrugtsang.14 The name the movement took is once again unclear. Avedon claims the formalised guerrilla force was called Tensung Dhanglang Magar, and consisted of an alliance of Chushi Gangdruk and Mimang Tsongdu, a Lhasa based nationalist group.15 Andrugtsang calls the re-organised movement the Volunteer Freedom Fighters; a likely derivation of the translation of Tensung Dhanglang Magar. Jamyang Norbu suggests that in 1958 the Chushi Gangdruk adopted the name Tensung Dhanglang Magar, for by that time most of the Tensung Dhanglang Magar had been driven out of Kham and joined the Chushi Gangdruk in Lhoka.16 Whatever its name, the formalised guerrilla force saw its sole objective as resisting and ousting the Chinese because their [I]ndividual freedom had become non-existent since the Chinese invasion and the Communist doctrine was being barbarously enforced. Patriotic people felt that there was nothing left to look for or live for. We were rebelling not from choice but from sheer compulsion. (Andrugtsang 1973: 72) June 1958 is also an important date because it marked the first clear evidence of co-operation between the Khampa guerrillas and the Lhasa government. Prior to this the people of central Tibet had certainly supported the guerrillas, for the guerrilla movement was based on the defence of Buddhism. Jamyang 31

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Norbu states that ‘many Tibetans have considered that revolt a national one, in that the sentiment of the majority of the Tibetan people was involved’ (1994: 194). What is clear is that the Khampa guerrillas enjoyed popular support even though the atrocities to which they had been subjected, and the destruction of the religious structures, had not been suffered at this stage by the central Tibetans. The Lhasa government, on the other hand, did not share their people’s enthusiasm for the guerrillas, and until the late 1950s they preferred to co-operate with the Chinese occupiers. The Lhasa government’s volte face was precipitated by the entrance into the city of between 12,000 and 15,000 rebel fighters, which dramatically increased the tension there. According to Andrugtsang, in July 1958 the Dalai Lama made a statement that was interpreted by the guerrillas as tacit approval for resistance: The people of Tibet will stoutly resist any victimisation, sacrilege, and plunder in the name of reforms, the policy which is now being enforced by representatives of the Chinese government in Lhasa. (McCarthy 1997: 138) The Chinese ordered the government to expel the rebels and return them to Kham, but the government delayed acting on these orders. The guerrillas were therefore able to flood the mountainous areas immediately surrounding Lhasa. As a result of this by July 1958 there were established guerrilla units in south and south-western Tibet, in Kham and in Amdo, together with groups within forty miles of Lhasa, who controlled a number of forts. Methods of warfare and organisation The methods of warfare employed by the Khampa guerrillas were primitive but surprisingly effective, given their circumstances and the disparity of numbers between themselves and the Chinese. The limited CIA aid did not arrive until the end of 1958, and even then the consignment of arms was small and thus a disappointment to the guerrillas. The reality for many, if not all, of the guerrillas was a huge shortage of arms and ammunition. However where they lacked in weapons they made up in courage: [W]e were not a very formidable force. There were ten men and we had only four rifles between us . . . I also had my Russian rifle, but at the moment it was useless as I had no ammunition for it. It was not much to fight the Chinese with, yet I felt I had made the right decision, and that there was no use in being a man if I did not have the courage to fight the enemy. (Norbu, J. 1986: 125) 32

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Another problem for the guerrillas was that many took their families with them when they fled their towns and villages for the mountains, rather than leave them to be killed by the Chinese in retaliation.17 Consequently guerrilla units sometimes numbered 2,000, and women, children and the elderly were seen as an encumbrance. The guerrilla units were constantly moving away from the Chinese troops; many from eastern Tibet in the late 1950s presumed that they were heading towards Lhasa. As the Chinese wanted to contain the guerrillas within eastern Tibet, though, many were driven north almost to Xinjiang rather than west towards the capital. The guerrillas had to rely on local nomadic guides for directions once out of their native regions; one guerrilla was clearly desolated when his guide fled with deserters (Norbu, J. 1986: 149). Attacks on the Chinese consisted mainly of hand-to-hand gunfights, ambushing columns of troops and raids on garrisons and camps to purloin horses, supplies and arms. There are few descriptions of memorable victories for the Khampas, but those there are stand out for the remarkable achievements they were. An example is the taking of Tsetang garrison, thirty miles from Lhasa, in January 1959; despite the guerrillas being outnumbered 3,000 to 2,000. This victory was particularly crucial because it meant that the Khampas controlled one of the routes into Lhasa, and were only a day’s ride away. One guerrilla described an encounter where, despite being heavily outnumbered and having far from adequate weaponry, his guerrilla group lost only three men and were able to take many of the Chinese weapons.18 The most debilitating problem for the guerrillas was the lack of communications inside Tibet. Although the guerrillas were united by their common purpose, at a practical level there was no structure and the many groups were not able to co-ordinate their activities. A former guerrilla explained that this problem was the main obstacle the guerrillas faced: [Tibet] is so vast, and communication was so poor, so how could we communicate between the different groups? Unity was almost impossible because right from the beginning we lacked communication skills.19 It was perhaps because of these difficulties that the Khampas’ practical aim was not really total removal of the Chinese but to be a great nuisance for them. The fact that there was little unity made life more difficult for the Chinese: it would have been a lot easier to eradicate one united group than all the separate groups. The Khampas’ movement into Lhoka illustrated the advantage they gained from the disunity: the concentration of guerrilla activity in eastern Tibet diverted Chinese attention from any potential or actual activity in the centre of the country. 33

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Resistance and the monastic establishment The Khampas marked Losar (New Year) of 1959 with a ceremonial parade and religious rites involving both the guerrillas and local monks, at which they offered prayers for the Dalai Lama’s welfare. The monastic community had been inextricably linked with the guerrilla movement from its inception, and monks not only offered their spiritual support but in many cases fought alongside the guerrillas. Interviewees have related that in many cases the monks who fought actually had permission to do so from their monasteries. Shakya reports that a theft of weapons by Khampas from a monastery near Shigatse was staged, as the monks were actually collaborating with the guerrillas (1999: 184). Andrugtsang mentions several times that monasteries co-operated with the guerrillas, and also relates that [W]e were informed by the local people that, under orders from the Kashag [Tibetan cabinet], most of the weapons had been distributed among the monks of a neighbouring monastery. (1973: 74) In this instance, after negotiations, the monks handed over the weapons to the guerrillas, having been persuaded that the guerrillas’ purpose was undoubtedly worthy. In eastern Tibet, the monks of Zokchen and Shichen monasteries decided, after being humiliated in thamzing (struggle sessions), that ‘the only way was to fight. Before a senior monk, all of them gave up their monkhood to free themselves of the vow not to kill.’ These monks went on to burn the Chinese attackers to death, after storming the chief lama’s residence, where the Chinese were quartered, with axes and swords (Norbu, J. 1986: 134–5). Although the monks had given up their vows, however, they were still revered by the guerrillas, local people and other monks, and, most importantly, they continued to perform the rituals and duties of their position.20 The abbot of Shichen monastery gave two important initiations to local people following the above episode, and one guerrilla felt that after receiving these teachings they would ‘be able to die with less bitterness in [their] hearts’ (Norbu, J. 1986: 136). Jampa Tenzin also relates that while the monks who fought with the guerrillas had been released from their monasteries, they still carried out monastic rituals and even said prayers for the Chinese soldiers they had just killed.21 It seems that the monks who fought did so with their consciences intact; it was preferable to fight to save religion than to do nothing and watch the dharma be destroyed. As Jampa Tenzin – who was himself a novice monk – said, ‘dharma [had to] prevail and remain, it could not be finished’.22 An incarnate lama from Jyekundo in Kham voiced the guerrillas’ last official plea to the Dalai Lama in February 1959. Their request for official Tibetan support against the Chinese was allegedly refused on the grounds of 34

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the Dalai Lama’s long-standing opposition to violence, and his fear of savage reprisals. Although the Dalai Lama does not mention this seemingly important meeting in either of his autobiographies, he does mention that he sent a message to the guerrillas in 1959 asking them to lay down their weapons, because ‘however great the violence used against us, it could never become right to use violence in reply’ (Dalai Lama 1962: 160). The Dalai Lama also said that the inspiration behind his belief in non-violence was Mahatma Gandhi. Less than one month later, however, came the most violent episode of the Chinese occupation of Tibet to date: the Lhasa Uprising.

The 1959 Lhasa Uprising The events of March 1959 were the first major clashes between central Tibetans and the Chinese, but they were not a climax to the Khampa resistance movement. It is clear that the Lhasa Uprising marked the point of no return in the struggle for Tibet. The Uprising was triggered by a seemingly innocuous invitation for the Dalai Lama to attend a theatrical performance at the Chinese military headquarters in Lhasa on 10 March 1959. The Dalai Lama was initially happy to attend but suspicions were aroused when the Chinese authorities instructed the chief of the Dalai Lama’s bodyguard, the Kusun Depon, that when the Dalai Lama visited the barracks the usual formality and ceremony should be dispensed with. Specifically, His Holiness was to be accompanied by no Tibetan soldiers at all, and only a few unarmed bodyguards would be acceptable. Furthermore, the visit was to be conducted in secret. Inevitably the population of Lhasa found out about the visit, and when also learning of the Chinese authorities’ desire to keep the visit secret, the rumour that the Dalai Lama was about to be kidnapped and abducted by the Chinese spread rapidly. Shakya insists that there were no concrete grounds for the rumour, particularly as the Dalai Lama himself was keen to attend the performance. He argues that the rumour was deliberately spread around Lhasa in order to mobilise the public against the Chinese. This was relatively easy to do, and the people were more willing to believe it because of the Dalai Lama’s age: he was twenty-five, an age which is believed by Tibetan Buddhists to be difficult, both for the Dalai Lama and thus the nation. Hence, ‘it was not difficult for the public to convince themselves that the Dalai Lama was in danger’. Shakya goes on to point out that the Chinese did not actually need to kidnap the Dalai Lama, as they had already effectively gained control of the country (1999: 190–3). By the morning of 10 March an estimated 30,000 people had surrounded the Dalai Lama’s summer palace, the Norbulingka, to prevent their leader from leaving. Strong asserts that the Dalai Lama was ‘detained . . . by the rebels against his will’. In evidence she cites a letter from the Dalai Lama to General Tan, the military commander, in which the Dalai Lama condemns 35

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‘reactionaries’ (1960: 70). The Dalai Lama also refers to this letter in his autobiography, although he implies that his comments on reactionaries were written with the recipient in mind, and that the primary purpose of the letter was to buy him some time. Meanwhile, tensions outside the Norbulingka ran very high and a Tibetan official was stoned and badly injured by the crowd, who mistakenly believed he was a collaborator. A monastic official who was notorious for his close relationship with the Chinese was murdered. The Khampas in Lhasa quickly assessed the situation and took unofficial control of the Norbulingka crowds, forming a Freedom Committee consisting of Khampas, people from Amdo and Mimang Tsongdu members. This was supported by many junior government officials and members of the Dalai Lama’s bodyguard (Kusung). The committee officially repudiated the 1951 Seventeen Point Agreement on the grounds that it has been broken by the Chinese.23 The Khampas also replaced the Kusung with their own guards. Over the next few days the crowd remained and many demonstrations were held. The Dalai Lama consulted the Nechung oracle (the state oracle) for advice, and performed Mo divination. Both told him that he should remain in the Norbulingka and keep open the dialogue with the Chinese. However a letter on 16 March from Ngabo Ngawang Jigme, the governor of Chamdo in Kham and foremost of Tibetan collaborators, made it clear that the Chinese were planning an attack on the crowds. The Dalai Lama wrote back to Ngabo and General Tan, saying he would take sanctuary in the Chinese military headquarters, hoping this would allow him some more time. That evening he consulted the oracle and performed Mo once more; this time both said he should leave, the oracle even detailing the route he should take into exile in India. The Dalai Lama reports that straight after the oracle’s instructions, two mortar shells exploded outside the Norbulingka. On 17 March the Dalai Lama left Lhasa in disguise and travelled initially to Lhoka before commencing his journey to India, where he arrived on 18 April. The Chinese asserted that he had been kidnapped by rebels. He had hoped to remain in Tibet and re-open negotiations with the Chinese, but two days after his departure he was informed by the Khampa guerrillas who were protecting him that the Chinese had shelled the Norbulingka and machinegunned the crowds. The Khampas had been able to keep open a route south for the Dalai Lama to take, and this is perhaps their greatest achievement. The Dalai Lama quite rightly realised that negotiations with China were impossible, and so the decision was taken to escape to India. While on route the Dalai Lama officially denounced the Seventeen Point Agreement and announced the formation of his own government in exile. The aftermath of the Lhasa Uprising It has been estimated that up to 10,000 people were killed in Lhasa following the Dalai Lama’s departure. After mass destruction of homes, severe beatings 36

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and executions, the Lhasa Uprising was suppressed by 23 March. Chinese reports state that 5,600 rebels had been ‘liquidated’ by the beginning of April (Strong 1960: 76). Local government was dissolved and military government imposed on Tibet. Thousands were rounded up and imprisoned and tortured. The Chinese conducted house-to-house searches to try and find guerrillas, and in any houses where they found arms the residents were executed. The authorities in Beijing officially denied that a revolt had taken place, and claimed that the Khampa guerrillas had kidnapped the Dalai Lama. This claim became the basis for a renewed Chinese offensive against the guerrillas: The rebellion which broke out more than a month ago will end before long. The People’s Liberation Army units have not only promptly smashed the rebellion in the Lhasa area, but also rapidly crushed the rebel group in the area south of the Ya-lu-tsang-pu river. The units of the [PLA] have won great victories in the fighting to repress the armed rebellion. (Ling 1964: 384) The guerrillas responded to the renewed offensive, which included air raids on Lhoka in April, by abandoning their conspicuous fortress headquarters and moving into tents. Although they had damaged them, the Chinese could not destroy the resistance force, and so they decided to launch a combined political and military campaign against the Khampas. The Chinese promised that surrendering rebels would not be punished, but unsurprisingly no-one trusted them any longer, so their measures only led to generalised opposition and increased popular resentment. Opposition was further intensified by the introduction of ‘democratic reforms’ in central Tibet, characterised inevitably by destruction of monasteries. The reason for this renewed resistance was obvious: by attacking the monasteries, the Chinese were attacking Tibetan religion, and thus the basis for Tibetan national identity. Pressures on food supplies brought about by the Chinese presence in Tibet also brought a threat of famine to Tibet, which gave the people an extra impetus to resist.

Mustang: the final phase of armed resistance The guerrillas extended their activities into the province of Tsang in southern Tibet in 1960. Their progress was made easier by the fact that the Chinese had neglected to garrison Tsang as heavily as other areas, as it had previously been under the administration of the compliant Panchen Lama.24 Throughout 1960 resistance renewed itself all over Tibet, with many monasteries taking up arms against the Chinese; some of these arms had actually been provided by the Chinese for use against the guerrillas. In the middle of 1960 the Khampas decided to relocate to Mustang in north-west Nepal, because it would be easier to receive arms and ammunition from abroad if they were 37

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based outside Tibet. Guerrillas began to arrive in Mustang in late 1960, under the command of General Baba Yeshi. By the summer of 1962 the Chinese had successfully regained control of Lhoka, but there were by then over 6,000 troops in Mustang. Khampa operations persisted in Mustang until 1974. Mustang was chosen for several reasons. Culturally it was convenient because although politically part of Nepal, to all intents and purposes it was Tibetan by religion and language. Furthermore, its geographical location was ideal: a 15,000-foot high plateau overhanging the strategic Lhasa–Xinjiang highway, and surrounded by Tibet on three sides. Due to this position the tactics employed by the guerrillas in Mustang consisted of raids into Tibet conducted by small units of guerrillas, who focused on ambushing PLA convoys. These operated with varying degrees of success; the most successful was in 1966 when a convoy on the Lhasa–Xinjiang road was destroyed. Those killed in this ambush included the head of the PLA’s western command and all his staff. More importantly, the raid provided the guerrillas with documents including information on the Cultural Revolution, and Chinese figures showing that 87,000 Tibetans had been killed in the aftermath of the Lhasa Uprising. As well as carrying out raids, the guerrillas in Mustang also established an espionage network throughout Tibet, with the result that the local communist party unknowingly employed many spies as party cadres.25 Tibetan guerrillas were also responsible for recording the details of China’s vast military build-up along Tibet’s Himalayan frontier, and also of the relocation of China’s main nuclear base from Lop Nor in Xinjiang to Nagchuka, north of Lhasa. The end of the guerrilla movement Despite the strategic achievements and advantages of Mustang, however, the operations there formed the last phase of the Tibetan guerrilla movement. Many problems and forces combined to destroy the guerrillas in Mustang. These are listed below. Geographical factors The remoteness of Mustang – it lies about 400 miles from Lhasa – meant that it was simply too far from the centre of Chinese operations in Tibet. Although the guerrillas were well positioned for attacking the Lhasa–Xinjiang highway, they were many days, if not weeks, ride from Lhasa, and Kham itself was about 1,000 miles away: obviously impossible to get to on foot or on horseback. One guerrilla has described the resistance force in Mustang as ‘an isolated army in an isolated territory’ (Avedon 1997: 124). While it was undoubtedly advantageous for them to have established a base area, Mustang was, as the guerrilla says, too isolated. Because it lay in Nepalese territory, it 38

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also meant that the Khampas were not able to rely on the support of local people for much needed supplies of food and horses, as they had been able to in Tibet. The mountainous terrain, which had been advantageous in Kham itself, proved too treacherous for the Khampas’ horses. Although a plateau, Mustang could be reached only on foot via dangerous passes. External factors Although the CIA aid to the guerrillas had not been their sole means of support and supply, when it was withdrawn – together with the de-escalation of Indian aid – in 1973 following US–China reconciliation, the future of Mustang was jeopardised.26 India had previously provided aid to the guerrillas because Tibetans had made up the staff of the Special Frontier Force (SFF), which was formed to guard India’s northern borders. By the 1970s the SFF had matured into an independent force, so the Indians felt they no longer had to sustain the previous levels of aid to the guerrillas. A further external pressure on the guerrillas came from the Nepalese government. As Nepal was a neutral country and was understandably fearful of China, it disapproved of the Khampas entering Mustang, but realised that the Khampas could only be opposed by force.27 Some of the local people in Mustang feared the Khampas and resented their actions, but resigned themselves to the guerrillas because they felt their presence was the wish of the Dalai Lama. However in 1972 Kathmandu launched a propaganda campaign aimed at discrediting the Khampas by branding them rapists, bandits and murderers. This campaign – for which there does not appear to be any supporting evidence – culminated in a Nepalese army attack on Mustang’s bases in 1974, after Mao Zedong personally put pressure on King Birendra of Nepal, with threats of direct action if the guerrilla bases were not destroyed. Internal factors By the 1970s many guerrillas had already been fighting for over ten years, and were now in their forties and fifties. Unfortunately they could not be a match for the younger PLA troops, and age, rather than battle, was responsible for the majority of deaths. A younger guerrilla recalled: ‘people didn’t die from bullets, but just from walking to a fight and back’ (Avedon 1997: 125). Perhaps the most tragic of the reasons for the guerrillas’ demise was their increasing factionalism, which precipitated the end of operations. In 1969 Baba Yeshi was removed as commander by Gyalo Thondup, the Dalai Lama’s elder brother, and a leading figure in the guerrilla organisation. Baba Yeshi was removed because he was blamed for not keeping proper accounts; it appeared that large sums of CIA money had failed to reach their intended destination. Also, many of the CIA-trained guerrillas were younger and so objected to Baba Yeshi’s tribal chief style of command. Yeshi was replaced by Gyato 39

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Wangdu, a nephew of Gompo Tashi Andrugtsang. However Yeshi, with 200 men, broke away from the main body of guerrillas, and occupied a new camp east of Mustang, from which he attacked the other guerrillas. This split spread to the Tibetan exile communities in India, with thirteen predominately Khampa and Amdowa communities aligning themselves with Baba Yeshi because they saw the rival faction under Wangdu as being representative of the central Tibetan-dominated government, for whom there was an almost traditional Khampa distrust. The Nepalese army, who had co-ordinated plans with the PLA, moved into Mustang to disarm the main faction of guerrillas in the summer of 1974, after being supplied with information on their whereabouts by Baba Yeshi. Some of the guerrillas fled (including Wangdu, who was killed in August 1974), others surrendered when hearing a tape of the Dalai Lama requesting them to do so, and others were captured by the Nepalese and imprisoned in Kathmandu until 1981. Such was the end of guerrilla warfare in Tibet, after over twenty years of fighting.

Why the guerrilla movement failed It can clearly be seen that in the last years of fighting in Mustang, there were too many factors working against the Khampas for them to survive. But did they ever stand a realistic chance against the People’s Liberation Army, whose superiority in terms of numbers was huge? Mao Zedong, surely one of the greatest proponents of guerrilla warfare in the twentieth century, said that a guerrilla army must be absolutely superior with regard to the enemy. The PLA in Tibet numbered around 30,000 when they invaded in 1950; this figure has steadily increased to at least 500,000 in the early 1980s, and could be many more now. It is impossible to pinpoint the precise numbers of guerrillas operating in Tibet at any one time, but it has been suggested that an estimated 80,000 were operating in July 1958.28 A different author, however, says that in the summer of 1962 there were only 6,000 Khampas in Mustang (Peissel 1972: 191). If 6,000 is accurate, then the guerrillas were not only limited by their remote position in Mustang, but also by numbers. Mao further declared that a successful guerrilla army should incorporate armed people and smallscale units; without these, the army is ‘nothing but a warrior with only one arm’. It has been shown that lack of weapons was one of the problems besetting the Khampas from the outset, as well as the size of their units, which seriously hampered their progress. According to Mao, there were several further requirements for a guerrilla army to be successful. The principal characteristics of Maoist guerrilla warfare are protracted war and the establishment of base areas. The protracted war, while an almost inevitable consequence of the nature of guerrilla tactics – harassment rather than large-scale combat – gives guerrillas time to build up strength, as well as enabling the emergence of a political structure. For the Khampas, however, it would appear that the opposite happened: they grew 40

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weaker with time, and there was never any evidence of the establishment of political organisation within the guerrilla movement. Also it would seem that there was a lack of organisation and discipline within the ranks of those who identified themselves with the guerrilla movements. Actions such as burning Chinese soldiers to death and cutting off their noses are not guerrilla tactics. They are more the actions of loose-knit anarchical rebels, who act spontaneously in response to their immediate conditions and treatment by others; in this case, the Chinese. Mao saw the establishment of base areas as fundamental to the process of political education for guerrillas; the Khampas’ base area was there for purely military purposes. Indeed, according to the available evidence, Mustang appears to be the first proper base anyway; Chinese attacks appear to have prevented them from establishing long-term bases in Tibet. Perhaps it is inevitable that the PLA, who had already successfully defeated the Japanese and the Guomindang under Chiang Kai-shek, and who by the 1950s were thoroughly versed in Maoist guerrilla tactics, were able to prevent the Khampa guerrillas from ever gaining the advantage in Tibet. A further principle of Maoist thought on guerrilla warfare is party leadership. Mao saw this leadership as necessary to fulfil the role of mobilising the guerrillas, as well as responding to the political demands of the people. Without this leadership, Mao warned that the revolutionary struggle could dissolve into a futile progression of unco-ordinated insurrections. The Khampas did not have this leadership, and operated no formal system of response to the demands of the people. All they could offer to the people of Tibet was the removal of the Chinese presence. There is no evidence to suggest that any of them had any kind of political framework in mind with which to replace the Chinese, other than a return to the rule of the Dalai Lama. Their sole objective was the removal by force of the Chinese; they had no political ideology. They even appear to have lacked coherent leadership within their movements. There was never a single overall leader: Yuru Pon was a prominent leader in eastern Tibet only, Gompo Tashi Andrugtsang became in a sense a leader only because the surviving guerrillas from Kham joined his movement in Lhoka, and Gyalo Thondup was an articulate spokesman in exile, but was not a fighter. Without their own leadership, it was impossible for the guerrillas to offer leadership to the Tibetan people. So why, then, did the guerrillas manage to survive for so long in Tibet? Their main advantage was their popular support. They were resisting the Chinese for the same reasons that the Chinese presence was generally resented everywhere in Tibet: food shortages caused by large numbers of Chinese troops; attempts to disarm the Khampas; attempts to impose a commune system; the influx of large numbers of Chinese civilians; human rights abuses; and most importantly, the attacks on, and attempts at the destruction of, the Tibetan religion. As stated before, with the objective of removing the Chinese and protecting their religion, the Khampas would inevitably have enjoyed 41

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almost universal support. A successful guerrilla force cannot, however, assume that popular resentment will automatically be expressed in support for their operations. While Che Guevara – the other great guerrilla strategist of the twentieth century – may have believed that popular forces alone can win a revolution, in Tibet they could not. Crucially, the Khampa guerrillas did not enjoy the public support of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile: because the guerrillas practised violence. The Tibetan government in exile, established in the aftermath of the Lhasa Uprising, has always chosen to emphasise the non-violent aspects of the Tibetan independence movement.

The Tibetan government in exile Government in exile – or alternative government – can also be viewed as a method of political resistance. The Tibetan government in exile is the official face of the Tibetan independence movement, dedicated to both representing Tibetan exiles and presenting the Tibetan case for independence or ‘genuine autonomy’ from China.29 Although not officially recognised by any other government or international political organisation, Tibetans see their exile government, based in Dharamsala in India, as a natural continuation of the government in Lhasa. It is, however, a much modernised continuation. The Dalai Lama saw his arrival in India as an opportunity to reduce the protocol that he felt had restricted relations between the Tibetan leader and the people, and he set in motion a process of democratisation. He firmly believes that Buddhism and democracy are compatible, because both are based on the principle that ‘all human beings are essentially equal, and . . . [have] an equal right to life, liberty and happiness’ (Dalai Lama 1999b: 4). He rejects any suggestion that democracy is alien to Asian cultures, arguing that all human beings share basic aspirations of happiness and an end to suffering, and rightly points out that ‘India demonstrates that democracy can sink strong roots outside the Western world’.30 While the old government in Tibet was made up of lay nobles who had inherited their seats, and an equal number of monastic officials, in 1960 the Dalai Lama established the Assembly of Tibetan People’s Deputies (ATPD). This legislature was to replace the dyarchy of equivalent monastic and secular offices that had existed in Tibet, as well as removing all hereditary privileges from government. The first election to the ATPD was held in September 1960.31 Membership of the ATPD is based upon two criteria: the regional (Tibetan) origin of the candidate, and the religious affiliation. Accordingly, every Tibetan elects a representative from their own region or religious tradition. The reason for introducing the regional basis for election into the ATPD is explicitly linked to the Chinese occupation. The Chinese-created Tibetan Autonomous Region (TAR) does not include parts of the traditional Tibetan provinces of 42

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Kham and Amdo, these instead being subsumed into neighbouring Chinese provinces. The Tibetan government in exile seeks to be the representative body of all Tibetans, so the inclusion of the excluded regions is a politically symbolic gesture. The elections to the ATPD did not become truly popular until 1975, when candidates could for the first time be chosen in primary elections. Even then, however, the notion of the right to vote for one’s chosen candidate remained arcane for many Tibetans: A lot of people go into the election tent and just pray to His Holiness. ‘I don’t know any of these candidates, but please let me choose the right one to help the Dalai Lama and the people.’ Then they close their eyes, put their finger down and ask the election officer, ‘Would you see whose name is here.’ When they hear it they reply, ‘Oh it’s so-and-so. I’ll vote for him.’32 This anecdote illustrates one of the fundamental problems with the democratisation process in Dharamsala. The religious authority of the Dalai Lama can conflict with his position as a political leader in a supposedly democratic government. He attempted to approach this problem with the implementation of the Tibetan exile constitution in 1963. This constitution, of which it has always been the intention that it would be implemented in an independent Tibet, contains provisions to balance the powers of the executive with a popularly elected legislature and an independent judiciary.33 Most controversially, for the Tibetan people at least, it contains the means whereby the Dalai Lama can be removed from office. Article 36 provided for the impeachment of the Dalai Lama by a two-thirds majority of the Assembly. The inclusion of this article was deeply unpopular with the Tibetan exiles, and resistance was such that over 150 representatives gathered to demand the deleting of the article if the constitution was to be approved. The Dalai Lama reports that: [T]he thought that the Dalai Lama could be deposed flabbergasted many Tibetans. I had to explain that democracy is very much in keeping with Buddhist principles and, somewhat autocratically perhaps, insisted that the clause be left in. (Dalai Lama 1990: 186–7) Of course, the possibility of this clause ever being used is slight. It is probable that due to the respect Tibetans have for their leader, this provision is primarily a symbol of democratic intent, and is thus extremely unlikely ever to be implemented. The final important step taken by the Tibetan government in exile has been the implementation of the Charter of Tibetans-in-exile.34 This is intended 43

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to be a series of guidelines for the organisation and functioning of the government, and it effectively replaced the constitution. Again, though, there is evidence of conflict between the wishes of the Dalai Lama and those of the Tibetan people, represented as they are by the ATPD. The Dalai Lama, during the debate on the charter, spoke strongly [I]n favour of naming the Tibetan polity a ‘secular’ state. He denied that secularism meant the absence of religion but rather the word implies that the state will not discriminate among religions. The combination of spiritual and secular values could be achieved through the commitment to non-violence and peace whereas the naming of religion would narrow the scope of the charter. (Edin 1992: 31) The ATPD decided, by a narrow margin, to exclude the word ‘secular’ from the charter. Instead, Article three of the charter reads as follows: ‘The future Tibetan polity shall uphold the principle of non-violence and shall endeavour to be a Free Social Welfare State with its politics guided by the Dharma’. Far from containing a commitment to a secular state, this provision explicitly provides for Buddhist principles in government. Dharma refers to the process of spiritual transformation; it is the ‘truth’ of Buddhism. However, Tibetans have been at pains to stress that this does not mean a return to the dualistic government of ‘old’ Tibet; instead, true government along the principles of dharma would mean that dishonesty and self-interest have no place in the new Tibetan political process. The legislature, constitution and charter have all been seen as major steps towards the full implementation of democratic principles in Tibetan government. Whether true democracy does exist or not in the Tibetan government in exile is of vital importance for the independence movement, and will be addressed below.35 Although the Tibetan government in exile has not directly encouraged or incited political resistance in Tibet, it still plays an important role. Protest during the late 1980s has strengthened Tibetan loyalty to the Dalai Lama, and has kept the issue of Tibetan independence alive. The Dalai Lama’s tireless campaigning around the world – including his receipt of the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989 – has meant that Tibet is not forgotten. The Chinese government persists in claiming that protest in Tibet is engineered by the so-called ‘Dalai Clique’, and have used this to justify the various recent political campaigns such as ‘Strike hard’ and ‘Political education’. Unfortunately for Beijing, however, there is no evidence to suggest that resistance inside Tibet is directly engineered by the government in exile. Indeed, given the professed wish of the Dalai Lama to negotiate with China, any attempts by his government to initiate protest in Tibet would be counter productive. The government in exile has, however, maintained links with Tibetans inside 44

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Tibet, and material produced by the government does circulate within Tibet; material featuring the Dalai Lama is particularly in demand. The exile government also produced a Tibetan-language copy of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights for circulation inside Tibet, which is, inevitably, banned by the Chinese. While the government in exile did not support guerrilla activity in the 1960s and 1970s, support is given to the non-violent resistance led by monks and nuns that has occurred from the late 1980s to the present, even if it is only support in the form of dissemination of information about the situation in Tibet. The Tibetan government in exile has of course also been forced to accommodate refugees from Tibet, numbers of whom have increased following renewed unrest in the late 1980s. Marshall argues that as repression increases in Tibet itself, the presence of an exile community has enabled Tibetans to voice their resistance to China without fear of reprisals (1999: 9). The government’s major role in resisting the Chinese has been to reflect and publicise the hardships faced by Tibetans at home, and to keep up an output of regime-damaging information against Beijing, as well as representing, to the best of its limited abilities, all Tibetans’ interests in the international political arena. This does not, however, extend to any formal support of the Tibetan guerrillas. While the Tibetan people may have shown their commitment to a violent struggle, the Dalai Lama has remained fully opposed to violence as a means to liberate Tibet from the Chinese. He believes that violence can only ever make any existing disagreement far worse, and that non-violence is the natural act of compassion. In these views he is profoundly influenced by Gandhi, but whether a non-violent campaign of civil disobedience, or satyagraha, is suitable for the struggle in Tibet remains to be seen.

45

3 ‘OUR DEMAND IS CHEAP’: FASTING FOR THE FUTURE OF TIBET

I would particularly like to ask the Tibetan people to work unitedly for the independence of Tibet, even if it means sacrificing their lives. Palzom, Tibetan hunger striker1

During the late 1990s, the opportunities that were available to Tibetans within Tibet by which they could protest against Chinese rule were limited. While the violent protest by Khampa guerrillas from the 1950s to 1970s did not free the Tibetans from Chinese occupation, crucially it ensured that the Dalai Lama was able to escape into exile. The prospects of such a campaign being launched in Tibet now are extremely doubtful. The Tibetan population is divided between Chinese provinces, the Tibetan Autonomous Region and exile, which would make building a united resistance army very difficult, as would China’s continued iron grip on Tibet. Since the late 1980s, monks and nuns inside Tibet have led non-violent protest against China; this too has achieved little, other than emphasising the Tibetan occupation of the moral high ground.2 The Dalai Lama continues to insist that non-violence is the only way forward, and suggests that the methods of Mahatma Gandhi should be taken as an example by Tibetans. In 1998, a radical Tibetan non-governmental organisation, the Tibetan Youth Congress (TYC), launched in India the ultimate Gandhian campaign: a hunger strike, designed to draw the world’s attention to the Tibetan cause.3 There have been many abortive hunger strikes in the course of the Tibetan struggle. The TYC itself has organised hunger strikes in the past, which have been called off after the intervention of the Dalai Lama. An exception to this is a TYC-organised hunger strike in 1977. The TYC then managed successfully to persuade the Indian government to take up the cause of Tibetan independence. This protest, despite being successful, was later condemned by the exiled Tibetan authorities in Dharamsala, and its leaders described as traitors; presumably because the action had been preceded by a violent demonstration. 46

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Before their action in 1998 the TYC requested that the Dalai Lama should not intervene, and he agreed.

The 1998 Tibetan hunger strike On 10 March 1998, the thirty-ninth anniversary of Tibetan National Uprising Day, six members of the Tibetan Youth Congress embarked upon a fast unto death in New Delhi.3 The six hunger strikers represented the six million people of Tibet. Their aim was for the United Nations to agree to the following demands: that the UN should discuss Tibet in the General Assembly; that the UN should appoint a rapporteur to investigate allegations of human rights abuses in Tibet; that the UN should appoint a special envoy on Tibet; and that the UN should initiate a supervised plebiscite on the future of Tibet.4 The first official response of the United Nations was made on 9 April, when the High Commissioner for Human Rights, Mary Robinson, issued a statement in which she said that ‘the young people had displayed considerable courage’, and acknowledged their success in bringing their issues to the attention of the international community.5 While calling for the fast to end, she did not address any of the hunger strikers’ demands. A response concerning the demands was made by a UN spokesman on 14 April: While recognising that meeting their specific demands rests within the sole competence of the Member States, the Secretary-General acknowledges that this non-violent action is a reflection of their personal commitment.6 This was the only response of the UN Secretary-General, Kofi Annan, to the Tibetans’ demands, despite intense pleas from the Tibetan community for action. On 20 April Tibetan nuns staging a public prayer meeting outside the UN office in New Delhi sent a memorandum to Annan: Your karmic consequences have placed you in a unique position to help the Tibetans in their endeavour to defend themselves from the genocidal policy of the Chinese leaders. You must use this position to bring happiness and peace to Tibetans and sentient beings in general.7 There was no response from the UN to these pleas. On 24 April the European Union sent a message to the hunger strikers, requesting that they end their fast, as ‘[they] had succeeded in drawing attention to their serious concerns about the situation in Tibet, and their demands for United Nations action’.8 During the entire hunger strike of March and April, no organisation made any attempt to address the strikers’ demands. Despite the above comments from the EU, the world’s media was also strangely reticent. 47

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The official Tibetan response His Holiness the Dalai Lama visited New Delhi on 2 April, and met the six hunger strikers. After his visit, he was quoted as follows: I told them that I admire their determination and enthusiasm. But I consider hunger strike unto death as a kind of violence. . . . However, I cannot offer them suggestions for any alternative method . . . I am in a state of dilemma.9 This statement raises two important points. First, it appears from the Dalai Lama’s statement that he interpreted the hunger strike – a political action – in religious terms. The implication of the first part of the statement is that the notion of deliberate self-harm is unacceptable in Tibetan Buddhism, as it is a type of violence. Violence, according to the Dalai Lama, is not permitted. The remaining part of his statement raises a second important point: the Dalai Lama clearly recognised that he was not in a position to persuade the hunger strikers to cease their protest. As previously noted, earlier Tibetan hunger strikes had all been called off at the request of the Dalai Lama. Similarly, the Tibetan guerrilla actions based in Mustang finally ended after a personal request from His Holiness. It has to be asked, therefore, why the Dalai Lama felt that he was not in a position to intervene in 1998. The implications of this for his political authority are serious. These issues will be considered below. The other senior Tibetan figure to visit the hunger strikers was Professor Samdhong Rinpoche, the Chairman of the Tibetan parliament in exile. He left Dharamsala with the full intention of asking the strikers to stop their fast. Upon reaching New Delhi, however, he was unable to do so: ‘as a Buddhist monk, I should be advising you to call off this fast. . . . But, now I have seen you and your determination, I don’t have the heart to say this.’10 However, in 1997 he had made it quite clear that fasting was not an acceptable method of protest in which Tibetans should engage: [F]asting is a voluntary self-torture, and voluntary self-torture is not good. This is because the human body is very precious and it is only the vehicle through which we can do work. If that vehicle is denied of its physical and biological needs it will become weak . . . [T]o avoid eating is a kind of self-torture. That is not permissible in the Buddhist perception.11 The difference here between Samdhong Rinpoche’s words in 1997 and when faced with an actual hunger strike could be simply the predicament of being faced with actualities as opposed to theory. However, it could be indicative of the crucial issue of the difficulty of judging a political event in religious terms; 48

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indeed, of the problems of fusing religion and politics at all. These issues too will be considered below. The end of the hunger strike The Tibetan Youth Congress strike was brought to an unexpected end on 26 and 27 April, when the Indian police forcibly took the hunger strikers – three on each day – to hospital, where they were force fed.12 This reaction of the Indian authorities may have been related to a visit to India by General Fu Quanyou, the chief of the People’s Liberation Army of China. Tseten Norbu, the president of the TYC, was reported as saying that ‘the Indian government did not want us to be on protest while General Fu remained in India’.13 There were reports of brutality from the Indian police, and the numbers of police and paramilitaries used for the removal of the six hunger strikers were estimated as between 200 (police figures) and 400 (according to the TYC). In response to the actions of the police, the TYC issued a statement that included the following: Our present strike was essentially a peaceful and democratic means of protest, the method which Mahatma Gandhi taught the world. We were not causing inconvenience to any one in our host country. Therefore, we fail to understand why India, the largest democracy, acted in such an undemocratic manner this morning. . . . The United Nations has not yet fulfilled our demands. And this morning we realised that we Tibetans have no political allies. Therefore, we will continue this movement until our demands are met. The following Tibetans will participate in the second round of unto-death fast: [list of names].14 The words of the TYC indicate that they felt that Gandhian methods were perfectly acceptable for their protest, particularly so given they were protesting in India. During the second day of the break-up of the strike, one of the most tragic events in the course of the entire Tibetan struggle took place. Thupten Ngodup, an ex-monk and an ex-soldier, set himself alight in protest at the enforced removal of the hunger strikers. He died from almost 100 per cent burns on 29 April. He had planned to join the second phase of the hunger strike. Thupten Ngodup had been a monk at Tashilhunpo monastery in Shigatse in Tibet. He later joined the Special Frontier Force (SFF) of the Indian army, a secretive unit containing many Tibetan ex-guerrilla fighters that was developed to protect India’s northern frontier in the 1970s. As with the guerrilla fighters, the SFF was trained in part by the CIA in techniques of guerrilla warfare. After leaving the army, Ngodup worked in a lay capacity for 49

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Dip Tsechokling monastery in Dharamsala, and also worked as a chef for the traditional Tibetan picnics held by various organisations around Dharamsala. According to the TYC, he was full of patriotism. Responses to Thupten Ngodup’s self-immolation The death of Thupten Ngodup engendered an outpouring of patriotic fervour. At a prayer vigil for Ngodup, a hand-written sign was placed on his coffin, which declared that Tibetans would follow his example ‘one by one’. At another vigil at the site of the self-immolation, one young Tibetan said ‘[the self-immolation] was an act of frustration that symbolises what is going on in the minds of all Tibetans. We are really proud of [Ngodup]’.15 While the Tibetan government expressed their sorrow at Ngodup’s death, they also said that self-immolation was not to be encouraged, implying that it was an extreme act that would be embarrassing for India. The TYC interpreted Ngodup’s death rather differently: We salute the unwavering bravery shown by Mr. Ngodup . . . A martyr is born to inspire us all. In death, he has dignified our existence. He has shown to the world that if we Tibetans cannot live with honour, we can die with dignity. His act has challenged the conscience of the world and its leaders. . . . [his act] has sent a message to the world that Tibetans do not have political allies . . . The Tibetan people have sent a clear message to the world that they are willing to sacrifice themselves for the cause of a free and independent Tibet. If the attitude and indifference and lack of support to the issue of Tibet continue, more blood will be shed in the coming days.16 The vice-president of the TYC, Karma Yeshi, went further and suggested that the death of Ngodup marked a turning point in the course of the Tibetan struggle: The Dalai Lama did not achieve anything during his 40 years of struggle. We have achieved something with Ngodup’s death. Thousands of Tibetans in our homeland have now woken up and will support our type of campaign against China. The Middle Path is the strategy of His Holiness and the militant struggle is ours. . . . Maybe one day both the angles will meet.17 This statement is important as it signals a clear break with the official line on the future of the Tibetan struggle. In 1997 Tibetans were denied the opportunity to vote in a referendum on the direction that the struggle would take; whether there is any connection between this and the hunger strike and subsequent self-immolation is a matter for speculation. 50

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The main issues that are raised by the hunger strike and self-immolation are both political and religious. As has been shown, the actions marked a break with the traditional political authority of the Dalai Lama, and an increased tendency toward militancy amongst Tibetans. The actual methods chosen by the Tibetans raise religious and moral questions: principally, whether an act as extreme as self-immolation can be justified, particularly in a Buddhist context. While little is known about Thupten Ngodup’s personal beliefs, the fact that he had been a monk and in later life lived in a monastic community – albeit as a layman – shows that he must have been a man of some religious conviction.18

Can self-harming be rationalised? The Dalai Lama said after the hunger strike that as a Buddhist he could not support actions such as hunger strikes and self-immolation. Even at a basic level of understanding, it is clear why he says this: both actions are a type of violence against the person, and are therefore unacceptable in a Buddhist context. The fourth item of the Noble Eightfold Path – the path to liberation in Buddhism – is ‘right action’. In order to cultivate right action, a person may subscribe to the ‘Five Precepts’, the first of which is: [T]o cultivate freedom from the urge to violence and killing, ‘to avoid the killing of living beings and abstain from it. Without stick or sword, conscientious, full of sympathy, [to be] anxious for the welfare of all living things.’19 As well as a general preference for non-violence in Buddhism, in Tibetan Buddhism there is a specific reason why the body must not be harmed. The notion of compassion is central to the Tibetan perception, and the Tibetan bodhisattva seeks enlightenment by behaving with compassion and altruism at all times. To damage one’s body deliberately is to damage the vehicle for enlightenment, as well as to prevent oneself from working tirelessly for others’ spiritual welfare. In a wider Buddhist context the prescription of total non-violence is not so definite. When Thupten Ngodup committed self-immolation, the most obvious comparisons to be drawn with his action were those of monks in Vietnam voluntarily burning themselves in protest against the actions of the Diem regime during the Vietnam war. Most famously, the monk Thich Quang Duc burnt himself in June 1963 in protest against government troops firing on a group of protesters in Hue. Thich Nhat Hanh, a Zen master who was chair of the Vietnamese Buddhist peace delegation during the Vietnam war, stressed that ‘the self-immolations were not planned by any movement at all. They were the decisions of individuals’ (King 1996: 328). This appears to have also been the case with Thupten Ngodup: although he had planned to 51

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take part in the second phase of the TYC organised hunger strike, his action of self-immolation was spontaneous and certainly not connected to, or officially sanctioned by, the TYC. The spontaneity of Thupten Ngodup’s action leaves little room for speculation as to his motives. If such actions are to be rationalised, then it is helpful to study the evidence presented in Vietnam. While the monks in Vietnam were not part of a planned movement, they did write letters explaining their actions before burning themselves. Thich Nhat Hanh says that [The monks aimed at] moving the hearts of the oppressors and at calling the attention of the world to the suffering endured then by the Vietnamese. To burn oneself by fire is to prove that what one is saying is of the utmost importance. There is nothing more painful than burning oneself. To say something while experiencing this kind of pain is to say it with utmost courage, frankness, determination and sincerity. (Nhat Hanh 1967: 118) The first sentence of this quotation is striking by its similarity to Gandhian rhetoric: the point of self-suffering (tapas) as an essential part of Gandhian satyagraha was to move the heart of the opponent.20 The satyagrahi did not expect the opponent’s sympathy; rather, he or she hoped that the opponent would be moved by the force of their convictions. Such convictions were emphasised by the voluntary self-suffering of the protester. Whither violence? One of the most important moral aspects of the self-immolations in Vietnam – particularly when compared with that of Thupten Ngodup – is that the act of burning oneself was not conceived of as violent. Thich Nhat Hanh emphasises this point, and stresses that [Self-immolation] was a manifestation of the individual’s inability to bear the suffering of the people and a powerful attempt by the individual to reach the hearts of others. By demonstrating in this way the suffering of war, the self-immolator hoped that those who supported or perpetuated the war would likewise be unable to bear the pain of war and stop the actions that allowed it to continue. (King 1996: 336) Thich Nhat Hanh also says that self-immolation should be regarded as separate from a non-violent struggle: not because it has no place in nonviolence, but because if it is to be considered a tactic then it must be subject 52

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to judgement. If self-immolation is to be judged – as good or bad – that implies that one should be urged to either commit self-immolation or urged to refrain from it. And because it is an individual matter, then how others perceive it is of no consequence. The argument that self-immolation should not be subject to judgement is remarkably similar to the contention of a Tibetan ex-guerrilla fighter that violence is permissible in defence of the dharma because there is no absolute right or wrong in Buddhism. Jampa Tenzin, an ex-guerrilla fighter and ex-monk, also argued that there is no absolute good and no absolute bad: [B]ased on this idea, there are possibilities where force can be used – depending on the factors of the situation. Generally, of course, non-violence is good and killing is bad. . . . But each and everything is judged according to the circumstances of the situation, and, particularly in Buddhism, according to the motivations. . . . In order to save a hundred people, killing one person may be acceptable, depending on motivation. Individual, or self, motivation is obviously not allowed . . . that’s from a religious point of view.21 Tenzin is referring here to the doctrine of skilful means, which is important when considering ethics in Mahayana Buddhism. Generally speaking, the doctrine maintains that ‘the Buddha himself adapted his teaching to the level of his hearers. Thus most, if not all, of the Buddha’s teachings have a relative value and only a relative truth’ (Williams 1989: 143). In practice, this means that all ‘normal’ ethics are secondary to the true compassion and wisdom embodied by a bodhisattva, so if a bodhisattva behaves in an apparently immoral way, he is adopting skilful means. Williams tells of a Mahayana story about the Buddha killing one man in order to prevent that man killing others.22 In Tibet in 842, a monk named Palgye Dorje (dpal gyi rdo rje) killed the king’s brother, Lang Darma (glang dar ma), because Lang Darma was opposed to the spread of Buddhism in Tibet. By killing Lang Darma, Palgye Dorje was acting ‘out of skilful means animated by compassion [and] decided to save the Dharma and also the king by preventing [Lang Darma] from carrying out further crimes’.23 So it can be seen that if violence is motivated by compassion for others – and the desire to save Buddhism – then it can at least be rationalised in a Buddhist context. The doctrinal context of self-immolation That the Buddha himself was able to offer some justification for occasional violent acts shows that some element of violence is acceptable in Buddhism. Such justification was offered on religious grounds: the doctrine of skilful means and the overriding importance of compassion. This is different from the arguments offered so far in support of the self-immolations in Vietnam. 53

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The motives of the clergy there appear to have been mainly political, and explicitly related to the context of the Vietnam war. It must be emphasised, however, that there was a deep religious element to the acts of self-immolation in Vietnam. The monks who burned themselves believed they were ‘practising the doctrine of highest compassion’, for their sacrifice was made in order to call attention to intolerance, fanaticism and discrimination.24 By compassionately killing themselves, they hoped to save others. It is very likely that the method of death chosen by the monks was actually influenced by Buddhist doctrine; so while their deaths were a form of political protest, they may be rationalised in a religious context. In the Sino–Japanese Buddhist tradition, the last teachings given by the Buddha are believed to form the Lotus Sutra (or Saddharmapundarikasutra). In Chapter 23 of this Sutra, a bodhisattva named Bhaisajyaraja burns himself as a sacrifice to Buddha: [Bhaisajyaraja] appeared before the Buddha Sun Moon Pure Bright Virtue, wrapped his body in heavily jewelled robes, poured fragrant oil over his head and, calling on his transcendental powers, set fire to his body. The glow shone forth, illuminating worlds equal in number to the sands of eighty million Ganges. The Buddhas in these worlds simultaneously spoke out in praise, saying: ‘Excellent, excellent, good man! This is true diligence. This is what is called a true Dharma offering. . . . Good man, this is called the foremost donation of all’. (Watson 1993: 282) How is this to be interpreted? The translator of the above passage states clearly that the chapter is intended as a metaphor. Williams says that this chapter – and other similar sutras – may be ‘poetic exhortations to renunciation rather than literal invitations to cremation’ (1989: 155). However, various accounts show that Buddhists have on occasion taken the sutra quite literally and burned themselves.25 In Chinese Buddhism, for example, self-immolation was relatively common in medieval times, and Chinese Buddhist historians ‘regarded such action as virtuous and worthy of emulation’ (Jan 1965: 244). In medieval China monks burned themselves for a variety of reasons, including a desire to express their devotion to Buddha; to help propagate Buddhism; and also in protest against religious persecution. Indeed, selfimmolation has been described as ‘one of the most obvious and commonplace features of Sinitic Buddhism’ (Benn 1998: 295). The practice did not necessarily always involve burning oneself to death; it also included the ‘burning off or branding of limbs . . . the burning off of fingers . . . [and] the burning of incense . . . on the body’ (Benn 1998: 296). What is perfectly clear is that there was ‘nothing odd or unprecedented about burning the 54

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body’ (Benn 1998: 318). While these references to the acceptability of selfimmolation are primarily found in the Chinese Buddhist tradition, in a wider Buddhist context the giving away of one’s own life in this manner can be seen as the ultimate form of alms-giving. This is, after all, one of the Six Perfections that should be embodied by a bodhisattva.26 The most important issue when considering any causal link between Buddhist teachings and self-immolation is that regardless of whether such consequences were intended or not, those who committed self-immolation did take teachings such as the Lotus Sutra and the other relevant texts seriously. It is of course impossible to state that self-immolation would not have occurred if it had not been mentioned – apparently favourably – in the Lotus Sutra; it is also impossible to say that Thupten Ngodup was influenced in any way by the teachings. Indeed, it is extremely unlikely, as has been previously stated, the influential texts regarding self-immolation are found in the Chinese rather than Tibetan Buddhist tradition. However, it is clearly evident that self-immolation can be rationalised when interpreting the Sutra literally – as it was by monks in China and quite probably by monks in Vietnam. It is also true to say that self-immolation, while immediately horrifying in a Western context, does have a place in the Buddhist environment; it is not automatically regarded as unusual. Thich Nhat Hanh stressed this when he tried to explain the self-immolations in Vietnam to an American doctor: I said no more, realising then that she could never understand. She could not understand because she was unable, though not unwilling, to look at the act of self-burning from any angle but her own. (Nhat Hanh 1967: 9) The context of fasting While the self-immolation of Thupten Ngodup was an extreme, highly visible type of protest, it was the (probably spontaneous) act of an individual. As an individual, however, Ngodup had intended to take part in an organised collective protest: the second phase of the Tibetan Youth Congress’s fast unto death. While there is no evidence of his motivations regarding his selfimmolation, he did make a statement regarding his plans to join the hunger strike: I appreciate the TYC organising this hunger strike unto death. I admire the six hunger strikers and all those Tibetans back in Tibet. I am happy and at the same time proud in getting the opportunity to be one of the hunger-strikers in the second batch and I have no regrets. . . . I have full faith in the Middle Way approach of His Holiness the Dalai Lama.27 55

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This statement suggests that Ngodup was prepared for the possible final consequence of the hunger strike: death. It also shows his faith in the Dalai Lama. However, the Dalai Lama made it clear that he could not support actions such as hunger strikes, because he thinks they represent a kind of violence. The Dalai Lama’s views regarding hunger strikes are interesting because he has always declared his admiration for Gandhi, who was an enthusiastic advocate of fasting for both religious and political purposes.28 The TYC hunger strikers in 1998 were influenced by Gandhi; they even kept his portrait alongside them as a source of inspiration. In an interview with Tibetan Review, Tseten Norbu, the president of the TYC, confirmed the guidance of Gandhi: There are different opinions on [fasting as violence] and this difference will remain whether I say [fasting] is or is not violent. . . . [W]hen Gandhi followed this path, people around the world took it as non-violent. His teaching is also non-violence. He was respected all over the world for it. How can it be that what was peaceful and non-violent action when Gandhi did it becomes violent when the TYC does it? So, we feel that our hunger strike initiative is strictly non-violent. After all, this was the path followed by Gandhi. (Dhondup 1998: 17) However, Gandhi recognised that fasting unto death as a political measure could be misconstrued. In particular, he was aware that some of his critics felt that by fasting he was coercing his opponents, and that coercion could be interpreted as a type of violence. He interpreted such coercion, however, as purely moral, arguing that it was similar to the ‘coercion which Jesus exercises upon you from the Cross’ (Parekh 1989: 161).29 Gandhi was able ultimately to justify fasting as he felt that it was the most effective form of non-violent action available to a satyagrahi in the face of evil. He believed that fasting would cause his opponents to reflect upon their behaviour and values: Non-violence in its positive aspect as benevolence . . . is the greatest force because of the limitless scope it affords for self-suffering without causing or intending any physical or material injury to the wrong-doer. The object is always to evoke the best in him. Selfsuffering is an appeal to his better nature, as retaliation is to his baser. Fasting under proper circumstances is such as appeal par excellence. If the politician does not perceive its propriety in political matters, it is because it is a novel use of this very fine weapon. (Gandhi 1942: 99) 56

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The gentle and subtle nature of the Gandhian fast is explicit in this quotation. Gandhi was adamant that a fast would not pressurise the opponent into action. This, he felt, would bring disastrous consequences: I have observed before that things done under pressure of a fast have been undone after the fast is over. If any such thing happens, it would be a tragedy of the highest degree. There is no occasion for it at any time. (Gandhi 1948: 207) Gandhi never fasted in order to exert political pressure upon the British government in India, although moral pressure was acceptable. The fasts he undertook included three against Untouchability, three for Hindu–Muslim Unity and three for self-purification. The way in which pressure could be averted was by following four strict principles: the fast should only be undertaken against those for whom one had reciprocal feelings of love; it should only be embarked upon when the opponents have admitted to unacceptable behaviour; it should aim at the reform of the opponents; and it should only be resorted to when all other methods have been tried and failed.30 The important question that must now be addressed is whether the TYC, which declared itself Gandhian in its methods, followed these criteria in the course of their fast. The element of political pressure in the TYC hunger strike must also be considered. Gandhian principles and the Tibetan Youth Congress Of the TYC itself, there can be no doubt that they felt that their hunger strike was a last resort. They have witnessed the complete refusal of the Chinese authorities even to begin negotiations with the Dalai Lama, despite the latter’s willingness to compromise, most notably on the issue of independence. It is therefore not surprising that the TYC declares itself committed to complete independence, when the efforts of their spiritual and political leader have gone unrewarded. The TYC have tried and tested most radical methods; including demonstrations, both non-violent and violent, and other hunger strikes. They have also debated the use of guerrilla warfare and terrorism, reasoning that other organisations such as the Palestinian Liberation Organisation (PLO) have adopted this approach with some success. Tempa Tsering, a former member of the Central Executive Committee of the TYC, explains: From the moment Yasir [sic] Arafat was invited to the UN and given a standing ovation, [the TYC] had begun debating the use of terrorism. . . . It was clear the world had come to this: you kill and 57

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commit destruction and you are listened to. You appeal for justice for your people and you are ignored. . . . [Violent] action is contrary to the Tibetan character. (Avedon 1997: 131) The Dalai Lama and the government in exile are obviously aware that the measures advocated by the TYC are ‘contrary’ for Tibetans, and in their attempted dealings with China have tried most reasonable democratic methods, including approaches to the UN and the EU, and to the US Congress. An important factor to note here is that Gandhi would surely have qualified the last of his above principles by stressing that all other methods within reason should be attempted. He was always firm that any satyagraha campaign should start with a clear outline of the goals about which one is not prepared to compromise. For the TYC, the goal is independence, and it seems entirely reasonable to state that they, or their community at large, have tried all possible means to this end. Lhasang Tsering, a former president of the TYC, has made this perfectly clear: Independence is a goal worthy of any amount of suffering and sacrifice. As a people we have already suffered a great deal and . . . will continue to struggle, to suffer and sacrifice so long as independence remains the goal. However, I cannot expect people to make similar sacrifices for a lesser goal. I, for one, cannot struggle to be in association with China. (Tsering 1994: 37) It is clear then that in terms of the TYC’s goals and struggle, their choice of hunger strike as a tactic was obviously a last resort. The remaining three principles of Gandhian fasts are a little more difficult to apply to the TYC hunger strike. The third principle, that a fast should aim at reform of the opponents, might apply to the TYC case, depending on the definition of ‘reform’. The TYC hoped to persuade the UN to agree to their demands on Tibet; but is this a case of reform? It probably is not, because if the UN were to reform, it would suggest they had done something wrong in the first place. However, it can be argued that the UN have never made any progress on Tibet – surely related to China’s permanent seat on the Security Council, as well as Tibet’s failure to join the League of Nations – and so for them to agree to the TYC’s limited demands in 1998 would represent a type of ‘reform’. It must be stressed, though, that the UN would have to reform of its own accord if it were to respond in the manner outlined by Gandhi. This would mean that it could not respond under pressure. Unfortunately, the TYC president, Tseten Norbu, made clear in Tibetan Review that they intended putting pressure upon the UN: 58

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[T]he UN is as last taking interest. But of course that us not enough. . . . [W]e are trying our best to grab attention from different angles. We are both pressurising and lobbying with the UN so that the issue of Tibet may be taken up. . . . All the lobbying and pressurising that we put together on the UN will, I hope, produce a tangible and positive result for Tibet. (Dhondup 1998: 17) This admission on the TYC’s part surely negates any claim they have made that their hunger strike was Gandhian in its form and direction. Similarly the first two of the principles are extremely difficult to apply to the Tibetan case. The first, that the fasters must love their opponents and vice versa, cannot be fulfilled by the TYC. Gandhi was able to lay claim to this principle because he fasted to atone for the deeds of his followers, or against an individual such as the Viceroy or against a small group of people. In many cases – such as the fast at Ahmedabad – Gandhi knew his opponents. The same cannot be said of the relationship between the UN and the TYC. Also, for Gandhi the notion of love was clearly related to his religious philosophy; he saw ‘love’, ‘Truth’, and ‘God’ as convertible terms, and described love as the ‘law of my being’ (Duncan 1972: 70). The difficulties of using Gandhian methods – infused as they are with Hinduism – are discussed below; it seems as though the apparently simple use of fasting is also fraught with contextual problems.31 The final principle, that the opponent must admit to their unacceptable behaviour, is also difficult to relate to the TYC fast. The UN does not admit to any wrong-doing on its part; it merely makes excuses for previous inaction. The main reason given by Kofi Annan in 1998 for the UN’s failure to respond to the TYC’s demands was that it was a matter for the individual Member States rather than him. This is not an admission of unacceptable behaviour, merely an admission than the organisation was unable to react in any useful way at all. Therefore – in no way due to any fault on the part of the TYC – the hunger strike fails to meet this precondition of the Gandhian fast as well. But does the apparent failure of the TYC to meet Gandhi’s strict principles mean that their hunger strike was invalid? It must be asked if a hunger strike can be rationalised from both a Buddhist and a political or tactical perspective, as well as whether any reasonable justification can be offered for such desperate measures. Towards a Buddhist rationalisation of fasting It has been shown that the extreme act of self-immolation is referred to in Buddhist teachings as a way of sacrificing oneself to the Buddha. The question of whether it is metaphorical or not is unimportant here, as it has been taken literally by many Buddhists. Even the fact that self-immolation 59

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was used as a method of political protest by Buddhist clergy in Vietnam, a disturbing picture begins to emerge of an apparently rational form of religious and political suicide. The hunger strike, or fast, on the other hand, is not generally alluded to in Buddhist teachings. It lacks religious context – unlike in Hinduism, where it can be labelled a type of tapas, or self-suffering – that could help rationalise the action by the TYC.32 Therefore, the political instances of hunger strikes by Buddhists in the past should be examined. There are two important examples which may help with the rationalisation and justification of the 1998 strike: the use of fasting as protest by Buddhists in Vietnam, and the previous hunger strikes undertaken by the TYC. Buddhists used fasting throughout the struggle in Vietnam in the 1960s, a struggle which began with the aim of protecting Buddhism, but which widened into a general movement against political oppression. Interestingly, this evolution of the struggle is the opposite to the Tibetan case: whereas in the early days of the Chinese occupation, the official Tibetan objective was political independence, now the official aim is the protection and preservation of Tibetan (religious) culture. In Vietnam fasting was used both by individuals and by groups of various sizes, and on one occasion the monastic leader Thich Tri Quang fasted for one hundred days.33 The purpose of fasting in Vietnam was, according to Thich Nhat Hanh, ‘to pray, to purify one’s heart and strengthen the will – or to arouse the latent awareness and compassion of the population’ (King 1996: 335). This is very close to the purpose of the Gandhian fast; indeed, Thich Nhat Hanh has made clear that the reason Gandhi influenced him was because Gandhi achieved success using non-violent methods. Although he does not explicitly allude to the fast, Thich Nhat Hanh implies that Gandhi’s influence was particularly important in respect of non-violent action; so it seems safe to assume that for the Vietnamese Buddhists, the fast was not considered violent. After all, if such a drastic action as self-immolation can be interpreted as non-violent, then the same rationalisation of the fast is logical. It is probable that the most pertinent reason behind the TYC’s decision to embark on their hunger strike in 1998 was that they had held several hunger strikes before. It was, for the organisation, a tried and tested method, which in the past had won them the results they desired. Their action in 1977, for example, was successful: [Tibetans] commenced a hunger strike before the office of the UN representative [in Delhi]. The hunger strike was dramatically successful. Not only did the Janata Party (then the ruling party) pledge, in writing, to help in the struggle for Tibetan independence, but many ministers of the Indian government and national leaders . . . personally reiterated this pledge. . . . No other Tibetan activity in India has received so much publicity since ’59. The strike was given 60

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extensive coverage, not only by various Indian and international papers, but also by various Indian and foreign television networks. Nearly every Tibetan refugee was galvanised by this movement and sympathy strikes took place, not only in India, but also abroad.34 It is very clear from this statement – written by one of the original convenors of the TYC – that the hunger strike was justified because it was successful; and also because it attracted all-important media attention. With both the 1977 and 1998 strikes, nowhere has there been an attempt to rationalise the action of deliberate self-harm (the traditional Tibetan Buddhist interpretation of an action such as this) in Buddhist terms. For the TYC the hunger strike was a purely political event designed to achieve purely political ends. While this is completely reasonable in itself, it does not resolve two contextual problems: first, that a purely political action cannot, as we have seen, be interpreted as Gandhian; and second, the use of a political tactic rich with religious connotations is even more difficult when applied in the Tibetan arena. This is discussed below.

Justifying the hunger strike Based on the above description of the Tibetan Youth Congress’s hunger strike in 1977, it would appear that the organisation has two criteria for justification: success and media attention. It must be asked if the hunger strike in 1998 met these criteria. The success of the TYC’s action is difficult to judge. If success is taken to mean that their original demands of the UN were satisfied, then the TYC did not succeed. As has been shown, the UN expressed some sympathy for the Tibetans’ position, but did not actually take any action specifically designed to meet the TYC’s demands, such as the appointment of a rapporteur or the initiation of a plebiscite. Since the hunger strike ended, there has been no further response from the UN. The TYC made it clear at the beginning of the hunger strike that their members were prepared to die unless the UN re-opened the debate on the future of Tibet. Fortunately no hunger strikers did die, despite the UN’s intransigence. Of course it must be noted that the first phase of the TYC’s hunger strike was forcibly stopped by the Indian authorities; however, the TYC alone took the decision to end the second phase. The reason given for ending the second phase of the hunger strike was that various countries (Poland, Costa Rica, Norway and Hungary) had agreed to take up the cause of Tibetan independence. The TYC president also said that President Clinton had pledged to take up the issue of independence with Jiang Zemin during his June 1998 visit to Beijing. While this seems to have been a dilution of the original demands made of the UN, the TYC did 61

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promise that their protests would be resumed if no significant progress was made by these countries. It is clear that they have not made any progress; Clinton promised before his visit to China that he would ‘press ahead on human rights and . . . [hope that China would] take concrete steps to preserve Tibet’s cultural, linguistic and religious heritage’.35 He did not, however, specifically mention Tibetan independence. There could be a Gandhian element to the decision of the TYC to end their hunger strike on the grounds of the promises of these countries: Gandhi was always willing to compromise, although there were certain goals upon which he was not prepared to negotiate. For the TYC, this goal is Tibetan independence; therefore it should perhaps be assumed that their protests will recommence if progress is not made on this objective.36 The role of Indian nuclear testing There was some speculation that when the TYC broke off their fast their decision was linked to Indian nuclear weapons testing.37 While the TYC denied that this was the case, the Tibetan government in exile controversially welcomed the tests. The Dalai Lama, rather surprisingly, said that ‘some big countries say only they have the right to nuclear weapons. India is a big country and in that case it should have that right’.38 Why, though, should the nuclear testing have affected the TYC’s hunger strike? There are several possibilities. First, China criticised the Indian testing on the grounds that it was evidence of India’s desire to impose its hegemony over Asia. India could easily have countered that the Chinese invasion of Tibet and subsequent attempted invasion of India in 1962 was evidence of China’s desire for exactly the same. Tibetans would naturally have supported India’s position, and so the hunger strike could have been called off as a gesture of support. A second possibility brings Pakistan into the equation. China is thought to have assisted Pakistan in its nuclear programme in various ways, including supplying weapons-grade uranium and providing weapon designs. As India and Pakistan are extremely antagonistic towards each other – a situation worsened by the nuclear testing of both countries – it is again only natural that Tibetans would ally themselves to India (their host country) as opposed to Pakistan (a friend of China). A final consideration is the fact that the hunger strike was difficult politically for India, and so when tension grew around the time of the nuclear testing, it was convenient for everybody concerned if the hunger strike was abandoned. Media attention Despite the tenacity of the hunger strikers, the dramatic death of Thupten Ngodup and the political context of the end of the hunger strike, the action as a whole received little international media attention.39 This is more evident 62

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when compared with similar actions such as the IRA hunger strikes in 1981, when ten people died, and the Vietnamese self-immolations, which received widespread media coverage. It is difficult to assess why the events of 1998 did not attract more attention. The Tibetan struggle as a whole has always been of limited interest to the media, perhaps because it has gone on for so long with little scope for solution. Alternatively, the non-violent stance of the Tibetan government in exile could also be an explanation, for it has often appeared that no progress has been made whatsoever, despite the moderation of the Dalai Lama’s objectives.40 Unfortunately only violence and dramatic gestures tend to make the news; which makes the lack of attention given to Thupten Ngodup’s death in particular difficult to understand. The hunger strike could have fallen victim to ‘Shangri-La-ism’: the Western perception of Tibet as a perfect spiritual land where no-one has a harmful thought conflicts with the reality of a modern, sometimes violent political struggle for survival.41 For those in the West who look to Tibetan Buddhism for all the answers to their insecurities, the image of ‘violent’ Buddhists is uncomfortable, particularly where Buddhism itself can be offered as a justification for their actions. This is perhaps another reason why the hunger strike in 1998 failed to attract widespread attention. For the Tibetan Youth Congress in 1977, their hunger strike was justified because they achieved their immediate objectives and enjoyed extensive coverage in the media. This cannot be said of their action in 1998. The situation of Tibet in relation to China is exactly the same as it was before the hunger strike, as is the position of the UN in relation to the two countries. President Clinton’s visit to China in June 1998 illustrates this perfectly. President Clinton in China Although Clinton’s visit was widely hailed as a breakthrough in Sino– American relations, particularly on the issue of Tibet, it is difficult to see exactly how much, if any, real progress was made. While Clinton urged Jiang Zemin to open dialogue with the Dalai Lama, Jiang made it clear that the Dalai Lama had first to accept Tibet and Taiwan as parts of China. This is no different from previous statements by China, and it is interesting to note the Dalai Lama’s comments made before his 1997 visit to Taiwan: My trip to Taiwan clearly proves that I have abandoned the position of Tibet [sic] independence . . . because Taiwan recognises Tibet as part of China, my visit to Taiwan indicates my agreement with that position. (Goldstein 1997: 112) Despite this compromise on the part of the Dalai Lama, during the Clinton visit the Chinese authorities blamed the Dalai Lama for the lack of 63

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negotiations between the two countries. During a press conference with Jiang, Clinton implied that he too felt that recognition of China’s claim to Tibet was a reasonable and necessary precondition for the Dalai Lama’s entry into dialogue.42 It must be remembered here that the TYC gave up their hunger strike because Clinton had promised to raise the issue of Tibetan independence with the Chinese. In actual fact, Clinton agreed with Jiang that Tibet is part of China. Nothing really new came out of the Beijing meetings: the same rhetoric was repeated by the Chinese, and the Dalai Lama was presented as the only real impediment to negotiation on Tibet’s future. It is hard to see how this can be termed progress, as stalemate still prevails. Beijing is, in effect, demanding that the Dalai Lama denies the historical Tibetan perception of independence. While some Tibetans in exile can accept the Dalai Lama’s compromise on the future status of Tibet, any denial of their historical independence would be a step too far, and would inevitably lead to a further radicalisation of Tibetan exile politics.

Implications for the future The actions of the Tibetan Youth Congress in 1998 should not be ignored or dismissed, though in the short term they may have failed in their objectives. In many respects the TYC’s decision to embark on the hunger strike has crucial implications for the future of the Tibetan struggle. The most important of these is the willingness of some Tibetans to break with the position of the Dalai Lama, and to pursue their own agenda by their own means. The TYC’s decision to use a method of protest that they knew would meet with the disapproval of the Dalai Lama is a very significant move. It challenges the political authority the Dalai Lama has traditionally held over Tibetans. In pre-invasion Tibet, such a move would have been unthinkable; in the exile community it is still very unusual. However, the Dalai Lama’s objections to the hunger strike were made on religious grounds, so it must be asked whether it is right that such religious principles should be applied to a political situation. Tseten Norbu, the president of the TYC, clearly stated their case in an interview in June 1998 with Tibetan Review: As a Buddhist monk and Bodhisattva, [the Dalai Lama] has compassion towards all the sentient beings. So, it was strictly in religious terms and religious interpretation that he was talking [when he called fasting unto death a form of violence]. Politically he has said that he cannot stop because we are fighting for a noble cause – the cause of six million Tibetans. He also said that he cannot tell us to stop [our hunger strike] without having an alternative to offer, which he said he did not have. 64

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The fact really is that we are fighting for our political rights. This is not a religious act [italics added]. Hence, though the religious interpretation may be different, on the political plane we feel that we are absolutely right. The TYC are implying here that although they knew that in religious terms their action was insupportable, this did not have any impact on their decision to strike. The hunger strike was a political act, and religious interpretations should not have been applied. In the context of Tibetan politics, this is ground breaking. In pre-invasion Tibet religion and politics were indelibly interlinked; in the exile community these ties have not been significantly weakened. It is a development of which the Dalai Lama should surely be proud: he has often stated his wish that he should leave political life and that the Tibetan government should be elected by democratic means. The willingness of the TYC to break with tradition and separate religion and politics, when religion is a hindrance to their preferred method of political action, should perhaps be seen in the Tibetan exile community as progress. The use of the hunger strike illustrates the difficulties that can arise when religion and politics are combined. The TYC were shrewd when they chose a method of protest that could be contextualised in Indian political history. However, difficulties arose because as a political tactic the hunger strike was rich in religious connotations, particularly concerning the morality of selfsuffering and self-harming in Buddhism. While their Gandhian fast may have been open to justification in a Hindu context, for Tibetan Buddhists their actions were wrong. Any justification for the TYC’s action has, as has been shown, been purely political; while objections (from the Dalai Lama and from Samdhong Rinpoche) have been religious. Is it appropriate that an action designed to achieve political objectives should be condemned in religious terms? Although the Dalai Lama said that on religious grounds the hunger strike was wrong, he recognised that it could not be criticised on political grounds. The responses to the TYC’s action have been indicative of the problems that arise when a traditional society based on religion is forced to take an active political stance. This is not new: radical (and violent) actions throughout the Tibetan struggle have raised questions about the practicability of the synthesis of religion and politics in the context of a modern political struggle. This was the case with the guerrilla fighters and with the hunger strikers, and no doubt these questions will be raised again in the future. A violent future? Goldstein advances the proposition that organised violent opposition in Tibet is a viable strategic option for the future of the Tibetan struggle (1997: 115). He argues that a campaign of terrorism organised from outside Tibet would 65

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destabilise the region, particularly during a period of transition in mainland China. If he is referring to the transition after the death of Deng Xiaoping in 1997 to the leadership of Jiang, then it appears that perhaps the Tibetans have lost an opportunity. However, the change of leadership passed off without disruption, and so the opportunity was never really there. A major obstacle for such a campaign, according to Goldstein, would be the Dalai Lama and his commitment to non-violence. He maintains, however, that a campaign of violence would ultimately be difficult for the Dalai Lama to prevent: The crux of the matter is that Tibetans are unlikely to stand indefinitely on the sidelines watching Beijing transform their homeland with impunity. Nationalistic emotions coupled with desperation and anger make a powerful brew, and there are Tibetans inside and outside of Tibet who are intoxicated with the idea of beginning such a campaign of focused violence – in their view a ‘war of conscience’, a Tibetan-style intifada. (1997: 116) Although Goldstein offers no concrete evidence to support this last assertion – that an orchestrated campaign is in the making – other than the three bombings in Lhasa in December 1996, it is clear that the hunger strike in 1998 is evidence of both growing frustration and an increasing willingness to flout the Dalai Lama’s stance on non-violence.43 The devotion to the Tibetan struggle that is embodied in the hunger strikers – and most especially by Thupten Ngodup – cannot be ignored by the Tibetan government in exile. The willingness to inflict harm upon oneself in the name of the survival of one’s country is a symptom of desperate frustration; and it is entirely possible that this could escalate into violence against property or even against other people. While the impasse between the Dalai Lama and China remains – and Clinton’s visit shows that the Chinese have not and will not alter their position – the dangers of a violent campaign will increase. Similarly, if the only way forward is for the Dalai Lama to compromise further on the status of Tibet, then the divisions within the exile community will deepen; perhaps with violent consequences. The Tibetan government in exile should examine the past: members of Chushi Gangdruk were immediately ready to take up arms to protect their country, and did so justifying their actions in politicoreligious terms. Their legacy, of Buddhists resorting to violence to ensure the continuation of their religion, embodied as it is by their country, remains in the TYC and the hunger strikers. This is the reality of the Tibetan struggle – as it is of many modern liberation struggles – and an impassioned insistence on non-violence conflicts with it, as the Dalai Lama clearly recognises. Nonviolence may have worked for Gandhi in India, but it was not the sole characteristic of the struggle, as is shown below. It must be asked for whose benefit the Dalai Lama’s insistence upon non-violence is maintained: the 66

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western followers of Tibetan Buddhism, potentially supportive governments, or for Tibetans themselves? Until that issue is addressed, the future of the Tibetan liberation movement will be defined by the conflict between traditional Buddhist morality and a radicalised, and increasingly militant, people intent on achieving a solution.

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4 ‘MY LIFE IS MY MESSAGE’: THE GANDHIAN PARADIGM

[M]y devotion to truth has drawn me into the field of politics; and I can say without the slightest hesitation, and yet in all humility, that those who say that religion has nothing to do with politics do not know what religion means. Mahatma Gandhi1

His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama shares Mahatma Gandhi’s conviction that religion and politics are inextricably linked; indeed, Tibet’s entire political process is based on such a belief. The Dalai Lama has also made it clear that he is a great admirer of Gandhi’s stance on non-violence; he believes that Tibet can be liberated from the Chinese as India was from the British: I made a pilgrimage to Rajghat . . . where Mahatma Gandhi was cremated. . . . I felt very grateful to be there, the guest of a people who, like mine, had endured foreign domination; grateful also to be in a country that had adopted ahimsa, the Mahatma’s doctrine of non-violence. . . . To me, [Gandhi] was – and is – the consummate politician, a man who put his belief in altruism above any personal considerations. I was convinced too that his devotion to the cause of non-violence was the only way to conduct politics. (Dalai Lama 1990: 127) The Dalai Lama, although the most influential, is not the only prominent Tibetan to advocate Gandhi’s example as appropriate for the Tibetan cause. In 1995, the Chairman of the Tibetan parliament in exile, Samdhong Rinpoche, published what has been called the Satyagraha Manifesto. In this declaration he proposed that Tibetans should return to Tibet to engage in a satyagraha against the Chinese.2 While Samdhong Rinpoche acknowledged that this could be suicidal, he firmly believed that if Tibetans sincerely practised non-violent resistance, then they would be able to restore their freedom. While this proposal initially seems rather optimistic, particularly 68

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given the enormously uneven ratio of Chinese to Tibetans, it is necessary to examine closely the components of satyagraha before making any further judgements.

The principles of satyagraha Satyagraha is taken from two Sanskrit words: satya, meaning truth, and agraha, firm-grasping. It therefore roughly means ‘insistence on truth’, although Gandhi often described satyagraha as ‘truth-force’ or ‘soul-force’. His substitution of ‘soul’ for ‘truth’ is an indication of the essential spiritual element of satyagraha; indeed, Gandhi said in 1919 that ‘satyagraha was an attempt to introduce the religious element in politics’ (Iyer 1973: 339). Although all of Gandhi’s political thought is infused with the teachings of various religions (including Jainism, Buddhism, and, crucially, Hinduism), satyagraha was the practical – or political – expression of his religious criteria of truth and non-violence. Together with self-suffering (tapas), truth (satya) and non-violence (ahimsa) can be labelled the principles of Gandhian thought, whereas satyagraha represents the means by which the principles could be expressed. Satya Although satyagraha was a new concept, Gandhi’s insistence upon ‘holding to the truth’ was a familiar idea in Indian society. As Richards argues, ‘Gandhi is faithful to the traditions of Hinduism when he affirms the isomorphism of Truth (Satya) and Reality (Sat)’ (1991: 1). Gandhi further contended that satya was the simplest term available to man with which to describe God, because sat means that which is or exists. Therefore satya implies far more than mere truth; it has the connotations of that which is ‘real, sincere, existent, pure, good, effectual [and] valid’ (Iyer 1973: 150). Throughout Hindu thought truthfulness is seen as a virtue: ‘And austerity, almsgiving, uprightness, non-violence, truthfulness, these are the gifts for the priests’ (Chandogya Upanishad III, 17, iv). Gandhi believed that ‘to find Truth completely is to realise oneself and one’s destiny, that is, to become perfect’ (Bondurant 1958: 17). Satyagraha was the means for attaining this end. It is difficult to comprehend how a peaceful movement for the liberation of India can be equated with such an esoteric quest for self-realisation. For Gandhi the only way of knowing God (or Truth) was through the practice of non-violence (ahimsa). Ahimsa Ahimsa really means more than non-violence; Gandhi described it as a ‘positive state of love’ (Horsburgh 1968: 37). Simple non-violence implies 69

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passivity; ahimsa on the other hand is an active refusal to do harm. As with satya, it is a tradition not only of Hinduism, but also of Buddhism and of Jainism, both of which emerged from India. Gandhi believed that if truth was to be discovered in terms of human needs, then there could be no human harm; because harm is utterly incompatible with needs. In more theological terms, the stress on the relation between truth and ahimsa can be understood by examining Gandhi’s view of the Self. Gandhi believed that there was no distinction to be made between the Self (Atman) and God (or Truth). In the sense that has already been made clear, to find Truth is to find oneself. Therefore, [I]f the kernel of an individual, the higher Self, is the Atman which is at one with Truth or God, then to inflict deliberate violence on another is to injure God or undermine Truth, and to cause suffering to another is to violate one’s higher Self or Atman. (Richards 1991: 32) Ahimsa is not merely the political tactic of satyagraha. Gandhi believed that it should pervade every man’s consciousness: not only should he be physically non-violent, but he should not foster any thoughts of ill-will, jealousy or hatred. Gandhi was certain that everyone was capable of living up to this ideal: The religion of non-violence is not meant merely for the rishis and saints. It is meant for the common people as well. Non-violence is the law of our species as violence is the law of the brute . . . the dignity of man requires obedience to a higher law – to the strength of the spirit. (Gandhi 1942/1962: 4) Gandhi did not regard the liberation of India as the primary purpose of the practice of ahimsa. He was adamant that the removal of the British was pointless unless India underwent self-renewal, both collectively and individually. Such self-renewal could only come about through the practice of ahimsa, for true ahimsa was in itself the result of inner spiritual unity. This is important, as ahimsa and satyagraha are unintelligible if they are considered to be solely a method of achieving unity or liberation rather than as a result of spiritual oneness. It is crucial to note, though, that while Gandhi had realised his own spiritual unity, his followers had not, and many of them saw satyagraha as simply the means for attaining freedom from the Raj. It is perhaps not a coincidence that in 1997 during the celebrations marking the fiftieth anniversary of India’s independence the Indian prime minister called for a satyagraha to end corruption.3 After all, if the original satyagraha campaign had fulfilled all Gandhi’s expectations, then a renewal of the struggle fifty years later would surely not be necessary. 70

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Satyagraha is, then, the non-violent pursuit of truth undertaken by dedicated individuals. For Gandhi, the purpose of satyagraha was selfrealisation and renewal first, and the political liberation of India second. The important question, however, is how a satyagrahi can persuade others that he is sincere about his struggle, that his actions are for a greater good.4 Gandhi argued that merely appealing to the reason of opponents would have no effect; he believed that ‘the eyes of their understanding are opened not by argument, but by the suffering of the satyagrahi’ (Iyer 1973: 287). Tapas Tapas, or self-suffering, is the single factor that distinguishes satyagraha from other forms of non-violent resistance. Self-suffering is not only a means of testing truth, but it also guarantees the satyagrahi’s sincerity and courage. Tapas is an essential expression of satya, because unless the satyagrahi is prepared to suffer, he cannot seriously claim to be committed to what he believes is the truth. It is also an expression of ahimsa, because it ‘embodies a resolution to shoulder . . . [the] burden of suffering’ (Horsburgh 1968: 40). Iyer argues that the doctrine of satyagraha actually requires suffering, for two reasons (1973: 288). First, the satyagrahi tries to convert his adversary by sheer force of character, and in doing so he disciplines only himself. Second, Gandhi believed that if the satyagrahi could see matters from his opponent’s point of view, and realise that the point of view was wrong, then through his voluntary suffering – rather than the suffering of his opponent – the satyagrahi could persuade the other that he was mistaken. Theoretically, the satyagrahi’s suffering alters the opponent’s position because the opponent respects and admires the stance the satyagrahi has taken, as well as realising the level of conviction. The opponent does not respond out of pity and the satyagrahi is not humiliated. However, Gandhi’s claim that the convictions of the satyagrahi’s opponents are weakened by the impact of tapas is negligible. History has shown that even the most intense suffering by massive groups of people has failed to move hardened regimes. In Tibet many monks and nuns are vociferous in their calls for a ‘Free Tibet’, despite being aware of the certainty of arrest, and the likelihood of torture and imprisonment. Although this is not strictly tapas in its purest sense – it is closely aligned with asceticism and purification of the soul – Gandhi believed that The satyagrahi’s love, sustained even in the midst of most brutal treatment, released a ‘silent’ and ‘unseen force’ that touched the innermost spiritual being of his opponent, activated his sense of their shared identity and broke through the barriers of ill-will. (Parekh 1989: 151) 71

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Needless to say, the Chinese authorities do not appear to have had their souls touched by the suffering of the Tibetans. It is important to remember, however, that the suffering of those who resist the regime in Tibet does not deter others from doing likewise. Also, despite the fact that suffering does not persuade the Chinese to desist, it does attract the attention of other concerned parties. In India, however, suffering does seem to have provoked the capitulation of the enemy, particularly when it was Gandhi himself who was suffering. He was very much in favour of fasting to achieve his ends: for example, in September 1932 he vowed to fast unto death if the British proceeded with plans to hold separate elections for Untouchables. Although some of his fasts failed many achieved his aim: that of convincing his opponent that their position was wrong. Gandhi believed that the power of fasting, especially unto death, was immense: ‘sacrifice of self even unto death is the final weapon in the hands of a non-violent person. It is not given to man to do more’ (Iyer 1973: 304). Again, though, it has to be asked if positions were changed out of a true conversion of opinion or out of fear for the consequences of Gandhi’s possible death or, indeed, the deaths of his followers. Fasting is a good example of a method of satyagraha that also embodies its limits. As Gandhi himself believed, ‘the limit for satyagraha in general is prescribed by the capacity of its votaries as a whole for selfsacrifice and self-suffering’ (Iyer 1973: 315). While fasting in particular, and the concept of tapas in general, were acknowledged as both the distinguishing and the most difficult elements of satyagraha, there were many other methods that could be employed by any individual. These are explored below.

The birth of satyagraha Satyagraha was first used by Gandhi in South Africa in 1906, as a response to the government of the Transvaal ordering that all Indians should register with the authorities, have their fingerprints taken, and carry identification at all times. Gandhi decided that if the law was adopted, it would bring ‘absolute ruin for the Indians of South Africa . . . [it was better to] die than submit to such a law’ (Fischer 1951: 89). At a rally he called therefore for total noncompliance with the proposed law, and asked that those present should stick to their pledges regardless of the risks of punishment, deportation, or even death. The movement and the principle began before Gandhi had thought of an appropriate name: I found that the term ‘passive resistance’ was too narrowly construed, that it was supposed to be a weapon of the weak, that it could be characterised by hatred, and that it could finally manifest itself as violence, I had to . . . explain the real nature of the Indian movement. 72

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It was clear that a new word must be coined by the Indians to designate their struggle. (Gandhi 1927: 266) ‘Satyagraha’ was adapted from a cousin of Gandhi’s suggestion of ‘sadagraha’ (‘firmness in a good cause’), and has been variously translated as truth-force, truth-firmness and insistence on truth. In South Africa this meant voting to disobey the proposed registration laws in the name of God, because Gandhi believed that an action with God as witness was an unalterable vow. The satyagraha against what became known as the ‘Black Act’ was prolonged, with Gandhi going to jail many times – where in 1908, incidentally, he read Thoreau’s On the Duty of Civil Disobedience. It intensified in 1913 when the South African Supreme Court decreed that only Christian marriages were legal, and for the first time many women joined the satyagraha. Many of these women marched from the Transvaal into Natal, defying border controls on Asians, to urge Indian miners to go on strike. The women were arrested and imprisoned, with the result that the satyagraha movement swelled. Gandhi decided that the satyagrahis and striking miners should march on the Transvaal and therefore court arrest. The tactic worked; Gandhi was arrested several times and was tried in November 1913. The court was reluctant to imprison him – for obvious reasons – but Gandhi and several other leaders of the march testified against each other. He received three months’ hard labour, and the number of satyagrahis throughout South Africa increased rapidly. Upon his early release (with which he was reportedly disappointed), Gandhi immediately appeared at a mass rally in Durban, where he announced that the satyagraha was a ‘struggle for human liberty and therefore a struggle for religion’ (Fischer 1951: 132). After the South African government rejected Gandhi’s proposal that there should be Indian members in a commission set up to investigate their grievances, Gandhi announced in 1914 that a group of Indians would march from Durban to regain their lost liberties. It was at this point that Gandhi did something that differentiated satyagraha from simple civil disobedience. In response to the prospect of an Indian mass march, the white employees of South Africa’s railways went on strike. Gandhi reacted to this by immediately postponing the planned march, because It was not part of the tactics of satyagraha, he explained, to destroy, hurt, humble, or embitter the adversary, or to win a victory by weakening him. Civil resisters hope, by sincerity, chivalry and selfsuffering, to convince the opponent’s brain and conquer his heart. They never take advantage of the Government’s difficulty or form unnatural alliances. (Fischer 1951: 133) 73

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Gandhi’s action in calling off the march illustrated his sincerity and the purity of his new technique. It also demonstrated that ahimsa was a vital part of satyagraha. In political terms, his actions were very shrewd: as a result of the campaign Gandhi entered into talks with General Smuts and negotiations with the South African government began. Although the results of these talks was a compromise (non-Christian marriages were declared valid, but Indians were still subject to controls on their movements between provinces), Gandhi was satisfied with the settlement and felt that satyagraha had been vindicated. Even General Smuts later acknowledged Gandhi’s success: It was my fate to be the antagonist of a man for whom even then I had the highest respect. . . . [Gandhi] never forgot the human background of the situation, never lost his temper or succumbed to hate, and preserved his gentle humour even in the most trying situations. His manner and spirit, even then, as well as later, contrasted markedly with the ruthless and brutal forcefulness which is the vogue in our day . . . For him everything went according to plan. For me – the defender of law and order – there was the usual trying situation, the odium of carrying out a law which had not strong public support, and finally the discomfiture when the law was repealed. (Fischer 1951: 135) The first campaign in South Africa contained the two most important methods of satyagraha: non-cooperation and civil disobedience. The actions of the Indians in refusing to comply with the registration laws was noncooperative, while the illegal marches constituted civil disobedience. Gandhi continually developed his ideas on both types of satyagraha, and was later to advocate their use in India.

The types of satyagraha Together with the methods mentioned above, non-cooperation and civil disobedience, there was a third type of satyagraha that was perhaps the most important of all: the Constructive Programme. All of the methods were supposed to uphold the three principles of satyagraha: satya, ahimsa and tapas. These principles conveyed, respectively, legitimacy, morality and spirituality upon the method of satyagraha. Non-cooperation A Non-Cooperation Movement was officially launched by Gandhi in 1920, when he urged a boycott of British textile goods.5 Unfortunately this led to considerable hardship for mill-workers in Lancashire, and Gandhi was 74

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accused of violence. He denied the charge, arguing that the boycott could not morally be considered an act of violence. Gandhi gave three reasons why his economic boycott still upheld the principle of ahimsa: he had no intention of harming the mill-workers; India had a right and a duty to protect its own interests (in this case its textile industry); and India had no moral obligation to protect the interests of the Lancashire workers. Gandhi interpreted his boycott not as an infliction of pressure upon Britain, but rather as an assertion of India’s right to use its own hand-spun cloth, or khadi. Gandhi believed that spinning could bring employment to peasants when crops were successful, and would also provide an income during difficult periods or in the event of disaster. The use of Indian-made goods – known generally as swadeshi, or self-sufficiency – was crucial to both the non-cooperation movement and to Gandhi’s primary objective, swaraj. Swaraj means self-rule, both in the sense of political independence and disciplined rule within one’s own self. The specific issue of khadi is central to Gandhi’s Constructive Programme, and is discussed below. Aside from economic boycott, non-cooperation also included hartal, or total cessation of work; strikes; and hijrat, or voluntary migration. It could also include fasting unto death, although this is a moot point. Bondurant argues that fasting could be used as an addition to satyagraha but is not a form in itself, whereas Iyer includes fasting, particularly unto death, as a type of non-cooperation, and further regards it as central to the Gandhian ethic.6 Given that Gandhi himself used fasting, as already stated, it is appropriate to include it as a method of satyagraha. The first hartal Gandhi first used the hartal, or total suspension of activities, in 1919 when the Rowlatt Act became law in India. This allowed for the continuation of wartime restrictions such as press censorship and secret trials, in an attempt to quell political violence. Gandhi pleaded with the Viceroy, Lord Chelmsford, and told him that the government’s action had left him with no other option except to resort to satyagraha. Gandhi was firm in his conviction that non-cooperation should only be used after negotiation, arbitration and the issuance of ultimatums had failed, so he decided that [W]e should call upon the country to observe a general hartal. Satyagraha is a process of self-purification, and ours is a sacred fight, and it seems to me to be in the fitness of things that it should be commenced with an act of self-purification. Let all the people of India therefore, suspend their business on that day and observe the day as one of fasting and prayer. (Gandhi 1927: 383) 75

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The hartal, on 6 April 1919, was Gandhi’s first direct act against the British government in India. It was more than simply a strike; once again Gandhi attempted to fuse political action with spiritual self-renewal. Unfortunately, however, the hartal was marred by violence in several cities, and on 18 April Gandhi suspended the satyagraha movement. He fasted to atone for what he famously called his ‘Himalayan Miscalculation’ in launching a movement before the people were ready for it. Specifically, Gandhi felt that people had failed to understand that a satyagrahi should [O]bey the laws of society intelligently and of his own free will, because he considers it to be his sacred duty to do so. It is only when a person has thus obeyed the laws of society scrupulously that he is in a position to judge as to which particular rules are good and just and which are unjust and iniquitous. Only then does the right accrue to him of the civil disobedience of certain laws in well-defined circumstances. My error lay in my failure to observe this necessary limitation. (Gandhi 1927: 392) Although Gandhi considered himself to have failed – particularly in the aftermath of the Jallianwalla Bagh Massacre in Amritsar – his satyagraha against the Rowlatt Act marked a turning point, not only for him but for India as a whole.7 Gandhi reluctantly realised that the system of government could not be reformed, it had to be replaced. He redefined satyagraha, believing that it could include boycotts, strikes and other forms of non-cooperation. Prior to this he had maintained that self-suffering alone was capable of ‘melting even the stoniest hearts’ (Parekh 1989: 153). Gandhi’s use of strikes Gandhi was a firm advocate of striking because he believed that the striker was ceasing to be a part of what he believed to be wrong, and so the wrong-doer was able to see the error of his ways. In the terms of satyagraha, the satyagrahi strikes so that his opponent can realise what is True. Gandhi laid down three rules for those going on strike to observe: first, that strikes should only be undertaken in cases of real injustice; second, people should only go on strike if they have adequate financial resources or other means of support such as spinning; and third, strikers must declare an unalterable minimum demand before proceeding. Needless to say, Gandhi also stressed the observance of ahimsa at all times when on strike. He first urged workers to go on strike in Ahmedabad in 1918. As with his other first attempts at non-cooperation, however, the experiment did not work. He encouraged textile workers to strike because they wanted a wage increase, but the increase was only agreed upon after Gandhi himself began 76

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fasting. Gandhi was aware of the coercive nature of his fast in this particular instance, especially as the mill was owned by a friend of his, Ambalal Sarabhai. The hijrat Gandhi urged the use of hijrat, or voluntary migration, only once: to peasants in Bardoli, in Gujarat, in 1928. He advocated the migration on the grounds that leaving the area altogether was a certain way of avoiding the possibility of violent conflict. The government had announced tax increases of 22 per cent, which, not surprisingly, the people of Bardoli refused to pay. In response, the peasants’ possessions were seized, but Gandhi observed that ‘the people of Bardoli . . . will have lost their possessions but kept . . . their honour’ (Fischer 1951: 278). Perhaps Gandhi realised that many people might actually have preferred their possessions and their homes, for in 1931 he rejected the use of hijrat as unnecessary. Interestingly, Iyer argues that hijrat can only be a method of satyagraha if it is completely voluntary, and he cites the Dalai Lama’s flight from Lhasa as such an example (1973: 305). It is, however, clearly questionable whether the Dalai Lama’s escape from Tibet was voluntary: he was possibly under the threat of being kidnapped, and was almost certainly at risk of injury, if not death. Can flight under such circumstances ever be entirely voluntary? The Dalai Lama did not leave Tibet willingly; he felt he had no choice because for Tibetans he embodied the very essence of Tibet, and hence his escape was the only chance there was for Tibet to survive. While no one actually forced the Dalai Lama to leave, he was under considerable moral pressure to do so. Therefore, to cite him as one of the true proponents of hijrat is misleading. Certainly he attempts to be a disciple of Gandhi in many ways, but not in this one. Non-cooperation and the rule of law Gandhi believed that certain stringent conditions have to be satisfied before non-cooperation and civil disobedience could be justified. Above all, both methods of satyagraha have to be preceded by negotiation and arbitration, as well as an examination of motives and exercising of self-discipline. It goes without saying that non-cooperation and civil disobedience were to be resorted to only when other avenues had been closed. Perhaps one of the most important aspects of preparation for satyagraha was the issuance of ultimatums: Gandhi was a faithful adherent of compromise, so these ultimatums always had to contain the widest possible scope for agreement. It is when studying this process of satyagraha that serious difficulties begin to emerge if satyagraha is to be applied in Tibet. In India those who resisted the British Raj were legally allowed to form political parties – such as the 77

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Indian National Congress – to voice their concerns. More importantly, Gandhi insisted that non-cooperation and civil disobedience were to be used only by those who had acquired ‘the habit of willing obedience to laws without fear of their sanctions’ (Haksar 1986: 4–5). He believed that only those who respected those laws which were morally acceptable had the right to disobey those which were not. In Tibet, by contrast, there are absolutely no legal avenues for those who resist the Chinese to take. Anyone who threatens the ‘internal security of the Motherland’, even by an action as innocuous as carrying a picture of the Dalai Lama, risks being labelled a counterrevolutionary or threat to state security. It is difficult, therefore, to see how it is possible for Tibetans to have any respect for the Chinese rule of law, when practically every aspect of that law is designed to subjugate their nation. According to Gandhian principles, given that the Tibetans cannot respect the Chinese on moral grounds, they cannot resort to Gandhian means of protest. A former member of the Tibetan parliament in exile has explained the dilemma: I always disagree with the comparison between the Dalai Lama as the leader of the Tibetan movement and Gandhi as the leader of the movement for Indian independence . . . in India the non-cooperation movement was possible within British law – it was a legal right. . . . The British could not replace the Indians, even if every British person went to India. . . . In India it was a legal issue and people could fight for such things. But in Tibet things are not possible if they are written in the Communist rules – that’s the law. The situations are very different.8 Before rejecting the Gandhian model as not applicable in Tibet, however, it is necessary to analyse further the types of civil disobedience advocated by Gandhi, as well as his Constructive Programme. Civil disobedience Gandhi’s first practical instances of satyagraha, the marches in South Africa, were classic examples of civil disobedience. Although there are many types of civil disobedience, including pickets, marches and deliberate defiance of specific laws, one of the most well-known, non-payment of taxes (advocated by Thoreau) was rejected by Gandhi: He thought that [non-payment] . . . would be an act of unpardonable madness without the necessary discipline which is extremely difficult to achieve among the masses: ‘Instead of leading to swaraj (freedom) it will lead to no-raj (anarchy)’. (Iyer 1973: 305) 78

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However, Gandhi did use the other methods of civil disobedience many times, both against the British – for example, in the Salt March in 1930 – and against Hindu chauvinism, in the Vykom Satyagraha in 1924. The Salt March The Salt March is one of Gandhi’s most famous actions. He embarked on it in March 1930 in protest against the government’s taxation of salt, the only flavouring for rice that the poorest could afford. Gandhi first informed the Viceroy of his intention to march from Ahmedabad to the coast, telling him that I hope that there will be tens of thousands ready, in a disciplined manner, to take up the work after me, and, in the act of disobeying the Salt Act to lay themselves open to the penalties of a law that should never have disfigured the statute-book. (Chandra 1989: 271) Thousands did indeed join him on the 240 mile march, and while they made their way through the villages of Gujarat, he impressed upon his disciples his ideas for future action, non-violence, civil disobedience and swaraj. The most significant day of the march came on 6 April, when [B]y picking up a handful of salt, Gandhiji inaugurated the civil disobedience movement, a movement that was to remain unsurpassed in the history of the Indian national movement for the country-wide mass participation it unleashed. (Chandra 1989: 272) Gandhi’s simple action of taking salt from the sea’s edge in Dandi was illegal, yet it encouraged thousands of peaceful demonstrators to gather salt across India. Contraband salt was sold throughout the country, prompting the inevitable arrests; including Gandhi’s own, in May, by which time 60,000 Indians were in prison. A confrontation between satyagrahis and police at a salt works later that month resulted in 320 injuries and two deaths, an event that was reported around the world. An American journalist reported he had never witnessed such traumatic events as at the salt works in Dharasana. The Viceroy, Lord Irwin, realised that negotiation with Gandhi was the only viable option, particularly as the British electorate were increasingly moving in favour of independence for India. Consequently a conference was organised in London in 1931, and Gandhi was released from prison so that he could attend. The ensuing Gandhi–Irwin pact ordered the immediate release of all prisoners who were not convicted of violence, and more importantly, it recognised the right to salt production for 79

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coastal village communities. It also conceded the right to peaceful picketing. The Salt March was a success for Gandhi; not only did it achieve his immediate objective of overturning the iniquitous salt laws, it also led to further boycotts of British cloth and liquor. Perhaps most importantly, the Salt March marked the politicisation of a huge variety of Indian social groups, including the middle classes, urban workers, peasants, the poor and illiterate, and many women. It gave Indians the conviction they could free themselves from British rule, and stressed the importance of empowerment and consciousness-raising through non-violent action. The Vykom satyagraha It has earlier been stressed that Gandhi was adamant that true swaraj could only be attained if India underwent intense self-renewal. He felt it was absurd to blame all of India’s ills on the British, particularly as Hindu society itself was inherently unjust. Gandhi was constantly concerned with the plight of India’s Untouchables (those without caste, later known as Harijans, ‘children of God’ and now as Dalits, ‘the oppressed’). This was illustrated by his championing of the Vykom temple road dispute in Kerala in 1924. In Vykom Untouchables were forbidden to use a road around a temple because it was believed that by doing so they would pollute the temple and Brahmin living quarters. The local Congress organisation decided to lead a procession of caste Hindus and Untouchables on the temple roads on 30 March 1924; when they did so they were attacked by Brahmins and arrested for trespassing. As usual, the arrests triggered an enormous response across India, and many volunteers arrived in Vykom to take the places of those who were imprisoned. The police were instructed not to make any further arrests, but to place barricades across the road. Rather than breach the barriers, the satyagrahis kept a silent vigil alongside the barricades, their very presence a silent force imploring the Brahmins to abandon their opposition to unimpeded use of the road. This vigil went on for months, and although the barricades were eventually removed, after Gandhi met with state authorities, the satyagrahis did not use the road until they had received an apology from the Brahmins in autumn 1925. The Vykom satyagraha acted as a catalyst for the removal of obstacles faced by Untouchables around India, although they continue to face discrimination in many areas. It made the high-caste Hindus realise the oppression of which they had been guilty, as well as restoring human dignity to the Untouchables. Gandhi declared that the Vykom satyagraha was a fight against ‘irreligion masquerading as religion, ignorance masquerading in the guise of learning’, and further argued that swaraj was impossible as long as Untouchability remained a part of Hinduism (Bose 1987: 140). He recognised that it was irrelevant to fight for political freedom and political rights while religious rights and freedoms were being denied within Indian society. It was for this 80

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reason that by the late 1920s Gandhi was promoting his Constructive Programme as a new form of satyagraha. The Constructive Programme Gandhi was overwhelmingly convinced that India had become morally degenerate and too much under the influence of modern – Western – civilisation. While he was aware of some positive attributes of modernism, such as the liberation of women, he was concerned that many people in India had forgotten that colonialism was itself a product of the modern civilisation they so desired. His seminal work Hind Swaraj, originally published in 1909, was an attempt to address these problems and to give Indians a practical philosophy by which they might reconstruct their lives. In the preface to the second Gujarati edition of Hind Swaraj, Gandhi wrote that ‘it is not the British that are responsible for the misfortunes of India but we who have succumbed to modern civilisation’ (Gandhi 1997: xv). In Hind Swaraj Gandhi argued that true swaraj, both in the sense of the individual and the nation, could not be given; Indians had to transform themselves in order to achieve it. Satyagraha was the legitimate means of this transformation. In Hind Swaraj Gandhi did not specifically lay out the details of the transformation; in fact the Constructive Programme did not appear in detail until 1941. However the seeds and objectives of the Programme are embodied within the work, particularly in the concluding chapter. Here Gandhi states that true swaraj would only be available to those who, for example, rarely spoke English (implicit in this is Gandhi’s preference for Indian languages), took up spinning, and, most importantly, those who knew that [T]o blame the English is useless, that they came because of us, and remain also for the same reason, and that they will either go or change their nature only when we reform ourselves. (Gandhi 1997: 117) The Constructive Programme contained the steps by which Gandhi’s goal of swaraj could be implemented. It was as much a type of satyagraha as were noncooperation and civil disobedience, mainly because it too was a means of attaining swaraj. Gandhi began developing the details of his Programme in 1925, when a series of essays appeared stressing the need for satyagrahis to become involved in social service. By 1928 Gandhi had developed his ideas further, when he declared that a true spirit of non-violence could be achieved only through a thorough cleansing process, and that this process was attainable only through constructive work for the common good. The Programme was outlined in detail in 1941, and was introduced with the following clarification: ‘the 81

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constructive programme may otherwise and more fittingly be called construction of poorna swaraj or complete independence by truthful and nonviolent means’ (Gandhi 1997: 170). This point concisely illustrates why the Programme was considered by Gandhi to be a type of satyagraha: because it embodied satya and ahimsa as much as non-cooperation and civil disobedience. The Programme consisted of nineteen points, including the goals of communal unity and the removal of Untouchability, the extension of adult education, improvement of the villages, economic and social equality, decentralised economic production, and the advocacy of khadi, or home-spun cloth. These issues are self-explanatory, perhaps with the exception of khadi. One of the most enduring images of Gandhi is of him dressed simply in home-spun cloth, and the spinning wheel has come to represent India as a nation. Khadi symbolised, for Gandhi, more than just cloth; it represented the whole ethos of swadeshi, or self-sufficiency. It connoted the goals of both economic freedom and equality in India. Gandhi believed that if, through the production and trade of khadi, the villages of India could become self-contained, then the people of India could serve the outside world, rather than being exploited by the cities of both India and Great Britain. This, Gandhi argued, could only be to everyone’s benefit. The final part of the Constructive Programme deals with civil disobedience. Gandhi acknowledged that he was being over-optimistic when he said that [C]ivil disobedience is not absolutely necessary to win freedom through purely non-violent effort, if the co-operation of the whole nation is secured in the constructive programme. . . . [S]uch good luck rarely favours nations or individuals. (Gandhi 1997: 179) Gandhi felt that civil disobedience was more effective when used against a specific issue, whereas the Constructive Programme was more appropriate for a general cause, such as swaraj. It was clear to Gandhi, however, that civil disobedience was useless if it was not conjoined to the Constructive Programme: he described the former without the latter as a ‘paralysed hand attempting to lift a spoon’ (Gandhi 1997: 181). The Constructive Programme had a considerable impact on the Indian national movement. Parekh details four major consequences of its publication: it provided a statement of social and economic objectives; these objectives were within everyone’s capabilities; it reminded the people that political independence was meaningless without national rejuvenation; and it helped Gandhi to build up a group of satyagrahis who were capable of mobilising the people (1989: 63). 82

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While it appears that the Programme was dedicated to social and economic regeneration – the other types of satyagraha were more overtly political – it represented, for Gandhi, the core of political life. This is because any activity that contributed to the attainment of swaraj was political in nature, for swaraj was both a spiritual and political goal. Once again we see in Gandhi’s work the fusion of the moral and the practical, the religious and the political; he believed these concepts were identical. The roots and implications of this are discussed in the next chapter. As the Constructive Programme embodies a practical expression of people’s moral and spiritual development, particularly in the goals of religious unity and reformation of Hinduism, and specifically in the removal of Untouchability, it seems clear that such a programme could be adopted by Tibetan exiles, given the traditional duality of religion and politics in Tibetan society. Although attempts of varying success have been made at such development, for example, the democratisation of the Tibetan government, as a whole the Tibetan community remains rather static. Perhaps the Constructive Programme is the key to Tibet’s independent future.

Self-renewal amongst Tibetan exiles It is clear that the essence of, and basis for, Gandhi’s Constructive Programme is self-development. Having analysed India’s faults and problems, Gandhi presented his followers with a programme designed to address those problems and regenerate their society. It is important to remember that Gandhi was convinced it was India which was to blame for the raj, rather than Britain. This is because he believed that Indians, in a hurry to become wealthy, had enthusiastically welcomed the East India Company into India, and that the company had been able to build up its position because Indians were divided among themselves.9 The democratisation of the Tibetan government in exile In Tibetan exile society there have been no truly comparable instances of selfanalysis and criticism, except for almost Maoist-style self-criticism meetings in Dharamsala in the mid-1960s. This is not, however, what Gandhi would have advocated, because such meetings invariably tend to be staged for political purposes, rather than as a means of discovering what needs to be changed within society. It is probable, also, that for many Tibetans, any type of formalised criticism session would bring back unwanted memories of the Chinese thamzing, to which many were subjected. Instead, what Gandhi was calling for, through Hind Swaraj in particular, was a general consciousness within Indian society of the causes and consequences of its predicament. However the important question to be asked before Tibetan exiles contemplate their position is whether the Tibetan authorities – or, indeed, the 83

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people as a whole – had any part to play in their occupation by China. The role of the monastic establishment in the fall of the Tibetan government has already been discussed; suffice to say the major monasteries in Tibet were opposed to the political and military modernisation which would inevitably have undermined their powerful positions. The Dalai Lama acknowledged in his 10 March Statement in 1982 that the dominant role of the monasteries in pre-1959 Tibet was an anachronism, and spoke of the need for change: Tibetans will have to keep pace with the progressive changes that are occurring in the twentieth-century world and move towards democratic revolution. The old social system will never be resurrected [italics added]. The teachings of the Buddha . . . are beneficial to society since they are based on sound reason and actual experience. These we must preserve and promote. However, the livelihood of lamas and monks and the administration of the monastic establishment must of necessity change with the changing times. (Dalai Lama 1986: 63)10 In accordance with such views, when the exile government was established it was decided that rather than having a hand-picked dualistic government of influential monks and aristocrats, there should be an elected legislative body. This, the Assembly of Tibetan Peoples’ Deputies (ATPD), was established in September 1960, and at present has forty-six elected members. A Constitution and Charter of Tibetans in exile were also introduced. It was hoped by the Dalai Lama that these measures would go some way towards changing Tibetan society for the better; a reconstruction, perhaps, along Gandhian lines. This democratisation process in the Tibetan exile government is the closest that the Tibetans have come to a Constructive Programme; its success will now be analysed. Perhaps the main problem with the Assembly of Tibetan People’s Deputies is that its powers are limited, particularly as it has no powers to overrule the Dalai Lama. Edin points to the fact that a delegation of Tibetan officials visited Tibet in 1980 without informing the ATPD, or involving them in the decision. This, she argues, is evidence of the lack of stature of the Assembly (1992: 32). A far more powerful body than the ATPD is the kashag, or Cabinet. The ministers (kalon) of this body are elected by the ATPD, and a 70 per cent majority is required for election. However, if this majority is not reached the Dalai Lama has the power to appoint ministers directly. According to Article 20 of the Charter, the kashag is responsible for ‘exercising executive powers of the Tibetan administration subordinate to the Dalai Lama’. Each minister heads one or two departments of the Tibetan government including the departments of finance, culture and religion, home affairs and education. These departments are responsible for the daily administration of Tibetan affairs in exile. The kashag is ultimately accountable 84

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to the Dalai Lama, rather than to the ATPD, although in legal matters it is accountable to the ATPD. Herein lies a principal difficulty: the Dalai Lama is not elected, so accountability to him is not, in general terms, analogous with accountability to the Tibetan people. However, it is said that the majority of Tibetans believe that the total faith they have in the Dalai Lama as a religious figure means he can be relied upon to make political decisions in their best interests.11 It is the position of the Dalai Lama as an unelected religious and political leader that makes the Western concept of democracy so difficult to apply in the Tibetan case. It is difficult for the Tibetans themselves; it is also difficult from a theoretical perspective. An initial examination of the theories of democratisation suggests that the Tibetan case is unique and that the theories are of little help. It is hard to see how the theoretical approaches to democratisation are helpful, for these must reckon with several special factors: the nature of the Tibetan state; the lack of parties and an opposition in Tibetan exile politics; the attitudes of the Tibetan people; and the position of the unelected Dalai Lama within a democratic system. Democratisation: theoretical approaches There is a dispute among theoretical approaches to democratisation about whether primary importance should be vested in the ruling elite or in the masses. For example, Rustow hypothesises that democracy must be demanded by the citizens and that the democratisation process be set off by a political struggle (1970: 337–363). This does not help an analysis of the Tibetan case because the process in the Tibetan community in exile has been initiated entirely by the elite. In contrast, Huntington suggests that a transition to democracy led by the elite is more likely to lead to a stable regime than one initiated by the masses (1984: 212). It is assumed that elite-led transition is for the benefit of the elite’s own interests. This seems fairly plausible, but again it does not help an analysis of the Tibetan case. The simple fact is that democratisation there has been led by the Dalai Lama – obviously a member of the elite – yet true democracy would preclude him, an unelected leader, from office. As Huntington points out, ‘in all democratic regimes the principal officers of government are chosen through competitive elections in which the bulk of the population can participate’ (1991/92: 580). In the Tibetan government in exile there have been elections to senior posts (the equivalent of cabinet ministers) but the leader, the Dalai Lama, remains unelected. Further, although there is universal suffrage in the exile community (numbering around 150,000), the bulk of the Tibetan population (six million inside Tibet) cannot take part. However it must be stressed that this is a government in exile, although it does purport to work for the interests of all Tibetans. 85

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Another theoretical approach examines the reasons why regimes change. Przeworski identifies four factors that might explain why authoritarian regimes democratise: the regime has realised its functional needs; it has lost its legitimacy; there have been internal conflicts; or there is pressure from foreign countries to democratise (1986: 50). None of these factors is applicable in the Tibetan case, except maybe for the final one. However, it is important to note that the process of democratisation has been initiated by the Tibetan government more in the anticipation of foreign approval than as a specific requirement of foreign governments and organisations. The obvious difficulty with the recognised theories of democratisation is that there is a tendency to assume the transition to democracy occurs within authoritarian regimes; can the Tibetan political system really be described thus? The use of force commonly associated with authoritarian rule was not present in Tibet; on the contrary, legitimacy was accorded to the Tibetan government on the basis of Buddhist principles. The exact nature of the Tibetan state is difficult to define; perhaps the most useful theoretical definition is that of legitimacy based upon charismatic authority, as proposed by Max Weber. Weber recognised that power based solely on physical force was inherently unstable, and that such regimes needed to achieve legitimate domination. One form of legitimate domination identified by Weber is charismatic authority, which is characterised by A certain quality of an individual personality by virtue of which he is considered extraordinary and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities. (Weber 1968: 241–2) This is a very accurate description of the rule in Tibet of the Dalai Lamas, particularly as they were believed to be the reincarnation of Avalokiteshvara. Weber recognises that such authority is by definition innovative and unstable. Permanence and stability need to be maintained, and for these reasons charismatic forms of authority need to adapt to survive. Charisma, as Weber put it, must be ‘routinised’. While in Tibet charismatic authority was in the past combined with traditional authority, in a modern context such routinisation could take the form of democratisation, which combines charisma with legal and rational domination.12 The position of the Dalai Lama The Dalai Lama’s status complicates the relationship between the Tibetan executive and the legislature, and his position is not addressed by the Constitution and the Charter. As Klieger points out, 86

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The constitution proposed for a free Tibet resembles a parliamentary democracy, yet nothing precludes the status of the Dalai Lama as spiritual head of state which is ideologically supra-ordinate to any temporal power. (1992: 82) The reason why the Dalai Lama’s spiritual role is ideologically predominant is that, according to the Constitution and the Charter, government shall be according to the principles of dharma. As the prime representative of the Tibetan Buddhist religion, and, some would argue, of the whole Buddhist faith, the Dalai Lama’s spiritual status is bound to be greater than his political role. Added to this the fact that he is without a country and his political role in the international arena diminishes still further. Indeed, it is the exile situation that presents what is perhaps the greatest challenge to Tibetan democracy: as refugees, Tibetans are ultimately subject to the laws and government of their host countries, and no amount of democratisation will change this. The other major impediment on the path to Tibetan democracy is the lack of opposition within the Tibetan polity. There are at present no political parties in the government in exile, although within the wider Tibetan exile community, parties and political groups are beginning to emerge.13 Political opposition is seen as undesirable because it would bring disunity, although a diversity of views is of course a necessary and welcome aspect of democracy. Disunity, it is argued, would damage the Tibetan cause; as the preface of the Charter makes clear that Tibetans’ primary objective should be the ‘achievement of Tibet’s common goal [and the strengthening of ] the solidarity of Tibetans’. Although this common goal is not stated, it is implied that this is a future free Tibet. However, all direction towards this goal has been centred on the Dalai Lama. He made an announcement in 1988 that Tibetans had abandoned the goal of independence in favour of genuine autonomy, yet there was no process prior to this announcement to ascertain whether this was actually the wish of the people.14 There was a referendum planned in 1997, which would have chosen the future strategy for the Tibetans to take, but this did not take place. A great deal of controversy surrounded this referendum, mainly because some Tibetans feared that once a strategy had been selected by the people, there would have been little opportunity for change if the strategy proved unsuccessful. Further, many believed that Tibetans in exile did not have the right to make a decision that would have had an enormous impact on the six million Tibetans inside Tibet.15 It was also suggested that the referendum was eventually cancelled because the Tibetan government feared the result would not be their preferred outcome.16 If this is the case, the implications for the process of democratisation are damaging. It would appear that, overall, Tibetan democracy is still very much in its infancy and that the measures implemented so far have had only limited 87

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success. However, the process must be put into a wider perspective: it is only a little over forty years since the Dalai Lama and his people left Tibet, and so to make any transition in that time from what resembled a medieval ecclesiastical kingdom into a modern democracy would be impressive. The fact that the Tibetan people have shown any inclination at all to disagree with the Dalai Lama, even when it has been in his interests, is progress – if not in the direction of Western democracy, then at least toward an environment in which debate and freedom of speech are commonplace.17 The process of democratisation must also be contextualised by relating it to the nature of the Tibetan state, and in particular the position of the Dalai Lama. While from a Western perspective the Dalai Lama as an unelected monk holds little political legitimacy and certainly has no clear position in a democratic framework, this is not the case for Tibetans. For them, the Dalai Lama, and hence his government, are legitimate because of the belief that the Dalai Lama is the incarnation of the bodhisattva of compassion. Therefore, any decisions he makes must be in the interests of the Tibetan state. It is surprising, then, that the process of democracy, initiated as it was by the Dalai Lama, should have been met with such little enthusiasm by the Tibetan people. Perhaps the process will gain in popularity with time. At present it is apparent that it is the Dalai Lama’s role as ultimate spiritual authority that is holding back the political process of democratisation. The assumption that he occupies the correct moral ground from a spiritual perspective means that any challenge to his political authority may be interpreted as anti-religious. A former member of the ATPD has suggested that this is a problem Tibetans must face: [T]he opportunity for opposition and the expression of different views is very important, and should not be taken as disloyalty to the Dalai Lama. Opposition is good for the country and good for the leader. But in our society opposition and disloyalty are indistinguishable, and from the religious point of view disloyalty is very bad.18 Loyal opposition and diversity of views are of course a vital part of a modern democracy. While the Dalai Lama recognises this fact, it would appear that the majority of Tibetans in exile do not think it desirable. Of course if the Tibetan people are to remain committed to their struggle, then they may be right in limiting the opportunities for dissent. But as time moves on, and progress in reaching the goal of a free Tibet slows almost to a halt, there needs to be greater movement towards democracy. Despite such problems, however, the Tibetan government in exile in democratic terms is a vast improvement on the traditional pre-1959 government. The political role of the monastic establishment has been diminished – although not removed altogether – and the fledgling democracy functions 88

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moderately well, albeit a little slowly for those ‘radicals . . . [who] feel that Tibetan society in exile is still mired too deeply in the past’ (Craig 1992: 329). Decentralisation in exile? We must ask, however, what Gandhi would have made of the Tibetan attempt at self-renewal. Although he does not deal specifically with political goals in his Constructive Programme, implied throughout is his preference for a decentralised state based on self-governing village communities. He believed that the only true democracy was a federal system based on relatively autonomous village units, [I]n which the citizens conducted their local affairs themselves, delegated only the minimum necessary authority to the successively higher levels of government and kept a constant and vigilant eye on their representatives. (Parekh 1989: 116) Tibetans, as refugees, are naturally subject to the laws of their host countries, but in India in particular they have excelled at creating self-contained communities. One of the urgent tasks of the Tibetan government when it first sort refuge in India was the establishment of a rehabilitation programme. Such a programme aimed to bring the refugees into homogenous communities where Tibetan identity could be preserved, but where also they could develop economically into self-supporting settlements. Thus far, there are fifty-four settlements in India, Nepal and Bhutan, which includes settlements supported by agricultural means and by production of traditional handicrafts. Of this last, Gandhi would no doubt have approved, given his keen advocacy of khadi and other village industries, without which, he believed, the village economy could not be complete. In political terms the Tibetan settlements also meet Gandhi’s criteria to the best of their abilities: they have local elections to local assemblies, which make rules and regulations as well as controlling the budget in consultation with the settlements. Although the settlements have representatives from the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA), under a Charter drafted in 1991, the settlements can replace these representatives with their own officers. A final aspect of the regeneration of Tibetan society in exile that is important in Gandhian terms is its timing. Gandhi was convinced that the regeneration of Indian society – the creation of true swaraj – could not be left until independence from Britain had already been achieved. He feared that unless the transformation of society was already in progress, an independent India would merely replicate the raj. In this sense it is vital that the Tibetans stay politically and economically active during their period in exile, if only 89

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because many of those remaining in Tibet are prevented from doing so. If Tibet regains its independence and there is nobody capable of organisation apart from Chinese-trained cadres, then that would be the greatest tragedy of all. It is clear that satyagraha is a complicated process and is not just a simple system of passive non-violent protest. It was constantly evolving and Gandhi was always willing to re-evaluate his ideas if in practice there were obvious faults. It has thus often been emphasised that Gandhi was more a man of action than a philosopher. In this he quite clearly differs from the Dalai Lama, who has developed his ideas from the relative safety of exile. Gandhi developed his ideas in response to his experiences in South Africa and India, and it is because of the dynamic rather than systematic process of the evolution of his thought that some have pointed to the severe limitations, as well as the non-universality, of satyagraha.

Criticisms and limitations of satyagraha Most of the criticisms that have been levelled at satyagraha refer to its practical application rather than to the theory behind it. Gandhi himself was fully aware that satyagraha would have its limits; in particular he was concerned that fasting could often be construed as coercive. He was also aware of the limitations of those who practised satyagraha: for example, he recognised his insistence that only those who freely obeyed the moral laws of society were entitled to disobey those laws judged to be unjust curtailed the capacity for many to engage in ‘pure’ civil disobedience. One of the harshest criticisms made of satyagraha – particularly of the methods of non-cooperation – is that it is coercive, and thus a betrayal of the principle of ahimsa. Gandhi’s call for a boycott of British textile goods, resulting in severe hardship for mill-workers in Lancashire, has already been discussed. Gandhi’s response to accusations of violence and coercion was simple: he interpreted the boycott as an assertion of India’s right to selfsufficiency, and said that since the suffering was unintentional, the boycott still upheld the principle of ahimsa. Gandhi believed that by definition nonviolence could never be coercive, because it contained no intention of coercion. He argued that the role of ahimsa in satyagraha was to convert rather than coerce the opponent, and that a genuine conversion occurred through tapas. However, the notion of tapas itself is controversial and may be labelled coercive. It is not a purely moral issue and in practice did not always produce the desired effects. If the opponent responds to the satyagrahi out of pity for him – which is fairly likely – then the opponent has not been persuaded by what the satyagrahi holds to be true. Parekh has argued that tapas could also brutalise and provoke opponents, rather than convert them (1989: 169). This is because different people obviously have different moral responses; a fact 90

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Gandhi tended to overlook. It has been shown that in Tibet the suffering of Tibetans has not moved the Chinese; similarly the Nazis were not persuaded by the suffering of the Jews, nor Serbs by that of Kosovan Albanians. If suffering does provoke a response in the mind of the opponent, it could still be coercive, because the response would most likely be preceded by a moral dilemma. The chances of tapas producing a genuine moral response in the minds of hardened opponents are remote: after all, the British authorities were not convinced of the immorality of gunning down non-violent Indian protesters in Amritsar in 1919. Indeed, when one considers the British response as a whole, the economic and moral burdens of an Empire have to be taken into account, as well as the roles played by the Indian National Congress and the Muslim League, at least as much as the resistance offered by Gandhi and his followers. This is an issue that is non-existent in Tibet: the Chinese have no reason to restore Tibet’s independence, and so far Tibetans have not made their occupation sufficiently burdensome. A further criticism of satyagraha is that its chief component, ahimsa, is limiting. Gandhi was aware of this, and even agreed that in some situations violence may be preferable. He was particularly aware that some people may not be able to offer pure ahimsa, and that in situations of injustice, violence was ‘both necessary and honourable [while] inaction . . . is rank cowardice and unmanly’ (Merton 1996: 102). He was firm in his conviction that while non-violence was the superior method of resistance, violence was to be preferred over passive subjugation to an adversary: I would rather have India resort to arms in order to defend her honour than that she would, in a cowardly manner, become or remain a helpless witness to her own dishonour. (Gandhi 1942/1962: 1) Gandhi also recognised that if an oppressed group chose to take up arms to liberate itself then it was their right to do so. In this sense he was a realist – he was in favour, for example, of armed resistance against the Japanese invasion of China – but he still maintained that if genuine satyagraha could be offered, it would have the desired effects. It is clear, though, that satyagraha could not resolve all social conflicts. Where differences are deep and beliefs sincerely held, merely appealing to an opponent’s heart will not work. Gandhi experienced this himself, notably in the case of Jinnah and the Muslim League, who never agreed with Gandhi over the inflammatory issue of communal unity. It therefore must be questioned as to whether satyagraha and Gandhi’s principle of non-violence can – or even should – be applied in Tibet. We must consider whether Gandhi himself would have even attempted satyagraha against such an immovable opponent as China. 91

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Satyagraha in Tibet? It has been shown that Gandhi recognised the right of the oppressed to bear arms against their oppressors. He was not a blind advocate of ahimsa; he recognised that in certain circumstances violence could be justified. The Dalai Lama, on the other hand, believes that violence is always objectionable, unless practised by one who can be confident that the use of violence is purely altruistic. Only a bodhisattva – one who seeks enlightenment through helping others to spiritual liberation – is, apparently, capable of such action, and the Dalai Lama does not consider himself to be so qualified. Such notions have been dismissed as ‘confused, naïve, and . . . [deriving] from magical beliefs inherent in traditional Tibetan thinking’ (Norbu, J. 1997: 19). While Gandhi took many of his ideas from traditional Hindu and Jain thought, he adapted his notions to his circumstances. He was also influenced by western writers such as Thoreau, Tolstoy and Ruskin. The Tibetan stance on non-violence, and in particular the Dalai Lama’s Middle Way position on negotiation and compromise with China, has its roots in Buddhism, with no real signs of adaptation and modernisation. In Buddhism, the Middle Way refers to the medium between the extremes of self-gratification and self-discipline, while in political terms it is supposed to create an equal balance between Tibetan self-determination and the territorial integrity of China. This rather devitalised approach had not impressed China, and Jamyang Norbu argues that the stagnation of this present situation [C]alls for a more eclectic and robust approach to the Tibetan problem than the current pacifist inertia. Even if, let us say, we eventually adopt a non-violent strategy by consensus, this decision should come through study, discussion and appreciation of realities [and] not merely as an article of religious faith. (1997: 20) A further problem with the application of satyagraha in Tibet is that Gandhi stressed that there should be mutual respect between the satyagrahi and his opponent. Iyer argues that the doctrine of satyagraha is morally sound because it emphasises that [S]ocial and political conflicts can best be resolved in an atmosphere in which the contestants respect each other’s moral worth, . . . conduct their battles in a spirit of self-criticism and abstain from the cruder forms of coercion. (1973: 344) While this is no doubt correct, it is also extremely idealistic, and illustrates perfectly why, in the present climate at least, satyagraha cannot work in Tibet. 92

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The Chinese have no respect for the Tibetan desire for independence – and precious little for the Dalai Lama’s call for genuine autonomy. No amount of Tibetan suffering is going to alter their position. Furthermore, both parties are convinced that their own aspirations and actions are correct. There do not appear to be any grounds for compromise, despite the Tibetan administration’s call for an autonomous status for Tibet within China. The official abandonment of the goal of independence has not altered China’s views, so while such compromise was rather Gandhian in spirit, it seems unlikely that Gandhi would actually have approved, given he believed that the defence of one’s country’s honour should come first. This is certainly what the guerrillas in Tibet believed: that because the spiritual essence of the country was under threat, it had to be defended by any means necessary. As Jampa Tenzin, who fought in Tibet in the late 1950s, explained: [We had to] reverse this situation, or our religion would be finished. Everybody knew that, so unless we did something sooner or later we couldn’t practise religion . . . Dharma [had to] prevail and remain . . . even by violent means.19 The Dalai Lama might be criticised for continuing to advocate non-violence from the relative comfort of exile. While Gandhi also believed in nonviolence, he demonstrated the sincerity of his beliefs by leading his satyagrahis by example. He was always willing to suffer the consequences of expressing his convictions, and it seems doubtful that he would ever have expected his followers to engage in activity that he would not have been prepared to carry out himself. Jamyang Norbu asserts that ‘such fearlessness and integrity’ is conspicuous by its absence in Tibet (1997: 20). Even if the Chinese were able to respect Tibetan aspirations and refrain from violent coercion, it would still be practically impossible to engage in a successful satyagraha campaign without concrete leadership inside Tibet itself. Aside from the practical difficulties of implementing satyagraha in Tibet, it has been argued by Maron that satyagraha can never be used outside India, or by non-Indians (1970: 270–86). This is because satyagraha was developed by Gandhi within the specific context of Hinduism and, to a lesser extent, Jainism. Iyer argues that Gandhi realised that satyagraha could not be comprehended by those who were not familiar with – and convinced of – the notions of karma (moral law), immortality, and rta (the moral order of the universe) (1973: 339). That many people in India – let alone Tibet – would meet such criteria seems rather unlikely. Satyagraha was developed for a society in which people were subject to the influences of morality and spirituality, and Gandhi believed that others should follow his example when he wrote that ‘my life is dedicated to service of India through the religion of non-violence which I believe to be the root of Hinduism’ (Mukherjee 1993: 101). 93

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The conclusion to be drawn is that satyagraha can only be used by those who fully appreciate the traditional context from which it is taken. It would perhaps be possible for a type of satyagraha to be developed in Tibet if it drew from a specifically Tibetan Buddhist context; in other words, from a tradition with which most of its proponents would be familiar. Before dismissing the notion entirely it is therefore necessary to examine closely the religious context both of satyagraha and of Gandhi’s whole political ethos.

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I could not be leading a religious life unless I identified myself with the whole of mankind and that I could not do unless I took part in politics. Mahatma Gandhi If a bodhisattva feels with some certainty that by taking an active part in politics he or she can bring about a great change within the community or society, then that bodhisattva should definitely engage in politics. The Dalai Lama1

Mahatma Gandhi insisted that religion and politics were identical because he believed that true politics, particularly in the modern age, should be concerned with the spiritual and moral development of humanity. He specified the modern age because he felt that in the twentieth century almost every aspect of life had become subject to the state. Given the political and historical contexts of the development of Gandhi’s thought – early twentieth century South Africa and the raj – it is not hard to see why he believed that most individual and social activity was governed from above. He argued therefore that since politics infused society at every level, the platform for social action should be political. This became a religious act because spirituality too was dominated by politics; as Gandhi argued: In this age, only political sannyasis can fulfil and adorn the ideal of sannyasa. . . . [N]o Indian who aspires to follow the way of true religion can afford to remain aloof from politics. In other words, one who aspires to a truly religious life cannot fail to undertake public service as his mission, and we are today so much caught up in the political machine that service of the people is impossible without taking part in politics.2 Gandhi believed therefore that social and political action was a religious and moral duty for every Indian. As has been made clear in the preceding chapter, 95

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such action would have to be concerned primarily with self-regeneration rather than political independence, because independence was an irrelevance without the revitalisation of Indian society. This aim too had its religious implications: the major obstacle to reform was the iniquitous caste system. Social and political action were not to be undertaken merely for the practical goals of independence or even of true swaraj. Gandhi placed his entire political thought in a spiritual context when he asserted that political action was the only valid path to liberation, or moksha, in the modern age. Although social action was a traditional path to liberation in Hinduism, the assertion that such action should be exclusively political marked Gandhi out as a true reformer of the Hindu tradition.3 The political path to moksha linked active and spiritual life through the following series of six steps. The Gandhian attainment of moksha The first stage in the modern, or political, path to moksha is for the activist to identify with God, or Brahman. In Hinduism it is believed that God is manifest in all living things; particularly in humans, where God is embodied as the Atman, or self. The self is God, which accounts for Gandhi’s emphasis on non-violence, as has been explained in the previous chapter. The second stage is therefore the recognition that moksha consists of identifying with humanity. For Gandhi the only means of such identification is love; so the realisation that moksha implies universal love constitutes the third stage. Such love implies service for all humanity, dedicating oneself to the welfare of others, and fighting against injustice. These practical expressions of love are the fourth step on the path to moksha. Following on from this, and as a logical progression from social service in a more general sense, Gandhi emphasised that since injustice in the modern age was mainly political, the fight against it must consist of political action. Completing the path to moksha was therefore the understanding that political action was the only effective means of attainment thereof. It is clear that the political action implied in Gandhi’s process of moksha is satyagraha. The action of satyagraha was undertaken as much for one’s own spiritual development as for the good of others. Gandhi regarded satyagraha as a method of purification of the self, and to this end, the components of satyagraha – satya, ahimsa and tapas – have their roots in Hinduism, and to a lesser extent, Jainism and Buddhism.

The religious origins of satyagraha Gandhi believed that at the core of Hinduism was a set of basic moral principles: satya, ahimsa and social service. These were expressed through satyagraha. It is important, therefore, to examine the religious traditions from 96

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which these principles – together with tapas – are taken, as such traditions form the context in which satyagraha can most successfully be used. Satya Truth, satya, is a major ethic of all religions and is particularly important in Hinduism. It is considered to be one of the cardinal virtues of the religion, and is constantly mentioned in the various epics. The cardinal virtues are supposed to exemplify the ideals that are venerated by Hindus, and they can be regarded as the key characteristics of the Hindu religion.4 Satya implies far more than truthfulness; it also includes correct conduct, justice, honesty, and sincerity; all of which are crucial to Gandhi’s use of the term. Gandhi regarded satya as the supreme value of religion – and politics – and labelled it the ‘raison d’être of all existence’ (Iyer 1973: 150). Satya was for Gandhi the basis of all life and thus of human society. In 1928 he even went so far as to deify the concept, declaring ‘Truth is God’. Since Truth and God were one and the same, and God was present in all people as the Atman, implicit in the statement was the belief that humanity embodied truth. This notion is qualified in the practice of satyagraha, which presumes that the agent is acting upon his or her own interpretation of truth. Satyagraha is therefore both insistence upon truth but also upon humanity. Traditionally Hinduism tended to stress that God is Truth rather than the inverse view emphasised by Gandhi. The first of the Upanishads contains the following dialogue: ‘What is the nature of truth, Yajñavalkya?’ ‘The eye itself, Your Majesty’, said he. ‘Verily, Your Majesty, when they say to a man who sees with his eyes, “have you seen?” and he answers, “I have seen”: that is the truth; verily, Your Majesty, the eye is the highest Brahman’ (Brhad-aranyaka Upanishad IV, 1, iv)5 This Upanishad rather obliquely implies that since the eye is truth, and the eye is also the Brahman (God) then God must be truth. In later Upanishads the desirability of truth is far more overt, particularly in this excerpt from the Mundaka Upanishad: Truth alone conquers, not untruth. By truth is laid out the path leading to the gods by which the sages who have their desires fulfilled travel to where is that supreme abode of truth. (III, 1, vi)6 Throughout the Hindu scriptures it is taught that the pursuit of truth, no matter what sacrifices this may entail, is crucial to the progress of 97

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humanity. Gandhi’s ideas and actions seem to have perfectly embodied this teaching. Truth in Hinduism is both absolute and relative. Gandhi recognised that a full comprehension of the absolute truth would be available only to a few, so he agreed that relative truth was both more practical and more accessible to the individual. His emphasis on the relative truth is politicised by his emphasis on compromise as a part of satyagraha: the essence of compromise is to recognise that the other party may hold on to their concept of truth to the same extent as the satyagrahis. Truth was therefore available only to those who had eliminated self-interest; only the satyagrahi who is truly selfless may appreciate another’s point of view. The traditional view of truth also upholds the virtue of selflessness, for satya is alluded to throughout the Hindu scriptures as being the basis of the characters of both the hero and the saint. This extract from the Chandogya Upanishad is a parable about truth: Also they lead along a man held by the hand, my dear, saying: He has stolen, he has committed theft, heat the axe for him. If he is the doer of it, for that very reason he makes himself false; covering himself with falsehood, enwrapping himself with falsehood, he takes hold of the heated axe; he is burned, then he perishes. But if he is not the doer of it, for that very reason he makes himself true; covering himself with truth, enwrapping himself with truth, he takes hold of the axe; he is not burned, then he is released. (VI, 16)7 It is clear, therefore, that when Gandhi made satya the basis for his method of political action he was using a concept that was understood in India and, more importantly, was justified in the eyes of the people by its religious significance. Satyagraha was a method most Hindus could not only practice but could also appreciate and comprehend. Likewise, ahimsa, the means for practising satyagraha, was also a virtue of Hinduism. Ahimsa Truth and non-violence (ahimsa) are considered to be the social virtues of Hinduism, and are therefore more important than the other three virtues (purity, self-control and detachment), which are primarily concerned with individual conduct. Ahimsa literally means ‘harmlessness’ and implies gentleness, courtesy, love and, most importantly, abstention from the deliberate harming of others. The importance of ahimsa in Hinduism stems from the concept of the Atman, or God within oneself. As God is everywhere, if one harms another then one is harming God, and is ultimately therefore harming oneself. This is explicit in the Bhagavad-Gita: 98

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For seeing in all the same Lord established, He harms not himself (in others) by himself; Then he goes to the highest goal. (XIII, 28)8 Gandhi’s interpretation of ahimsa is fairly close to the traditional notion, particularly in the sense that ahimsa is a positive rather than a negative notion; actual love rather than simple non-violence. In fact ahimsa is anything other than simple: it is recognised that it takes great courage to engage in perfect non-violence, and ahimsa certainly requires spiritual and emotional strength, rather than physical strength. Gandhi saw bravery as central to the practice of ahimsa: he actually believed that violence was preferable to cowardice. This was because while ahimsa emanated from love, cowardice came from a feeling of fear. Therefore, both to Gandhi and in Hindu tradition, ahimsa required courage, discipline, faith, and humility. Gandhi differed from tradition over his use of ahimsa in his views on deliberate self-suffering, or tapas. He broadened the notion by actually inviting suffering and injury upon himself and his fellow satyagrahis. Proving one’s commitment to ahimsa does not appear to have traditionally involved self-suffering. Indeed, Gandhi’s whole interpretation of tapas differs quite substantially from that of Hindu tradition. Tapas In Hindu tradition, tapas refers to the ‘heat’ generated by ascetic practice. The ascetic life was regarded as one of the most ideal ways of achieving moksha, for the ascetic detached him- or herself from human life and worldly possessions in order to proceed without distraction on the path to liberation. Gandhi’s interpretation of tapas – and indeed of the whole path to moksha – was radically different. As has already been explained, Gandhi used tapas as a means of testing both the satyagrahis’ commitment to truth and their courage. Rather than renouncing social life, as the traditional ascetic would, Gandhi believed that one should immerse oneself fully in the active service of others. The suffering that normally would be an inescapable factor in the life of the ascetic would instead be utilised in the service of others. This service was the best way to achieve spiritual liberation. This concept, of selfless social action as a way to spiritual liberation, was not solely Gandhi’s invention. Hinduism stresses a number of yogas, among which the most prominent are bhaktiyoga (the yoga of devotion), jnanayoga (the yoga of knowledge) and karmayoga (the yoga of action).9 Gandhi took the last, karmayoga, and re-emphasised its importance in modern society. 99

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The Gandhian re-interpretation of karmayoga Karmayoga – which is advocated most prominently in the Bhagavad-Gita – traditionally involves renouncing the results of all action and offering these results to God.10 This ensures that every deed is selfless. It also requires correct practice and application of the dharma, because this implies discipline and the perfection of God-related activity.11 According to Parekh, Gandhi ‘took a dim view of jnanayoga and bhaktiyoga as paths to moksha and stressed karmayoga’ (1989: 208). He was not the first person to have done this: the Hindu reformer Swami Vivekananda was a convinced advocate of karmayoga.12 Vivekananda taught that karmayoga was the readiness in any person always to give themselves up, even at the point of death, for another person. He defined karmayoga thus: Karmayoga is the attainment through unselfish work of that freedom which is the goal of all human nature. Every selfish action, therefore, retards our reaching the goal, and every unselfish action takes us towards the goal; that is why the only definition that can be given of morality is this: that which is selfish is immoral, and that which is unselfish is moral. (Vivekananda 1948: 176) Vivekananda also taught that tapas would be an integral part of karmayoga, because it would not only increase the sense of altruism in the karmayogi, but karmayoga itself would fulfil the final aim of tapas: that of self-purification and identification with the Self. As the Self became purified by karmayoga, Vivekananda argued that the agent would realise that the Self (Atman/God) pervaded everything. Therefore karmayoga constituted both a social and a spiritual practice. Vivekananda concluded that since it could be used to attain self- and God-realisation, karmayoga was as valid as jnanayoga and bhaktiyoga. Gandhi differed quite substantially from Swami Vivekananda, as he believed that in the modern age, only karmayoga was an appropriate form of self-realisation. His karmayoga became completely socially and politically motivated, rather than the abstract theory of work that was the norm in Hindu thought. Gandhi felt the accepted theory was ‘conservative, lacked political content and did not explain whose duty it was to fight against social and economic injustices’ (Parekh 1989: 208). He justified his emphasis on karmayoga by building on the Bhagavad-Gita, which he labelled The Gospel of Selfless Action.13 Gandhi and the Gita Gandhi contended that the Mahabharata – of which the Bhagavad-Gita is a part – was not merely a historical epic, and disputed that the (unknown) 100

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author had a historical narrative in mind. He argued that the Gita was in fact allegorical, a fact emphasised by the characters’ various names.14 Gandhi believed that the philosophy and teaching of the Gita should be central to every person’s life. If so, he argued, one would be ‘bound to follow Truth and ahimsa’.15 He reached this conclusion because he felt selflessness was the core doctrine of the Gita, and so, therefore, if one had no selfish desires, there would be no need for untruth or himsa (violence). The Bhagavad-Gita is certainly regarded by many as embodying the Hindu code of conduct, and it provided Gandhi with the basis of his moral and political philosophy. It presented to him ‘the highest form of practical religion to enable each and all to realise his or her purpose in life’ (Desai 1948: 18). The Gita presents its code in the form of a dialogue between Arjuna and Krishna, who is to be the former’s charioteer in the battle between the Kaurava and Pandava families.16 On the eve of battle Arjuna, a Pandava, questions the morality of going to war with his cousins, the Kauravas: ‘Krishna, adverse omens too I see, nor can I discern aught good in striking down in battle mine own folk’(Gita I, 31).17 The ostensible purpose of the Gita is, therefore, to persuade Arjuna that he should take part in the battle; however, the poem really concerns itself with deeper questions of the nature of the relationship between man and God, rather than with war and peace. The concept of karmayoga is introduced into the Gita in the third discourse, which has been described as [T]he key to the essence of the Gita. It makes absolutely clear the spirit and the nature of right action and shows how true knowledge must express itself in acts of selfless service. (Desai 1948: 59) This interpretation of the discourse is justified by a number of verses in which Krishna instructs Arjuna on the importance of selfless action, in particular with the following verse: As witless [fools] perform their works attached to the work [they do], so, unattached, should the wise man do, longing to bring about the welfare [and coherence] of the world. (Gita III, 25)18 Karmayoga is stressed in this discourse because action is always preferable to inertia, which is worse even than selfish activity. Gandhi qualified this in political terms when he asserted that violence – although obviously inferior to non-violence – was to be preferred over inaction. In the Gita action is seen as inevitable; for Gandhi too engaging in social and political action was a requirement rather than a choice. 101

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The following fifth discourse compares karmayoga with jnanayoga. Krishna argues that karmayoga is preferable, if only because jnanayoga is impossible without it. It is noticeable, however, that the Gita interprets karmayoga as being selfless action in the sense of service of God; there is no mention made of service to others. It is perhaps because of this interpretation that it becomes clear in the next discourses that Krishna ultimately prefers bhaktiyoga, the yoga of devotion, to either of the other two: So from [those] bonds which works [of their very nature forge], whose fruits are fair and foul, you will be freed: [your]self [now] integrated by renunciation and spiritual exercise, set free, you will draw nigh to Me. (Gita IX, 28)19 The tenth discourse, while being concerned with bhaktiyoga, must have been one of the most inspirational to Gandhi.20 It lists the virtues Krishna believes should be embodied in every person: Intellect, wisdom, freedom from delusion, long-suffering, truth, restraint, tranquillity, pleasure and pain, coming to be and passing away, fear and fearlessness as well. Refusal to do harm, equanimity, content, austerity, openhandedness, fame and infamy – [such are] the dispositions of contingent beings, and from Me in all their diversity they arise. (Gita X, 4–5)21 However it can be seen that while the virtues that were central to Gandhi’s political thought, truth and non-violence, are advocated in the Gita, there is still no mention of engaging in spiritual and social action for the sole benefit of others. Action in Krishna’s eyes should be selfless in the sense that the agent renounces the results of action and hands them over to God. Indeed, there are few explicit references in the Gita to working for others, and they do not make clear that this is a requirement; rather, it is desirable: The Calm of Brahman truly won by seers whose sins are done, with doubts destroyed and self controlled delight in every being’s good. (Gita V, 25)22 In the concluding discourse, the eighteenth, Krishna returns to the issue of selfless action, but even here he insists that while work for others is desirable, the most important issue is that the results of work are offered to God. Work should ideally be carried out by the truly detached: 102

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[Works of ] sacrifice, the gift of alms, and works of penance are not to be surrendered; these must most certainly be done: it is sacrifice, alms-giving, and ascetic practice that purify the wise. But even these works should be done [in a spirit of self-surrender], for [all] attachment [to what you do] and [all] the fruits [of what you do] must be surrendered. This is my last decisive word. (Gita XVIII, 5–6)23 For Gandhi this really summed up the teaching of the Gita, and he chose to emphasise the doctrine of selfless action which he believed the Gita embodied. However his very use of the term ‘selfless action’ is not shared by other translators of the Gita. The verse in question – using Gandhi’s translation – is X, 10: To these, ever in tune with Me worshipping Me with affectionate devotion, I give the power of selfless action, whereby they come to me. (Desai 1948: 280) Zaehner translates this as ‘I give that integration of the soul’; Arnold as ‘I give a mind of perfect mood’; Mascaro as ‘I give the yoga of Vision’; and, finally, Besant and Das as ‘I give the yoga of discrimination’.24 It is obvious that there is scope for a wide variety of interpretations of this phrase, which was so crucial to Gandhi’s understanding of the work. It seems clear that Gandhi was choosing to emphasise the social and political aspects of karmayoga and of the Gita in general. Such an interpretation suited Gandhi’s cause, but his entire emphasis on selfless action – karmayoga – has been criticised by some. A critique of Gandhi’s interpretation of the Bhagavad-Gita The major criticism of Gandhi’s treatment of the Gita is that he overemphasised Krishna’s arguments in favour of karmayoga. Bharati, who makes it clear that he is not an admirer of Gandhi, describes Gandhi’s reading of the Gita as a ‘simple, straightforward, theologically unsophisticated interpretation’ (1970: 61). He argues that Gandhi was wrong when he presented the Gita as a canonical text, or shruti, when, as part of the epic Mahabharata, it should more properly have been defined as non-canonical, smrti. This obviously has implications for the acceptability and authority of the Gita. Bharati does, however, concede that the Gita lends itself to ‘social moralising’, a view clearly shared by Gandhi (1970: 60). The main criticism levelled by Bharati, however, is that Gandhi was wrong to suggest that Krishna favoured karmayoga over bhaktiyoga and jnanayoga: The eighteenth discourse of the Gita is the bhakti-discourse par excellence, and a literal or at least an objectively uninterpreted 103

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reading of the text must convince the student . . . that bhakti or devotion to the personal god is indeed the core teaching, superseding both karma and yoga, and leaving jnana, the impersonal, contemplative quest far behind. (1970: 62) The question, however, is whether it actually matters that Gandhi relied so heavily on his own interpretation of the text. The most important factor is that he took a notion, karmayoga, which had at least some spiritual significance and justification, and politicised it in the form of satyagraha. This made satyagraha accessible and understandable to the Hindus of India, but that is not to say that satyagraha could not be understood and used by members of other religions. Although it was Hinduism that had the greatest influence on Gandhi’s political development, some of the ideas he used, particularly ahimsa, could be found in both Buddhism and Jainism.25 Indeed, the conclusions which Gandhi drew from the Bhagavad-Gita – that human life can be free if one follows selflessness, detachment and self-sacrifice – have striking parallels with the altruistic and compassionate bodhisattva ideal advocated by the Mahayana Buddhist school of Tibet.

Gandhi and Jainism Ahimsa is perhaps the defining principle of Jainism; it is the duty many Jains would regard as ‘encapsulating what their religion stands for’ (Dundas 1992: 138). Ahimsa in Jainism is total: ideally no living organism should be harmed under any circumstances. The Acaranga – the law book for Jain monks and nuns – states that All breathing, existing, living, sentient creatures should not be slain, nor treated with violence, nor abused, nor tormented, nor driven away. This is the pure, unchangeable, eternal law which the clever ones, who understand the World, have proclaimed. (Dundas 1992: 36) Ahimsa is hence the first of the Jaina Great Vows (Mahavratas) that must be observed by the clergy. All the other vows are developed from the principle of non-violence; for example, it is wrong to speak falsely because this may lead to violence. The ahimsa of the Great Vows implies total abstention from violence: the Jain must reject the killing of any life, and must actively avoid violence. For the lay Jains, ahimsa means trying to avoid pointless taking of life; the implication surely being that violence may in some cases be justifiable. It is the second interpretation of ahimsa that Gandhi shared. He recognised, for example, that violence was occasionally justifiable in the case of a sick or injured animal; he argued that it was tantamount to violence to 104

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prolong a life in anguish. The Jain monk would automatically reject this, because no distinction is made between types of violence. There is little evidence to suggest that the philosophy of Jainism had any particularly significant impact on Gandhi’s political development. In his autobiography he acknowledged the impact of Jainism on his vegetarianism, but the influence of Jainism in this case is equal to that of Vaishnavism, the tradition of Hinduism his family followed. Jainism was strong in Gujarat, the state of India where Gandhi grew up, and he mentions in his autobiography that Jain monks were frequent guests in his house (Gandhi 1927: 28). However, he always regarded Jainism as a branch of Hinduism, and as such he did not see the teachings of the religion as particularly distinctive. The most important role that Jainism played in Gandhi’s life was through the figure of Raychandbhai, a Jain relative of a family friend, and ‘the only man who came close to being [Gandhi’s] guru’ (Parekh 1989: 66). Gandhi turned to Raychandbhai on his return to Bombay from Europe in 1891, when he found himself in the position of an outcaste for breaking a traditional ban on members of his caste travelling to Europe. While Gandhi was in South Africa, he corresponded with Raychandbhai on various religious matters, concerning the nature of the soul, the nature of God, and the nature of liberation. A letter Raychandbhai sent to Gandhi in 1894 detailing answers on these matters, has been described as ‘a document of central importance to the understanding of the religious beliefs which crystallized in Gandhi’s mind at this turning-point in his development’ (Hay 1970: 33). Gandhi, however, was not convinced of the Jain perspective Raychandbhai offered on his metaphysical quandaries. Rather, he felt that Raychandbhai’s guidance in fact helped him to appreciate his own Hindu beliefs more fully.26 It is perhaps for this reason that Gandhi himself did not see Raychandbhai as his guru: [Raychandbhai] would always confide to me his innermost thoughts. In my moments of spiritual crisis, therefore, he was my refuge. And yet, in spite of this regard for him I could not enthrone him in my heart as my Guru. The throne has remained vacant and my search still continues. (Gandhi 1927: 75) Hay argues that Gandhi ‘only became a Hindu by conviction when his Jain friend persuaded him that the religious ideas he could accept were found within Hinduism’ (1970: 36). This is important because Gandhi did not regard the teachings of Jainism as separate from the teachings of Hinduism. He believed that Jainism offered a slightly different perspective on the same issues, notably truth and non-violence. He thought the same of Buddhism: a different interpretation of the same ideals. If Gandhi’s view of Buddhism is correct, it would follow that Gandhian principles are just as applicable in a Buddhist context. The situation in Tibet 105

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presents such a context: not only is the culture of the Tibetan people saturated by Buddhism, but they are also engaged in a liberation struggle similar to that pursued in India by Gandhi and his followers. Furthermore, the Gandhian legacy has been invoked by the two most politically prominent Tibetans in exile: the Dalai Lama and Professor Samdhong Rinpoche, the Chairman of the Assembly of Tibetan People’s Deputies (ATPD, the Tibetan parliament in exile). Their approaches to the Tibetan situation are, despite their shared admiration of Gandhi, quite different. The Dalai Lama’s position (and, therefore, the official position of the exile Tibetan community) is that of the Middle Way, while Samdhong Rinpoche has proposed that exile Tibetans return to Tibet to undertake a campaign of satyagraha.27

The Middle Way position of the Dalai Lama The Middle Way in Buddhism refers to the middle ground, in practical terms, between luxury and asceticism, or in philosophical parlance, between nihilism and eternalism. Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, arrived at the position after rejecting both the luxury of his royal background and the extreme asceticism he practised while trying to find a solution to the suffering of humanity. The Middle Way is, therefore, the way to the elimination of suffering; the last of the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism.28 In practice, the Middle Way can be achieved by following the Eightfold Path, which has been described as ‘the noblest course of spiritual teaching yet presented to man’ (Humphreys 1951: 22). This consists of pursuing: right understanding; right thought; right speech; right action; right livelihood; right effort; right mindfulness; and right concentration. The fulfilment of the requirements of the Eightfold Path is just one of the many steps that must be taken on the path to enlightenment in Buddhism. In the Mahayana school of Buddhism – the tradition of Tibet – the Eightfold Path is part of the Thirty-Seven Aspects of the Path to Enlightenment, which are in turn part of the Ten Bodhisattva Levels.29 A bodhisattva is one who is progressing towards the state of enlightenment.30 This is most commonly achieved through ceaseless work on behalf of others, a similar, although not so overtly political, notion to Gandhi’s interpretation of the path to moksha. In contrast with the Hinayana School, which advocates personal liberation, the Mahayana bodhisattva [S]eeks to establish all sentient beings in enlightenment and even takes on their karmic burden . . . [B]odhisattvas are able to transfer the sufferings and afflictions of others to themselves, and . . . also give their own merit to others.31 It is clear, then, that the concept of social action is as familiar in Tibetan Buddhism as it is in Hinduism. The bodhisattva follows the Middle Way in 106

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his or her quest for enlightenment, and seeks to understand the way to the elimination of suffering through taking on the suffering of all other sentient beings. The important issue is how this process becomes politicised. To be more specific, how have Buddhist principles been incorporated into the Tibetan independence movement? The most overt example of the influence of Buddhist philosophy on the Tibetan independence movement is to be found in the Middle Way position of the Dalai Lama. The political implications of the Middle Way The Dalai Lama follows the Middle Way in both his spiritual and political worlds. Politically, this has effectively meant relinquishing the Tibetan struggle for independence, opting instead for ‘genuine autonomy’ within the Chinese state. This position was first outlined in a statement by the Dalai Lama in Strasbourg in 1988.32 While the bulk of the statement is concerned with ending human rights violations, halting China’s population transfer and establishing peace in Tibet, the Dalai Lama controversially also announced that The whole of Tibet known as Cholka-Sum (U-Tsang, Kham and Amdo) should become a self-governing democratic political entity . . . in association with the People’s Republic of China. The Government of the People’s Republic of China could remain responsible for Tibet’s foreign policy [italics added]. He went on to acknowledge that the Tibetan people would be disappointed with the ‘moderate stand’ the above proposal represented. Many Tibetans in fact felt that they had been betrayed: [When Strasbourg came] Tibetans were shocked. Unprecedently, there were open protests against the Strasbourg statement from individuals and groups of Tibetans all over the world. Tibetan society everywhere was rife with speculation and rumours as to how such a disaster could ever have taken place. Nearly everyone was of the opinion that the kashag was largely to blame for not giving better advice to His Holiness. (Norbu, J. 1989: 87) Since the Dalai Lama’s proposal is supposedly based upon a well-known Buddhist principle of taking the middle ground between extremes, the statement should have been welcomed, at least from a theoretical position. Its aim was, after all, the elimination of the suffering of the Tibetan people, in accordance with the spiritual meaning of the Middle Way. Perhaps the most damning objections to the proposal came from within Tibet itself: the 107

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prospect of giving up the fight for independence was, apparently, viewed with suspicion by those who were suffering in Tibet, despite their continuing loyalty to the Dalai Lama (Schwartz 1994: 134). Of course the real purpose of the Strasbourg statement was an attempt to reach a middle ground with Beijing, which has always insisted that renunciation of Tibetan independence is a prerequisite of Sino–Tibetan dialogue. It did not work: Beijing described the proposal as a demand for ‘semi-independence or a disguised form of independence’ and refused to have any contact with the Tibetan government.33 As the objective of the statement failed, there would appear to be no justification for continuing with the position. Although the Dalai Lama announced in 1991 that he felt no obligation to adhere to his proposal (not because he felt it was wrong, but because China had not responded positively), it appears still to be the official policy of the Tibetan government in exile. A former member of the ATPD said in 1997 that Since the Strasbourg Statement there has been no opportunity for discussion. If we are going to fight for independence then we must mobilise, because there is one issue in our history over which there has never been any division – that of independence. There was division over many issues . . . but never over independence until [1988].34 In the debate preceding the abandoned referendum, the Middle Way approach was defended by the Dalai Lama’s political secretary, who argued that the Middle Way is pragmatic: It is a forward-looking vision of the future that meets the vital needs of the Tibetan people while conforming with the interest of a more open, liberal and politically mature China . . . It is a creative way to address and safeguard Tibet’s and China’s foremost national concerns without the need of separation. (Gyaltsen 1997: 14) Since the referendum has been abandoned, the Middle Way certainly appears, despite its failure, still to be the policy – official or not – of the exile government. As some Tibetans have pointed out, it seems unreasonable to reject independence as a realistic goal when the alternative – compromise on the issue that after all is at the very heart of the struggle – has also failed to move China (Tsering 1997: 17–19). The failure of the Middle Way So why, then, has the Middle Way failed, based as it is on clear Buddhist principles? The obvious answer in terms of the politics of the Tibetan 108

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struggle is that it is seen as coming from the Dalai Lama himself, who continues to be an unacceptable figure for the Chinese regime. This is despite the fact that Beijing’s grounds for rejecting the Strasbourg proposal – it being, in the opinion of Beijing, merely a watered-down claim to independence – are false. The Dalai Lama was genuine when he announced that autonomy would be acceptable to the Tibetan people, even though he had not formally sought their agreement. One would expect, after all, that a leader of his standing would not reduce Tibet’s historical status to a bargaining counter. However it is also important to note that opposition to the Strasbourg proposal came not only from China but also from within the Tibetan exile community. Again there is an obvious reason for this: many felt that Tibetan independence was the one issue on which compromise could not be reached. At a more profound level, the reason for the failure of the Middle Way could be because the political course chosen by the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government does not fulfil the Buddhist principles of its conception. The supreme leader of Cambodian Buddhism and Nobel peace prize nominee, Maha Ghosananda, incidentally known as the ‘Gandhi of Cambodia’, describes the Middle Way thus: How can we be free from suffering? The road to peace is called the Middle Path. It is beyond all duality and opposites. Sometimes it is called equanimity. Equanimity harmonizes extremes, like the string of a finely-tuned instrument. Neither too tight nor too loose, it vibrates perfectly and makes beautiful music. (Ghosananda 1996: 10) Does the Tibetan political Middle Way fulfil these criteria? Does it – could it – free the Tibetans inside Tibet from suffering? According to Maha Ghosananda, the Middle Way is supposed to be ‘beyond all duality and opposites’; yet in the Tibetan exile community there are many differing views, not least the pro-independence and pro-Middle Way lobbies. The Middle Way has not addressed, let alone resolved, such differences. If anything, it has increased the internal disunity that has the potential to be extremely damaging to the Tibetan cause. It has certainly not brought equanimity and has not reconciled extreme attitudes. The penultimate criterion, that the Middle Way should not be ‘too tight’, has also not been demonstrated by the political Middle Way. The relinquishing of the goal of independence has placed constraints on Tibetan activists and on those who disagree with the stance within the Tibetan parliament, because it is strictly against traditional protocol to disagree publicly with the pronouncements of the Dalai Lama. It seems that to continue with a policy that has not only failed in its objectives but is also rejected by a proportion of those whom the Tibetan government purports to represent, is as extreme as the positions the Middle Way theoretically avoids. 109

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It would appear, then, that the Middle Way, despite being based on Buddhist principles, has failed in its attempts to resolve the Tibetan struggle. It is difficult to see any type of resistance or policy that could re-introduce independence to Tibet. We have seen that violent resistance has failed, nonviolent resistance both inside and outside Tibet continues to fail to move China, and the Dalai Lama’s repeated attempts at opening a fruitful dialogue with China have been rejected. There is, however, one remaining solution on offer to the Tibetan people: that of satyagraha, proposed by Samdhong Rinpoche.

The satyagraha of Samdhong Rinpoche In Samdhong Rinpoche’s view, the most important issue in the Tibetan struggle is the continuation in practice of the principles of truth and nonviolence, which are upheld as basic articles of faith as much by Buddhism as by Hinduism.35 His satyagraha is basically faithful to that proposed by Gandhi: it is a non-violent demonstration of truth, love and compassion, and would include civil disobedience, non-cooperation and boycotts. Samdhong Rinpoche had hoped that he would be able to return to Tibet in 1998 to engage in such a satyagraha.36 Samdhong Rinpoche’s objectives Samdhong Rinpoche has identified three goals for his satyagraha movement to strive towards: self-purification, freedom from the illegal Chinese occupation, and the fulfilment of what he sees as the universal responsibility of the Tibetan people. The first two are of course faithful to Gandhian satyagraha: Gandhi constantly stressed swaraj over simple political independence from the British. Samdhong Rinpoche’s goal of self-purification is similar to swaraj, for he says If inner swaraj was not there, particularly for the people who would rule the country, then political independence has not much value for me, or for the people who are like-minded to me.37 The reason why he asserts self-purification as the paramount goal of the Tibetan satyagraha campaign is that controversially he believes much of the blame for the Chinese occupation must lie with the Tibetans.38 He explains: The people of Tibet themselves contributed to a large extent to the causes of their present predicament. I have a feeling that the Tibetans were not able to develop themselves sufficiently in the perfection of truthfulness and non-violence. That was the only real cause as to why 110

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the Chinese could occupy and torture the people of Tibet so easily. As such, our moral and ethical weakness was the basic cause of our own sufferings today. Therefore, the proposed experiment in satyagraha is meant for self-purification.39 Although he does not elaborate on the matter of blame, Samdhong Rinpoche seems to be implying that Tibet had generally become corrupt and had lost sight of its spirituality, which was supposed to provide the moral basis of the nation. He also implies that the Chinese occupation was the result of some collective bad Tibetan karma, although he does not explain this further. We may speculate that he could be referring to the power games entered into by the main monasteries, or perhaps the Reting Conspiracy. There is also the occupation itself: in the first years of the Chinese take-over, many Tibetan government officials were happy to collaborate with the Chinese in order to maintain their positions of power. Such events and issues must be central to Samdhong Rinpoche’s assertion that the Tibetan people must accept a large portion of the responsibility for their occupation. On the matters of the occupation and independence of Tibet, Samdhong Rinpoche follows the Dalai Lama’s Middle Way in that he does not mind remaining under Chinese sovereignty provided socio-cultural freedom is restored to the Tibetans. All he asks is that the Tibetans be allowed to preserve and promote their heritage. He warns, however, that if the opportunity to do this is denied to them, then ‘Tibetans will have to seek and struggle for complete political independence’.40 Some problems arise with this approach. First, satyagraha is supposed to be based upon truth. However, the ‘truth’ of Chinese sovereignty over Tibet is doubtful. How can Tibetan satyagrahis be expected to devote themselves to a cause that accepts as its goal something that is anything but ‘true’ in their perception of Tibetan and Chinese history? We have already seen that the Dalai Lama’s Middle Way, an essentially static policy concerned with governmental negotiation and little else, is unacceptable to many, so it seems highly unlikely that Tibetans would be willing to take part in what would inevitably be a very dangerous struggle with that objective in mind. Samdhong Rinpoche himself is perfectly willing to die for his satyagraha, but whether others would also be willing to sacrifice themselves for mere autonomy is more questionable.41 The second problem is that so far, the Chinese have shown no respect whatsoever for Tibetan culture and traditions. Samdhong Rinpoche says that complete independence will be the goal if Tibetans are not granted sociocultural freedom and the opportunity to preserve their culture; however, at present Tibetan socio-cultural freedom is curtailed, and the Chinese regime indulges in frequent attacks on both religion generally and the Dalai Lama himself.42 Therefore, the conditions under which Samdhong Rinpoche justifies a struggle for complete independence already exist. It is difficult to 111

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understand, then, why he wishes to start a satyagraha with anything less than complete independence in mind. The goal of universal responsibility The issue of universal responsibility is linked to the objective of selfpurification. Samdhong Rinpoche argues that Tibetan satyagraha must be undertaken not only on behalf of Tibetans, but on behalf of the well-being of all sentient beings. This, he believes, is ‘the highest purpose of human life’.43 If Tibet is free, Tibetans can purify themselves and then develop the spiritual ideals of universal love and compassion. If these are achieved, Tibetans would be able to disseminate this message around the world. The idea that Tibetans, and humanity as a whole, have this responsibility for others’ well-being is central to the philosophy of the Dalai Lama: It is our collective and individual responsibility to protect and nurture the global family. . . . The Tibetan people wish to make their contribution and to fulfil their responsibilities. We are not a large and powerful people, but our way of life, our culture and spiritual tradition have helped us, even in the face of great hardship and suffering, to follow the path of peace and to find comfort in the pursuit of love and compassion. Given the opportunity, the Tibetan people long to transform the high plateau, which is their home, into a true sanctuary of peace, where human beings and nature can live in harmony and peace. (Dalai Lama 1988a: 104–5) The responsibility humans must bear for the well-being of others is contained in the notion of bodhicitta, which means the intention to become enlightened for the benefit of others. Samdhong Rinpoche seems to be suggesting that his satyagraha should embody both self-purification and bodhicitta; engagement in the struggle is undertaken on behalf of others, but also for oneself. It is clear from all of Samdhong Rinpoche’s objectives that Tibetan satyagraha is as much an expression of both political and religious ideals as was Gandhian satyagraha. There are, however, some differences between Gandhi’s use of Hindu doctrine and the way Buddhist notions can be applied in practice. The expression of spirituality in Tibetan satyagraha The core of satyagraha is the relationship between truth and non-violence. This was clearly explained by Gandhi: for Gandhi, violence had to be rejected because of the presence of God within oneself, the Atman. As Samdhong Rinpoche points out, however: 112

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For Buddhists, there is no Atman. There is only the continuity of consciousness and reality. Consciousness is equal, because each consciousness has the seed of Buddha-nature. Each consciousness has the potential for development to the fullest, and if you harm any consciousness that means you are harming the basic nature of buddhahood, or the basic potentiality for buddhahood. That is a violation of the entire Buddhist conception.44 It is clear from this explanation that although the concept is based on a different philosophical tradition, the need for non-violence in Tibet is the same as in India: to harm anyone violates the spiritual doctrine of the nation. Non-violence, a political issue both in Tibet and in Gandhi’s India, is justified – even required – by religion. As non-violence is both a spiritual and a political issue, so too is the entire concept of satyagraha. Like Gandhi, Samdhong Rinpoche sees satyagraha as both a political and a spiritual method. He also shares Gandhi’s belief that religion and politics are by definition interlinked: [S]ocial needs and political needs cannot be fulfilled if you put politics and spirituality into two watertight compartments . . . the basic concept of Tibetan thought – the combination of religion and temporality – is based on that basic principle. You can be political without being spiritual, but such politics would be . . . void of morality and void of ethics. But you cannot engage in pure spiritual activities without involving social and political action. Your spiritual actions shall have to be expressed into certain kinds of social and political activism.45 The implication here seems to be that political activism is the best means available for expressing spirituality; surely, in this context, that means engaging oneself in the Tibetan independence movement. Gandhi believed that in the modern age – in other words, in colonial South Africa and India – political activism was the best way of attaining moksha. Samdhong Rinpoche appears to endorse this belief (in the Buddhist context of the bodhisattva path and enlightenment) when he says Spiritually I am directed towards all the sentient beings, and without caring for the well-being of all sentient beings my spiritual life cannot be divided. The purpose of the development of my spiritual life is the development of these sentient beings – it is not for selfish ends. This is the Greater Vehicle of the Mahayana Buddhist concept – whatever you do, you do for the service of others. If you do things for the service of other beings, their need is a combination of social, political, economic and spiritual.46 113

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In Gandhian satyagraha, the commitment to social action on behalf of others was demonstrated by self-suffering, or tapas. In Tibetan satyagraha, however, there is no such guarantee of the satyagrahi’s sincerity. This is the major difference between the two methods, and presents the largest problem. Samdhong Rinpoche has himself identified several differences between his proposal and the satyagraha practised by Gandhi and his followers. The divergence of the Tibetan and Gandhian models The differences between the satyagraha of Samdhong Rinpoche and that of Gandhi fall into two main categories: philosophical and operational. While some of the differences have been recognised by Samdhong Rinpoche, others become apparent when studying his proposal in comparison with the classic Gandhian notion of satyagraha. Philosophical differences The major difference between the two models in this category is based on the Hindu notion of God as a Creator, and the fact that Buddhism does not include such a figure. Samdhong Rinpoche points out that Gandhi was a staunch Hindu, and that his indomitable belief in God both within (Atman) and outside (Brahman) of the Self guided all his political and social action.47 Samdhong Rinpoche’s satyagraha, on the other hand, is guided by Buddhist perceptions. He concludes, however, that this difference is not apparent in practice, as the moral and ethical grounding of both types of satyagraha are the same. A second philosophical difference concerns the Hindu and Buddhist notions of the Self. Samdhong Rinpoche alluded to this above when he explained that there is no Atman in Buddhism. While it seems fairly straightforward that Buddhists do not believe God is present within the person, this in fact has serious implications for the practical use of satyagraha in the Tibetan case. Such a difference concerning the Self must fall, therefore, both in the philosophical and operational categories. Operational differences The difference between the two models over the nature of the Self is explicit when we examine the unique component of Gandhian satyagraha: selfsuffering. It has already been shown that Gandhi asked his satyagrahis to be willing to suffer in order both to prove their own conviction and to bring about a moral response in the opponent. One of the main methods of satyagraha used in this way was fasting. In his original Satyagraha Manifesto, Samdhong Rinpoche explicitly rejected the use of fasting: 114

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Although one will certainly have to endure stoically such hardships as enforced starvation, one must not deliberately sacrifice one’s life through fasting, self-immolation, and so on.48 He explained his views on fasting further in 1997: [F]asting is a voluntary self-torture, and voluntary self-torture is not good. This is because the human body is very precious and it is the only vehicle through which we can do work. If that vehicle is denied of its physical and biological needs it will become weak . . . [I]f food is available then just to avoid eating is a kind of self-torture. That is not permissible in the Buddhist perception.49 The important point that Samdhong Rinpoche makes is that self-torture, assumed here to mean the same as voluntary self-suffering, is unacceptable in Buddhism, whereas it was perfectly acceptable in Hinduism. It is obvious that the extreme asceticism practised by some Hindus would be – indeed, by Siddhartha actually was – rejected by the Buddhist Middle Way tradition. However, in the practice of satyagraha, tapas does not mean selfsuffering in order to develop one’s spiritual capacity; rather it means being willing to accept, or even actively invite, torture, imprisonment, and even death. It would appear that Tibetans in Tibet regard the Gandhian type of tapas as acceptable in their protests, although it is not being suggested that they are directly influenced by Gandhi. Schwartz cites several examples of monks and nuns in Tibet in the late 1980s being willing to die for their cause. He quotes one monk from Drepung monastery near Lhasa: We were not frightened. We thought that the worst the Chinese could do was either to kill us, or put us in prison. But we were already prepared to give up our lives for the six million Tibetans. Anyway, sacrificing your life is not against Buddhism. (1994: 71) Schwartz further argues that monks and nuns who continue to demonstrate in Tibet despite knowing they will face certain torture and imprisonment (particularly those who demonstrated under martial law in 1989) are practising ‘defiant acts of self-sacrifice in the face of overwhelming odds’ (1994: 172). So while Samdhong Rinpoche argues that Tibetans must not indulge in self-torture, self-suffering, or self-sacrifice, we can see that Tibetans are actually already willing to die for their struggle. This was of course also illustrated by those who joined the guerrilla movements between the 1950s and 1970s, by the Tibetan Youth Congress hunger strikers and by the selfimmolation of Thupten Ngodup in 1998. 115

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Aside from the practical difficulties of self-suffering, it is difficult to understand why Samdhong Rinpoche insists it is not compatible with Buddhism.50 He rejects it as a political method, yet Schwartz has shown that Tibetans in Tibet regard self-sacrifice as an appropriate Buddhist method. If self-suffering or self-sacrifice are appropriate spiritual methods, then they surely must also be useful political methods: indeed Samdhong Rinpoche himself argued that for political life to be moral, it must be infused with spirituality. The only possible explanation for the rejection of self-suffering on spiritual grounds is that self-suffering would damage the satyagrahi’s potential for helping others. The aim of Tibetan Buddhists is to devote their lives to helping others, and thereby to seek enlightenment: this process is known as the bodhisattva path. It is this path that offers a more appropriate basis for a Tibetan satyagraha, for it is characterised by a deep sense of altruism and compassion for others. The satyagraha of Samdhong Rinpoche, while basically faithful to the Gandhian ideal, founders because it rejects selfsuffering. It is possible that a satyagraha built on the bodhisattva ideal – with which notions of self-sacrifice are not, in practice, totally incompatible – would be more accessible for Tibetans.

A Buddhist satyagraha? It is difficult to see why Tibetans would respond en masse to Samdhong Rinpoche’s call for a satyagraha. Not only are the odds overwhelmingly against them, but also the idea of satyagraha is rooted within an alien spiritual tradition: Hinduism. Tibetan culture in its entirety is saturated with Buddhism, so there seems to be no good reason why social and political action should not also be based on Buddhism. Gandhi was successful with his satyagraha because its traditional roots were easily understood by the majority of those who practised it. It must also not be forgotten that the circumstances were far more favourable to Gandhi than they are to Samdhong Rinpoche: Britain and China as opponents can hardly be compared. The core of satyagraha is truth, yet Tibetan Buddhists understand truth in far simpler terms than Gandhi. Schwartz argues that Tibetan ‘truth’ (bden pa) is allied with justice and rights (1994: 130). Therefore, when Tibetans speak of truth in the context of the Chinese occupation, they mean ‘true’ rights and ‘true’ history; in other words, the Chinese claim to sovereignty over Tibet is morally wrong because it is not historically ‘true’. The Chinese would of course deny this, because they believe Tibet is an inalienable part of China. For Tibetans, then, truth is a practical weapon against China, and it is upon this that their whole struggle is based. It is not a concept based in spirituality; it concerns historical fact. Despite Samdhong Rinpoche’s insistence that self-sacrifice is not appropriate to the Tibetan struggle, it has been shown that Tibetans both inside Tibet and in exile do not share this view. They are willing to die in their 116

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struggle for truth and for the future of Tibet. It would appear that this is compatible with the Buddhist ideals of compassion and altruism. The Dalai Lama argues that natural compassion and altruism constitute a ‘good attitude . . . a feeling, when faced with choosing your own or others’ welfare, to choose others’ welfare rather than your own’ (1985: 33). He further explains that hardship will assist one’s determination to work towards others’ welfare. It appears from these arguments that voluntary self-suffering is acceptable if it is undertaken on behalf of others, but not if it is simply to demonstrate one’s commitment to one’s cause. The Dalai Lama goes on to explain that when altruism becomes action – as it must – we must engage in the Six Perfections: giving, ethics, patience, effort, concentration and wisdom. Obviously from the altruistic point of view the most important of these is giving, and the Dalai Lama says this includes the giving of one’s own body on behalf of others. It is clear that implicit within this is the argument that if necessary one must die for others; one must sacrifice oneself. The key concepts of satyagraha do appear, then, to be present in Tibetan Buddhism, although with a greater stress on altruism than in the Gandhian model. The satyagraha proposed by Samdhong Rinpoche, should it be adopted, must take the Buddhist notions into account if it is to be widely accepted and understood. Tibetans in Tibet already recognise that unselfish action on behalf of others – the purpose of the bodhisattva path – can include political action and working towards independence. In this sense the Tibetan struggle shares some philosophical and spiritual concepts with the Gandhian protest model. But whether Tibet will gain the freedom that India achieved depends on many other circumstances: international support, internal support for Tibetan protesters, and, most importantly, the Chinese response.

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6 THE INDIAN PATH TO INDEPENDENCE: FROM COLONIALISM TO NATIONALISM Let us gratefully acknowledge that while our achievement is in no small measure due to our own sufferings and sacrifices, it is also the result of world forces and events and last though not least it is the consummation and fulfilment of the historic traditions and democratic ideals of the British race, whose far-sighted leaders and statesmen saw the vision and gave the pledges which are being redeemed today. Rajendra Prasad1

While this quotation, from Rajendra Prasad’s speech on the occasion of the independence of India, may seem rather obsequious – particularly as it was made in the presence of the last Viceroy of India, Lord Mountbatten – it is important when assessing the nature of the struggle for Indian independence. It stresses that there were many factors which were vital for the movement’s success: the strategy and tactics of the participants themselves, the international context, and, perhaps most importantly if India and Tibet are to be compared, the attitudes and responses of the colonising forces.

Why examine the Indian case? The reason for studying the independence movement in India together with the ongoing struggle for the liberation of Tibet is clear: the Dalai Lama, the political and spiritual leader of Tibet, has often alluded to the leadership, philosophy and methods of Mahatma Gandhi, and has suggested that Gandhian ideas should be adopted by Tibetans against the Chinese occupiers in Tibet. Earlier chapters have shown that this is a difficult proposition, not least because Gandhi’s methods were developed within a strictly Hindu context, and drew on much traditional Hindu religious philosophy. Specifically, it has been argued that the Gandhian method of non-violent resistance, satyagraha, would rarely work outside its traditional context; in other words, that satyagraha would not work under the present circumstances in Tibet. 118

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However, satyagraha was important in the development of the movement for Indian independence, and as the resulting partition of India unfortunately illustrates, India was – and is – very much a pluralist society, with differing religious and political interests. It should also be recognised that satyagraha was developed by Gandhi in South Africa; it was thus separated from the geographical context with which it is most often associated. However, it was used by Indian citizens in South Africa to draw attention to their grievances, such as the ‘Black Law’, under which all Indians were obliged to register with the authorities and have their fingerprints taken. In a sense then, satyagraha was being developed within its indigenous cultural and moral context. There is a further reason for examining India’s path to independence: it could be argued that India, and its history, is now of immense relevance to exiled Tibetans. India is home to both the Dalai Lama and the largest concentration of Tibetan refugees (around 100,000), and many young Tibetans are educated in the Indian system.2 Tibetans in India, while actively working to preserve their culture and distinct identity, are surrounded by Indian culture, politics, history and so on. Further, when Tibetan refugees first began to arrive in India in the 1950s, India was a newly independent nation. It is therefore inevitable that the lessons of the Indian struggle for independence are going to have an impact on those working to liberate Tibet. A study of India’s road to independence should produce valuable comparative lessons for Tibet on the role of religion and politics in the Tibetan struggle. The purpose of the next two chapters is to assess whether the Indian nationalist movement is in fact a useful model for the Tibetans to adopt. Geographical closeness and the admiration of one leader for another may not be enough to justify drawing parallels with some or all of the historical experiences of a different nation. Context is crucial; events and ideas cannot be separated from whence they came. If the differences between India and Tibet outweigh any similarities, it must be decided whether this means it is impossible to compare the two and for Tibetans to ‘learn’ anything from the Indian experience. India: some themes A number of important themes emerge from the struggle for Indian independence. The most important of these are unity and the presence of a clear goal. In India independence was achieved despite massive obstacles – most obviously, conflict between Hindus and Muslims – because the Indian people were focused and unified in pursuit of their goal: independence from the British. This goal, once it was clearly established in the Nehru Report of 1928, was never compromised. While Gandhi often negotiated and compromised in the course of satyagraha, he never lost sight of his goal of swaraj, self-rule. It must therefore be asked whether the Tibetan community 119

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is able to achieve this unity of purpose, or whether the nature of the Tibetan population, split between articulate exiles – the minority – and virtually silent (by necessity) Tibetans in Tibet, means that unity can never be achieved. It may even be the case that divisions within the Tibetan exile community preclude them from establishing a goal at this time. The likelihood of a movement making any real progress without agreement on what exactly it is progressing towards is practically zero. Another important theme, or characteristic, of the Indian nationalist movement is that it always operated within the law and within certain political frameworks. It was perfectly legal during the raj for Indians to form political parties such as Congress and the Muslim League. Furthermore, under the 1919 Government of India Act (also known as the Montagu– Chelmsford reforms) Indians were brought into the British administrative framework, in an effort to ‘control dissent, defuse tension, and channel the obvious political potential being generated among Indians into constructive use of power’ (Brown 1994: 207). It is difficult to imagine the Chinese paternalistically allowing Tibetans into positions of power so as to foster their political development. The Tibetans who do occupy political positions in Tibet are chosen for their loyalty to the Chinese Communist Party, rather than for their unrealised political aptitude. While there have been many highranking Tibetans in the Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR) Communist Party, no Tibetan has ever been appointed secretary. Tsering Shakya has argued that the failure of the Chinese to appoint a Tibetan to this position ‘remains a crucial test of the Party’s ability to nurture indigenous figures with leadership qualities’. He adds that ‘after some forty years of Communist rule, [the Chinese] failure to appoint a Tibetan leader in the region seems increasingly hard to justify’ (Conner and Barnett 1997: 10). This situation illustrates only too well the difficulties Tibetans face when compared with the position of Indians in relation to their colonial rulers. A causal factor here may be time: India only rid herself of the British Empire after almost ninety years of direct rule; the British had already been present (as the East India Company) for over 200 years. The Chinese, by contrast, have directly ruled Tibet only since 1956, the date of the formation of the Preparatory Committee for the Autonomous Region of Tibet, or PCART. A study of the development of the nationalist movement in India illustrates that the years from the formal establishment of Empire (1858) to eventual independence (1947) were vital, and that it took this length of time for a coherent alternative to British rule to be formulated.

The consolidation of British rule in India The British East India Company was formed in London in 1600, with the intention of broadening British trading interests in India. It expanded fairly rapidly; by 1647 it had twenty-three Indian factories (the name given to 120

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trading-posts) despite the competition of other European interests in India, notably the French, Dutch and Portuguese. Further land was acquired by the British through marriage: in 1642 King Charles II married Catherine of Braganza, thus receiving the hitherto Portuguese island of Bombay as a dowry. This was transferred into the management of the East India Company. To these headquarters in Bombay, together with land acquired in Madras, the Company added a fort in Calcutta, giving the British effective control of the three major coastal cities of India by the end of the seventeenth century. The disintegration of the Moghul Empire, through which Muslim emperors had controlled India since 1526, left a power vacuum in which the disparate European trading interests in India competed.3 The British were initially able to achieve a dominant political role in south India through becoming involved in a dynastic dispute among the local rulers; this decision was taken because the French had already taken sides. In the course of these struggles (known as the Carnatic Wars, 1740–63) the British were able both to control their ally and effectively end any major French influence in the region. With a power base in south India, the British, under Robert Clive, moved to consolidate their position in Bengal, defeating the Muslim ruler there in 1757. The British were helped by dissident Muslim soldiers and various Hindu interests that depended on British trade. A puppet Muslim ruler was installed in Bengal by the British, and after British control of the province had been formalised, the practically powerless Moghul emperor, Shah Alam II, granted them the right to revenue collection (diwani). This effectively completed British control of Bengal; as Spear observes, ‘the machine of administration remained Indian, with Moghul trappings and titles, but the control was that of the Company’ (1965: 86). Elsewhere in India the British were able to expand their influence and control by entering into what were called subsidiary alliances with local rulers. In return for a payment to the East India Company, local princes were protected by British troops; not surprisingly, this often led to the collapse of the states because they were crippled by their debt to the Company. An example of this is the kingdom of Benares, which was annexed by the British in 1781. Some states did manage to hold out for a while against the military and financial manoeuvrings of the Company: the Marathas of central India, for example, were not finally subjugated until 1818. It is important to ask why the East India Company wished to transform commercial power into political power in India. The reason is twofold. First, the British wanted to break into various indigenous enterprises (such as the pepper trade in the southern state of Travancore), and the easiest way of doing so was to annex such territories. Second, the Company had massive debts back in Britain, and so badly needed to generate land revenue in India. These ambitions, set against the background of crumbling Moghul power, meant that the British were able to consolidate their position as rulers of the subcontinent. 121

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It should be noted, however, that the British ‘were permitted to intrude at higher levels of political power only by Indian weaknesses and divisions’ (Brown 1994: 48). This fact is vital for an understanding of Gandhi’s later stance: he did not blame the British for the predicament of India, but Indians themselves. As has been illustrated, a similar situation existed in Tibet: a major concern of the powerful monasteries prior to the Chinese invasion was the preservation of their authority. Additionally, once the Chinese were in power, it was tempting for many Tibetan politicians to cooperate with them. While this is only to be expected, given the strength of the Chinese forces, it is for these reasons that Samdhong Rinpoche holds the Tibetan people accountable for their fate. Such a perspective, while appearing uncompromising, is Gandhian in spirit. Indian responses to British expansion Rebellion was a constant feature of the early years of British rule in India; rebellion which reached its culmination in the 1857 Mutiny. This is much the same as the situation in Tibet between 1950 and 1959: loose, uncoordinated revolts attained their peak in a more central and coherent rebellion. Neither the Lhasa Uprising nor the Indian Mutiny were sufficiently organised, however, to drive the colonial forces from their respective countries. The important similarity between them – one that has often been misinterpreted, primarily by the colonial occupier – is that in both India and Tibet the national uprisings were not isolated incidents; rather, they were part of an ongoing process of resistance to colonial rule. Particular sources of discontent during the first half of the nineteenth century in India were the introduction of new systems of revenue collection and, perhaps obviously, the attempts by the British to subjugate local rulers.4 It was easier for the British and the Chinese to acknowledge a spontaneous, short-term challenge to their rule than to accept that discontent was rife and very much in evidence. Brown argues that British rule was in fact accepted by the Indian people during the early nineteenth century. She asserts simply that the new rule was ‘accepted because it was there and apparently successful’ (1994: 70). The attention paid by the British to matters of prestige, rank and precedence only served to reinforce their legitimacy in the eyes of the Indian people. This suggests that the people took a very passive role in the political life of the country and were not overly concerned with who their rulers were or with the nature of that rule. With religious matters, however, the people of India were very much concerned; the British had to respect the diverse religious customs in order to maintain their rule. One of the claims – and justifications – of British rule has been that under colonial control practices such as sati, widow-burning, were outlawed. In fact the British did not undertake any social reform that was not 122

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already sanctioned by the Hindu community. Groups such as the Brahmo Samaj, established by Ram Mohan Roy in 1828, tackled problems including sati from within. It is clear that while the British were consolidating their rule, there was absolutely no possibility of them interfering in religious affairs, no matter how barbaric the practices may have been. The credit taken by the British for reforming some Hindu practices served only to reinforce the view that their presence in India was somehow ‘civilising’. This claim has often been made by colonial occupiers, not least the Chinese, who like to portray ‘old’ Tibet as a medieval fiefdom with barbaric methods of social control.5 The difference, of course, is that while sati did exist in India and was certainly not permanently ended under the British, in Tibet there is little evidence to suggest that the Dalai Lamas routinely ruled through torture and ruthless control, as the Chinese now claim.6 Although the British may have moved only tentatively in the direction of religious reform – and only when sanctioned by Indian reformers themselves – they made bold steps in other areas. The most important of these areas is education, which is vital when analysing the later development of the Indian nationalist movement. The provision of English-medium education In 1813, when the East India Company’s charter was renewed, £10,000 was set aside for the provision of education in English. The purpose of this was to promote a ‘revival and improvement of literature [among the] Natives of India’; and also to introduce and promote ‘a knowledge of the sciences among the inhabitants of the British Territories in India’ (Spear 1965: 126). This was not due to altruism on the part of the British; they wanted to use the vast pool of Indian labour in their own administration. This new provision, in higher education, was denied to the great majority of Indians, with only 30,000 pupils at around 200 English-medium institutions by the mid-nineteenth century. The main effect was to produce a small English-speaking elite, drawn mainly from the higher Hindu castes. This elite was to later form the core of the Hindu-dominated nationalist movement. The new education ‘had ideological and political implications and repercussions which were of almost immeasurable consequence in the making of modern India’. Brown argues that education ‘stimulated radical consideration of Hindu tradition and society . . . as western religious and secular values became available as a source of comparison’ (1994: 80). Perhaps even more importantly, education in English also exposed the Indian students to western political theory. They were introduced to ideas of nationhood and liberty, and naturally applied these ideas to India and the British presence there. It is ironic that these early nationalistic sentiments were taken from the cultural and political traditions of the colonial power, and disseminated in the colonial language. Gellner has argued that 123

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[T]he borrowing of a literate language from a colonial power, with the advantage of taking over a language already equipped with all modern linguistic conveniences, [is a] disadvantage in terms of national pride. (1964: 58) This was clearly not the case in India; although Gandhi was later to argue against the usefulness of the English language, even he could not deny that it was the language of the nationalist movement.7 While for Gandhi the use of English may have been both a wound to his national pride and an undesirable symbol of westernisation, for the first Indians to receive an English-medium education it was an enormous advantage. With the possible exception of Sanskrit, English was the first language that united the north and south of the subcontinent; it thus had important implications for the forging of a sense of national (rather than regional) identity.8 It is important to note, however, that for the overwhelming majority of Indians education in English was unobtainable. This included most of India’s Muslim community, and the beginnings of a division in the expression of Hindu and Muslim nationalist sentiment can be traced to this situation. The introduction of English-medium education served to create an elite in Indian public life, an elite that was later to dominate both the implicitly Hindu nationalist groups such as Congress, and the provincial governments. This is perhaps why Gandhi was opposed to the widespread use of English, even though it appeared to be a unifying force. He asserted that English-speaking Indians had ‘not hesitated to cheat and strike terror into the people’ (Gandhi 1997: 104). It is feasible to suggest that the failure of the British to deal with popular discontent during the first half of the nineteenth century, together with their promotion of education for the few, were contributing factors to the Mutiny in 1857. It was in the areas where educational opportunities were most lacking that rebellion was strongest and British rule most under threat. However, there were many elements to the Mutiny, not least religious and cultural insensitivities on the part of the British.

The Mutiny: causes and consequences The crisis in 1857 was triggered when sepoys, or ordinary soldiers, of the Bengal army in Meerut mutinied on 10 May and marched to Delhi, where they requested that the last Moghul emperor, Bahadur Shah, act as their leader. Rebellion spread throughout the Bengal army, with most of the barracks in the north falling into Indian hands soon afterwards. Discontent spread amongst the civilian population, with only the areas where British rule was most firmly ensconced remaining peaceful. 124

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Brown identifies a number of causes for this sequence of events: the annexation of Oudh in 1856, which resulted in a loss of privileges for the sepoys; fear that annexation would result in higher revenue demands from the British, as had happened elsewhere; the concern that the British were going to attack religion, aggravated by the continued presence of missionaries on the subcontinent; discontent amongst the sepoys due to being posted away from home but within the subcontinent – hence there was no extra financial allowance that would have been made had the sepoys been posted abroad; the requirement that the sepoys would serve abroad if necessary, with no consideration for the Hindu perception of sea travel as polluting; and, most importantly, the cartridges issued to the sepoys for use in their rifles (1994: 88). This last point is a perfect example of the lack of cultural sensitivity of which the British could be guilty. The cartridges were greased with pork and beef fat, which are considered polluting to Muslims and Hindus respectively. As if this was not insulting enough for the soldiers, the cartridges had to be bitten before they could be used. Although the British later realised their mistake and retracted the orders, the punishment of sepoys in Meerut who refused to use the offending cartridges sparked the initial disturbances. As well as widespread rebellion in the army, there were also civilian disturbances. These were really a continued expression of the discontent already felt by many Indians; high revenue demands and general hardship were sources of rebellion in many areas. Brown argues that where the local elites were satisfied with conditions under the British there was relative peace, but in other areas the local leaders were able to bring together disaffected groups in a generalised revolt (1994: 92). Such leaders included the last Moghul emperor, Bahadur Shah, mentioned above, and the Rani of Jhansi, who with her general led a long guerrilla campaign in central India. Jhansi was not recaptured until April 1858.9 Although the disturbances and rebellions were quelled within a year, the consequences of the Mutiny were great. Most importantly, the governing powers of the East India Company were abolished and direct political control of India from Britain was assumed. The British were perceptive enough to realise that the Mutiny had arisen because a section of the population of India distrusted them and resented their rule; to this end they created the Indian Councils Act of 1861, which stipulated that at least half of the nominees to the Executive Council (later the Imperial Legislative Council) had to be Indian or British non-officials. This was, however, a fairly meaningless gesture because the Council possessed no powers over the government. Although the establishment of direct political control was undoubtedly the most significant development after the Mutiny, other relevant consequences included the overhauling of the British army and the coming together of the British and some of India’s traditional rulers. 125

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As a result of the revolt in the army, Indian members of the military were reduced drastically: in 1857 there were 238,000 Indian members of the armed forces, compared with 130,000 in 1880. Bhattacharjee argues that after the Mutiny, ‘the Indian army was no longer considered a local militia for local defence but as the main factor in the balance of power in Asia’ (1988: 222). The army served to protect the trading interests of the subcontinent first, and the internal security of India second. It is not difficult to understand why the British chose to reduce the numbers of Indians serving in the military; it is not prudent to have potentially rebellious sections in the force that serves to maintain colonial rule. That too is why the major tool of Chinese rule in Tibet is the Han Chinese-dominated People’s Liberation Army. The British were more aware of their need to depend on the loyalties of the local rulers after the events of 1857–8. There had been trouble in the areas where local rulers could not be relied upon, and peace where the rulers were content. The British recognised that a conciliatory gesture towards the princes and landholders would perhaps guarantee such loyalty in the future. To this end, The attempt was made to integrate as well as reward [the princes]. Their territories were guaranteed and some received material recognition for special service. . . . They were now regarded as members of an Order, not just survivals and anachronisms. They were an integral part of the Indian empire and had a personal relationship to the monarch. Men like [Viceroys] Lords Mayo and Lytton saw them as props of imperialism from whose class a self-governing and proBritish India might ultimately arise. (Spear 1965: 149–50) It can be seen, then, that the most important consequences of the Mutiny were contained within the British response. For Indians, the Mutiny can be said to have failed, for it did not generate any organised or centralised movement for independence. There was no unity among the disparate rebellious groups, and no coherent goals were formulated. Chandra asserts that ‘apart from a commonly shared hatred for alien rule, the rebels had no political perspective or a definite view of the future’ (1989: 39). This is much the same as the situation in Tibet in the 1950s: the guerrillas who were the mainstay of resistance to Chinese occupation did not have any political organisation, and had not formulated a plan for the post-occupation future. Furthermore, the resistance groups in Tibet suffered due to a lack of communication between them. If there is no communication between the various rebel factions, then the formulation of a goal, or an ideology, is impossible. It can be argued, though, that the events of the Mutiny did inspire a new movement in Indian politics. Because many of India’s traditional rulers had 126

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sided with the British during the disturbances, their legitimacy in the eyes of the people was badly affected after 1857. Increasingly the people believed therefore that the new Westernised class of English-speaking Indians would be the leaders in the future.10 It was this elite that formed the nucleus of the nationalist movement at the end of the nineteenth century.

The development of the British Empire 1858–1914 As the British Empire developed in the second half of the nineteenth century, so too did Indian notions of nationalism. It was during this period that Indians began to forge the ideas of nationhood, albeit constrained by sectarianism, which would find their expression in the major nationalist movements: the Indian National Congress (founded in 1885) and the Muslim League (founded in 1906). The impact of World War One was enormous: Indians were confronted with the paradox of the British fighting in Europe to defend the rights of nations, yet denying these rights to their subjects in Asia. It is not a coincidence, therefore, that the first demand for self-government made by Congress was in 1915. British rule in this period is defined by the Indian Civil Service (ICS), which absorbed many officials of the East India Company. The ICS, which was almost entirely British, administered all the districts in India. Entry into the ICS was by competitive examination, and as a result the service was dominated by conservative upper-middle classes who were largely resistant to change. As Brown explains, [The ICS was] vital in the interactive process between Britain and India because its members became part of the chain of intermediaries between government and Indian subject on which the British raj, like the Moghul empire, depended. (1994: 55) The style of rule and the general attitude of the ICS differed from the East India Company, in that while Company employees had been appreciative of Indian culture, the new ICS rulers were segregated from Indian life. Brown describes the British as a ‘separate caste in an already segmented society’ (1994: 99). The British middle classes who dominated the ICS were convinced of their civilising mission in India, a conviction that was verified, in their eyes, by the barbarous acts of the Mutiny. The ICS men would not countenance any role for Indians in their service; as Spear argues, [The ICS] disbelief in Indian capacity was pronounced, distrust of Indian claims profound and opposition to Indian encroachment in the higher services determined. . . . [I]t was temperamentally 127

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unsuited to adapt itself to the demands of a changing society and larger world. (1965: 155) These attitudes meant that during the second half of the nineteenth century there was little, or no, prospect for reform from above. The British remained convinced of their superiority over a weak and incapable population, and no serious consideration was given to the notion of a future independent India. The British authorities believed that Indians were simply not capable of holding sophisticated political opinions. Communications, education and national identity While on the one hand the introduction of direct rule meant the Imperial attitude to India had changed, on the other it meant there was also greater investment in the infrastructure of the subcontinent. Improvements in communications and transport (by 1880 over 8,000 miles of railway had been built) drew Indians closer together, encouraging the formation of a sense of national, or at least regional, identity. One of the most serious obstacles to the evolution of the Indian nationalist movement was the sheer size of the country and the diversity of its population; quicker, easier travel served to improve this situation and to forge a unifying consciousness. By contrast, as noted above, the lack of communications and infrastructure in Tibet was one of the factors that prevented the success of the guerrilla movements. Indeed, practically all demonstrations of discontent in Tibet, particularly since the 1980s, have been centred on Lhasa. Brown argues that even at a very basic level the expansion of communications in India was beneficial for the inception of the nationalist movement: [T]rains, telegrams and letters were the physical infrastructure of new patterns of political behaviour, because they enabled wide-scale voluntary association, organisation and contact. (1994: 109) As with the increasing use of English, however, the development of a transport infrastructure had its critics, most notably Gandhi. In Hind Swaraj he wrote that the railways were responsible for the spread of disease and famine in India, as well as for transporting ‘rogues’ to holy places (1997: 47). He also denied that the railways helped to create a sense of nation, arguing that India was already one nation before the British arrived, and that the British had divided this nation. Gandhi’s opposition to the railways accords with his general distrust of Westernisation and his desire to forge a decentralised Indian nation based on his romantic perception of the Indian village discussed above.11 128

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As well as developing transport and communications, the British continued their reform of the education system in India. Previous efforts had concentrated on higher education in English; by the second half of the nineteenth century the British began to promote primary education and the use of vernacular languages. Despite this, in the 1880s nearly 90 per cent of college students were Hindu (who made up 73 per cent of the population) with Muslims (22 per cent of the population) making up only 4 per cent of students (Brown 1994: 126). The implications of this educational imbalance are serious, particularly when considering that students tended to go into professions such as government service, law or journalism, professions for which serious political participation was almost a natural progression. Although the wider availability of education would seem to be a progressive step, it did create a problem: there were few suitable jobs for highly qualified Indian graduates. This could only lead to increasing resentment and agitation, particularly as the migration of the educated classes in search of work meant that political consciousness grew in the provincial towns and cities.12 Nationalist sentiment instead found an outlet in an increasingly critical vernacular press in the later nineteenth century. The phenomenon of nationalist sentiment finding its expression in a vernacular press has been well documented by Anderson (1991). Anderson argues that administrative languages in sixteenth century Europe (such as Latin) were never intended to be anything other than that: ‘there was no idea of systematically imposing the language on the dynasts’ various subject populations’ (1991: 42). This finds its parallel in the India of the nineteenth century. Although the British did introduce English to an elite of Indians, it was intended only to train them for government work, as stated above. Anderson goes on to suggest that the growth of printing in vernaculars ‘below’ the administrative languages helped to forge a new sense of national identity, a new ‘imagined community’ (1991: 44–5). In India the use of the printed vernacular certainly served this purpose; it has been described as playing ‘the institutional role of opposition to the Government’ (Chandra 1989: 103). The importance of the vernacular press is further reflected by the Vernacular Press Act in 1878, which was designed by the British to limit the freedom of the Indian language presses.13 According to Bhattacharjee the Act was a ‘piece of panic legislation . . . [that would] prevent the dissemination of sedition in the community’ (1988: 234). Responses to the Act were ingenious: one Bengali paper, the Amrita Bazar Patrika, simply published entirely in English from the day the Act was passed. It can be seen, then, that the latter half of the nineteenth century saw a rise in Indian nationalist consciousness. This was due to a combination of improved communications around the country, increased educational opportunities for a few, and the expansion of the vernacular press. The new nationalism did, however, bring accompanying problems and difficulties. Religion, often a destructive force in India, once again proved to be a major source of disagreement. 129

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Religion as nation? For all who felt themselves to be nationalists during this period, the most important, and most divisive, issue was religion. Education and communications were helping to propagate a single consciousness, one which assumed India to be a homogenous entity with shared goals and ambitions. However, within the Indian nation there have always been many religious minorities and a major issue for the emerging nationalist movement was whether national identity should be based upon some notion of religious identity. Whether one was first and foremost Indian, Hindu or Muslim was becoming increasingly significant. Education, which contributed greatly to the burgeoning nationalism, was denied to the majority of Indians, and in particular to most Muslims, as shown above. While some liberal nationalists denied that national identity should be based on religion, many disagreed. Many Hindus believed that the Muslim population represented ‘a destructive force, whose time of political dominance [during the Moghul era] had fatally weakened Indian culture and society’ (Brown 1994: 157). In response, Muslims increasingly began to regard themselves as a separate group with different interests, particularly as they felt they were being disadvantaged in educational terms. Furthermore, Muslims in India were part of the panIslamic movement known as the Khilafat, the spiritual leader of which was the Sultan of Turkey. This strengthened their sense of identity based upon religion at the expense of a singular Indian national identity. At the same time many Hindus were also questioning the basis of their identity. The social reforms undertaken by both the British and Hindu reformers had sharpened debate over many areas, such as sati and caste. By the end of the nineteenth century the lower Hindu castes were very much aware of their disadvantaged economic position in Indian society and so began to form organisations, known as ‘caste sabhas’, which were aimed at reinforcing their own identity and raising educational standards amongst the poorest. It is likely that the search for identity undertaken by many Muslims was in reaction to the heightened sense of awareness amongst Hindus. It can be seen then that at the moment when a sense of national consciousness was most needed – when the British Empire was consolidating its rule over the subcontinent – the two major religious groups in India were drifting farther apart. This division is reflected in the founding of both Congress, the predominantly Hindu nationalist organisation, in 1885, and the Muslim League, established in 1906. The foundation of the Indian National Congress The establishment of the Indian National Congress, generally shortened to Congress, was not, according to Chandra, a ‘historical accident’. Rather, he argues that ‘it was the culmination of a process of political awakening that had 130

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its beginnings in the 1860s and 1870s and took a major leap forward in the late 1870s and early 1880s’ (1989: 71). This awakening came about through a series of agitations and campaigns organised by various groups in this period. Indian politics had been characterised by a loose-knit network of organisations that represented narrow, often provincial, interests. Apart from the obvious religious differences mentioned above, Indian political life had been further polarised by the sheer size of the country. Aspiring Indian politicians tended to be concerned with local issues, particularly because at this time there was little opportunity for them to participate at a national level. As Brown argues, [Indians] needed to ‘prove’ their continental standing . . . to be taken seriously by the British. Otherwise they laid themselves open to the charge that they spoke only for a restricted interest or a microscopic minority. (1994: 182) The principal way in which aspiring all-Indian politicians were able to prove their standing, as well as gain confidence and experience, was by organising campaigns and agitations against various aspects of British rule. The Vernacular Press Act mentioned above had brought protest from the Indian language press, and the late nineteenth century also saw the establishment of the major nationalist newspapers, including The Hindu and The Tribune. Other sources of discontent included the imposition of cotton import duties, against which there had been a campaign since 1875, and the Ilbert Bill of 1883. This legislation gave Indian judges the right to try Europeans, and was designed to remove all discrimination from the judicial process. Rather than generating discontent amongst the Indian population, however, it provoked agitation amongst Europeans. As Bhattacharjee observes, The Europeans in India were naturally not willing to give up their ancient rights. So the Ilbert Bill raised a storm of protest from the whites who would get maximum advantage before a European Judge or Magistrate even in cases where the accused had beaten to death an Indian with his boot. (1988: 247) So while Indians largely welcomed the Bill, Europeans engaged in a concerted campaign against it. This involved fund raising in both India and Britain, and an ‘Anglo-Indian Defence Association was formed to agitate against the Bill and to work on public opinion in England’ (Masselos 1993: 75). The Europeans achieved the result they required: the Viceroy, Lord Ripon, was forced to compromise and many of the discriminatory aspects of the judicial system that the Bill was designed to remove were retained. 131

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The important question is how European agitation against a measure designed to protect Indians by removing inequities from the judicial process played a role in the formation of Congress. The anti-Ilbert agitation showed Indians the necessity and effectiveness of co-ordinated campaigning on an allIndia basis, and was a lesson in unity. Furthermore, it proved to them how far the British were willing to go in order to protect their interests, and exposed the level of distrust that the British community felt for the Indian population. The first meeting of Congress took place in December 1885, in response to the hard lessons that had been learnt from the Ilbert Bill. At its initial meeting, in Bombay, Congress was not a modern political party but more a confederation of varied interests. Independence for India was not one of the aims of Congress at its inception. Allen Octavian Hume, an Englishman who played an important role in the formation of Congress, described the organisation’s aims and objectives thus: First: The fusion into one national whole of all the different and, till recently discordant, elements that constitute the population of India; Second: The gradual regeneration along all lines, mental, moral, social and political, of the nation thus evolved; and Third: The consolidation of the union between England and India, by securing the modification of such of its conditions as may be unjust or injurious to the latter country. (Pandey 1979: 6–7) It is clear from this statement that independence was not one of Congress’s initial aims. They appear to have believed that if Britain and India drew closer together, the population of India would benefit as a result. Another striking aspect of this statement is the similarity between the second objective and the general objectives of Gandhi, who was not a part of the Indian nationalist scene at this time. Gandhi’s objective of swaraj for India meant self-rule both in a personal and a national sense; self-regeneration was a vital element of satyagraha. Rather than being concerned with India’s future status, the first Congress meetings were concerned with specific current issues, such as Indian recruitment to the civil service, the extension of representative government and educational provision. They were keen to appear moderate, believing that the British would be more sympathetic if they used legitimate political methods, such as meetings and petitions, rather than violence. It is important to note that Congress avoided questions of social and religious reform; it was feared that such debate would break the spirit of unanimity India so badly needed. An example of an issue Congress refused to discuss was that of cow-killing in 1887.14 Brown argues that this avoidance ‘cut Congress off from the roots of political action in northern India’ (1994: 188). The objective of refusing to address such issues had been, of course, to avoid dissent amongst Hindus and, 132

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more importantly, between Hindus and Muslims. Despite this, however, Congress was dominated at its first meeting by urban and Hindu delegates, with a notable absence of the less-educated and of Muslims. Muslim nationalism Although the stated intention of Congress was that it should be an all-India body, in reality Muslims were generally reluctant to join. During the period from 1892 to 1909 fewer than 1,000 Muslims attended Congress sessions out of a total of 14,000 delegates. The Muslim educationalist Syed Ahmed Khan actively discouraged Muslims from joining Congress as he was convinced it represented solely Hindu interests. He argued that Muslim interests were best protected by the raj, a position that effectively countered Congress claims to represent all-India. Syed Ahmed Khan’s ‘Aligarh movement’ toured the country in the late nineteenth century persuading Muslims that Congress had nothing to offer them. One of the reasons why Muslims felt alienated from Congress was the simple matter of educational inequality. As stated above, the provisions of the British from primary right through to higher education had always benefited the Hindu community first and foremost. Even in the Muslim-dominated areas such as Bengal, there were relatively few English-medium educated Muslims. This served to create the impression that Congress, dominated as it was by the English-speaking Hindu/urban elite, could not and would not serve and protect Muslim interests. Hence, in December 1906 the All-India Muslim League was established. Ironically, the membership of the League was similar in social level to that of Congress: it was dominated by educated and wealthy Muslims from the north of India, in particular from the United Provinces. As with Congress, Brown points out, the League ‘drew on a restricted socio-economic as well as a regional clientele’ (1994: 192). The aims of the League upon its foundation were similar in some respects to those of Congress, but were far more explicit in acknowledging the religious basis of the organisation’s identity. The League also made it clear from the beginning that they were committed to self-government. Their objectives, outlined in 1912, were: 1 2 3 4

To promote and maintain among Indians feelings of loyalty towards the British Crown; To protect and advance the political and other rights and interests of the Indian Musalmans; To promote friendship and union between the Musalmans and other communities of India; and Without detriment to the foregoing objects, the attainment of a system of self-government suitable to India by bringing about, through constitutional means, a steady reform of the existing system of administration; 133

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by promoting national unity and fostering public spirit among the people of India, and by co-operating with other communities for the said purposes (Pandey 1979: 19). An important element of this outline of the League’s objectives is their intention that the move toward self-government should be made by constitutional means. This is a strong characteristic of the Indian nationalist movement in general; as noted above, the nationalists were able to operate within the law, which is not the case in Tibet. It is undoubtedly for this reason that no coherent organisation has emerged and survived within Tibet itself; democratic resistance remains in exile by necessity. The period of Indian nationalism prior to World War One is defined by the development of strong nationalist organisations. Even at this early stage, however, they were defined by religion, with the two major religious communities of India each having their ‘own’ party. While this may have been unintentional on the part of the secular-minded Congress, the Muslim League, as shown, was committed to representing Muslim interests. The development of these highly organised nationalist parties is in striking contrast to the situation inside Tibet, where no democratic party exists to represent Tibetan interests. The Chinese legal and political system prevents such expressions of nationalism, both in Tibet and China itself. It is a crucial difference between the cases of India and Tibet, and it makes the Dalai Lama’s preference for Gandhian methods rather perplexing. As is shown in the following chapter, it was not Gandhian methods alone that freed the Indians of British rule, but a combination of non-violent resistance and hard political bargaining by the main nationalist parties. As has been illustrated, Tibetan democratisation in exile has not extended to the development of a fullyfledged party system within the exile parliament. The Indian experience must also be set in the context of international politics and British domestic concerns. At the turn of the century both Congress and the League remained limited in appeal and influence. The British did not recognise either organisation as the legitimate representatives of their respective communities, and continued to believe that Indians’ interests were best served by the raj. The positions of both the nationalist organisations, and the attitudes of the British, were brought sharply to the fore by the advent of World War One in 1914. War in Europe ushered in a new phase in Indian nationalist politics.

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India will find herself again when freedom opens out new horizons, and the future will then fascinate her far more than the immediate past of frustration and humiliation. She will go forward with confidence, rooted in herself and yet eager to learn from others and co-operate with them. Today she swings between a blind adherence to her old customs and a slavish imitation of foreign ways. In neither of these can she find relief or growth. Jawaharlal Nehru1

That war in Europe was to have a profound impact on nationalism in India and its eventual independence illustrates how important the international context and external factors in general were to the development of the Indian independence movement. Such movements cannot operate in isolation; Tibet’s future is bound to be similarly dependent on international circumstances. The period from World War One until independence in 1947 also illustrates the significance for India of domestic circumstances in Britain. Ultimately, one of the major factors contributing to Indian independence was that the post-war Labour government in Britain was not ideologically disposed towards colonialism and imperialism. Such beneficial circumstances in China are unlikely; there have been no ideological shifts regarding China’s ‘national minorities’. Crucially, China continues to press the claim that Tibet is an historical part of the Motherland; Britain never claimed the same of India. The period from World War One to Indian independence was dominated by bargaining over the nature of the future Indian state and the place of religious minorities within it. Nationhood was increasingly defined by religion, and the idea took hold that religious minorities could only be protected through political and physical separation. Despite these obstacles, however, the Indian people remained united in their pursuit of independence. This too should be a valuable lesson for Tibetans: though united in religion, 135

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their political goal remains unclear. Theoretically, as a united society it should be easier for them to decide on the goal; the lack of full democracy in exile perhaps prevents the necessary dialogue. An issue raised by this situation is that a community dominated by one religion to the de facto exclusion of other religions is perhaps less inclined towards democracy. As Sartori argues, pluralistic dissensus is beneficial to democracy but such dissensus is not evident in the Tibetan government in exile, as has been shown (Sartori 1987: 92). If more political disagreement were to be tolerated within the Tibetan exile community, it might enable Tibetans to engage in the debate that must precede the formulation of a genuine goal. At the moment, those who support the goal of independence cannot formally pursue it because it is against the wishes of the Dalai Lama, despite there being no consensus upon these wishes.

The impact of World War One in India The war drew heavily on India’s resources of manpower and material supplies. Indians were recruited to fight alongside British soldiers. The irony of colonial subjects defending nationhood and democracy in Europe did not escape the notice of the Indian National Congress. In 1915 Congress called for an advance towards Indian self-government, having applied the Allies’ defence of the rights of nations to their own situation. The Bengali politician Surendranath Banerjea explicitly outlined the connection in a speech to Congress in December 1915: [T]he idea of re-adjustment is in the air, not only here in India but all the world over. The heart of the Empire is set upon it: it is the problem of problems upon which humanity is engaged. What is this war for? Why are these numerous sufferings endured? Because, it is a war of re-adjustment, a war that will set right the claims of minor nationalities, uphold and vindicate the sanctity of treaties. . . . They are talking about what will happen after the war in Canada, in Australia; they are talking about it from the floor of the House of Commons and in the gatherings of public men and ministers of the State. May we not also talk about it a little from our standpoint? (Brown 1994: 197) Congress’s demand for self-government was backed by the Muslim League, in an agreement which drew the two organisations together for the first time. As well as strengthening Congress’s and the Muslim League’s commitment to self-government, the war also gave rise to two Home Rule Leagues in India, formed in 1916. The Home Rule Leagues differed from Congress in that they appealed to a wide spectrum of society: ‘non-Brahmins, traders and 136

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agriculturalists, students, and lower government officials, and some men from regions which . . . would have been called “politically backward” ’ (Brown 1994: 199). They employed new methods of publicity designed to reach all sections of society, through vernacular pamphlets, posters, song and drama. The impact of the Home Rule Leagues on the raj can be illustrated by the internment of Annie Besant, the founder of one of the groups, in June 1917. Inevitably, her arrest led to nation-wide protest, and an increase in support for the Home Rule Leagues. As Chandra points out, ‘repression only served to harden the attitude of the agitators and strengthen their resolve to resist the government’ (1989: 167). In turn, the British reinforced their powers over India, albeit in the name of wartime security. The Defence of India Act (1915), for example, allowed the British to deal with those considered a risk to political stability outside of the courts. Furthermore, the Act increased the British powers of censorship: over 1,000 titles were banned between 1914 and 1918, and many editors were officially ‘warned’. While the British were stepping up their powers of repression on the one hand, on the other they were allowing for some liberalisation in the administration of India. The policy seems to have been one of allowing the Indian people some concessions while firmly re-emphasising the position of the raj. The Montagu Declaration of 1917 signalled that there would be some reform of government: [The goal of British policy is] increasing association of Indians in every branch of the administration, and the gradual development of self-governing institutions, with a view to the progressive realisation of responsible government in India as an integral part of the British Empire.2 It is important to note that while this declaration was certainly significant in terms of reform and responsibility, it also emphasised that India was still very much a part of the Empire and did not make any concessions towards eventual self-rule. Indians were to be part of the British political structure, and it was not the intention that this should pave the way towards wholly Indian government. The Montagu declaration became law in 1919 with the Government of India Act, also known as the Montagu–Chelmsford Reforms. This enlarged provincial and central legislatures, increased the number of provincial concerns (to include education, land revenue, and law and order) and widened the electoral franchise. Brown argues that the British intent, in implementing these reforms, was ‘to control dissent, defuse tension, and channel the obvious political potential being generated among Indians into constructive use of power’ (1994: 207). Conversely, French maintains that while the reforms were presented as ‘ “half-in-half rule” or “dyarchy” ’, in reality the measures were closer to ‘ “nine-tenths to one-tenth” rule, since true control remained in British hands’ (1997: 35). 137

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The desire of the British to control dissent was further illustrated by the decision to continue with wartime security measures in 1919. The Rowlatt Commission recommended that there was still a danger of terrorism and political violence, and so measures taken during the war, such as trials without a jury, were to remain in place. This repressive step was extremely offensive to Indians, particularly as every Indian member of the legislative council had voted against the measure. While the Rowlatt legislation was obviously a setback for the Indian people, as well as badly damaging the reputation of the raj, it did have one very significant and fortunate outcome: it marked the debut of Gandhi on the Indian political scene. Gandhi, Congress and non-cooperation Gandhi’s initial action against the British in India was the hartal, or cessation of activity, in response to the Rowlatt legislation. Throughout his political career in India – indeed, in South Africa prior to his return to India – Gandhi was usually associated with direct action rather than mainstream political involvement. His famous declaration that ‘my life is my message’ reflects this: his political philosophy was to be found in the methods he both employed himself and recommended to others.3 This should not imply, however, that Gandhi was separate from the established nationalist organisations in India. Gandhi was nothing if not pragmatic; he realised that progress would come only if he were to be involved with groups such as Congress. To this end, he accepted the leadership of the All-India Home Rule League in April 1920. He also championed the pan-Islamic Khilafat movement and thus, for a time at least, secured himself some Muslim support. He also became closely linked with Congress following the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, when Congress conducted a counter-inquiry to the official investigation into the killing of over 300 Indians in Amritsar. Gandhi’s involvement with Congress led to them eventually agreeing to adopt the Gandhian approach of non-cooperation with the raj at their session in September 1920. As Brown states, there is ‘no simple reason for the apparently dramatic change of Congress policy and Gandhi’s dominance in its decision-making’ (1994: 222). Looking back at the initial objectives of Congress, it can clearly be seen that their stated goal of the strengthening of the union between England and India would be hampered by active noncooperation. Also, as many of the members of Congress were lawyers or already working in provincial government or education, non-cooperation was seen by many in Congress as a threat to their professional positions. Brown comes to the simple conclusion that non-cooperation suited the aims of Congress at that particular time, and that it was not regarded as a permanent policy change (1994: 222). Chandra, on the other hand, argues that Congress was thoroughly disillusioned with the possibility of progress through constitutional means, particularly after the British report into the Jallianwala Bagh 138

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massacre, and so was easily persuaded to adopt non-cooperation (1989: 185). It seems likely that the British response to Jallianwala Bagh – in particular the welcome that General Dyer, who had ordered his troops to shoot, received upon his return to Britain – provoked the radical turn in Indian politics. As French argues, [The British] reaction to Jallianwala Bagh . . . led many previously moderate Indians to lose faith in the British. The House of Lords may have seen the massacre as acceptable, but in India it was perceived as grisly mass murder. The forces of pragmatic conservatism were swept aside, and a new radicalism entered Indian nationalist politics.4 A further factor that may have persuaded Congress to adopt Gandhian methods was the Muslim Khilafat Conference’s conversion to non-cooperation in June 1920, and its request that Gandhi should lead the movement. While non-cooperation neither lead to swaraj (self-rule), as Gandhi had intended, nor had much impact on the British government, it did result in a truly national and popular movement. Of great significance was the involvement of both Congress and the Khilafat movement; a testament to Gandhi’s ability to unite, if temporarily, both the major religious communities in a pan-Indian campaign. Instances of non-cooperation occurred all over India. One of the most dramatic events was in Bombay in November 1921, where a visit by the Prince of Wales to the city was met with empty streets due to the observation of a hartal, and bonfires of foreign cloth.5 Elsewhere in India, campaigns against local problems were expressed through the noncooperation campaign, such as in Rajhastan, where peasants were trying to secure better living conditions. In Punjab, a campaign to wrest control of gurdwaras (Sikh temples) from corrupt priests, a problem with its origins in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, merged with the non-cooperation movement. It is perhaps inevitable that the non-cooperation movement, consisting as it did of a loose-knit array of local concerns together with a nationalist campaign, was not successful in achieving swaraj. As Chandra rightly emphasises, [T]he spirit of unrest and defiance of authority engendered by the Non-Cooperation movement contributed to the rise of many local movements in different parts of the country, movements which did not often adhere strictly either to the programme of the NonCooperation movement or even to the policy of non-violence. (1989: 190) Gandhi called off the movement in February 1922, following an incident in the Gorakhpur district of the United Provinces, where an angry crowd 139

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besieged a police station and killed twenty-two policemen. Gandhi’s greatest concern was of violence dominating an all-India campaign, and the first non-cooperation movement illustrated only too well the difficulties of maintaining non-violence and discipline throughout the whole country. This should provide a valuable lesson for the Tibetan struggle; the difficulties of co-ordinating from exile a sustained non-violent campaign inside Tibet would be immense. Gandhi expressed his fears that the movement in India would spiral out of control in a letter to Jawaharlal Nehru: [T]he Chauri Chaura [the village in Gorakhpur district] news came like a powerful match to ignite the gunpowder, and there was a blaze. I assure you that if [non-cooperation] had not been suspended we would have been leading not a non-violent struggle but essentially a violent struggle. It is undoubtedly true that non-violence is spreading . . . but the foetid smell of violence is still powerful, and it would be unwise to ignore or underrate it. The cause will prosper by this retreat. The movement had unconsciously drifted from the right path. (Pandey 1979: 56) The violence that marred the campaign was not, however, the only reason why Gandhi cancelled the movement; Masselos argues that Gandhi also considered his own position (1993: 171–2). In calling off the movement before it imploded, Gandhi was able to retain political credibility, despite the surprise felt by many – including Jawaharlal Nehru – that the campaign should be questioned at all. Although non-cooperation did not achieve swaraj within a year, as Gandhi had intended, it did have an important impact on the development of the Indian nationalist movement. At a very basic level, it showed that people from all sections of Indian society could unite under one banner, though this did involve incorporating local campaigns that did not necessarily adhere to strict Gandhian principles. Crucially, it also proved that Hindus and Muslims could co-operate together against the British government when necessary. Chandra argues that this was one of the most significant aspects of the movement: There is hardly any doubt that it was Muslim participation that gave the [non-cooperation] movement its truly mass character in many areas; at some places two-thirds of those arrested were Muslims. (1989: 196) As well as bringing Muslims into the all-India nationalist arena, noncooperation also boosted the prestige of Congress. Their association with Gandhi helped Congress to reach into the local political realm, where people who may not have been familiar with the political and ideological aspects 140

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of the Gandhian approach were instead attracted by Gandhi’s image as ‘Mahatma’, or ‘great soul’. As Khilnani suggests, Gandhi could ‘be visualised not merely as an all-Indian leader amongst the nationalist elite, but as a local saint in the different regions and communities of India’ (1997: 165). It is with this aspect of Gandhi’s character, or image, that the most striking similarities with the Dalai Lama may be found. Like Gandhi, the Dalai Lama embodies the image of a strong political leader – although perhaps not as powerful as Gandhi – with an almost mythologised sanctity. It is telling, though, that despite Gandhi’s popular appeal, the provincial nature of Indian politics was to remain one of Congress’s most serious problems.

India between the Wars Following the demise of the non-cooperation movement, Gandhi was arrested and tried in March 1922. He was sentenced to six years for his agitation against the government and not released until 1924, so the national movement lacked a unifying figurehead at a time when one was greatly needed. The unity that was so crucial within Congress and the Muslim League – let alone in the whole of the country – became very fragile following non-cooperation. Brown argues that the main factor affecting the stability of Congress was the rise of Hindu communalism, which was a direct result of the 1919 government reforms (1994: 235). An added problem was that the Gandhi-led alliance forged between Congress and the Khilafat movement during non-cooperation fell apart along with the campaign itself. In 1923, under four per cent of Congress delegates were Muslim, a fall of around seven per cent from 1921. In December 1924, the Muslim League and Congress met separately for the first time since 1920. The development of ideology At a local level also tensions grew between Muslims and Hindus. Contentious issues, such as cow-killing, continued to cause difficulties between the communities, and further sharpened their sense of polarity. Political groupings came to be increasingly defined by religious affiliation, and as Brown argues, this was hardly a constructive development: [B]oth Hindus and Muslims who engaged in ‘communal’ politics were reacting pragmatically from fear and a wish for protection rather than positive commitment to a clearly conceived ideal or a common political identity rooted in religion. (1994: 240) Far more beneficial for the Indian nationalist movement in the long term were the ideologies of figures such as Gandhi and Jawarhalal Nehru. Although 141

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Gandhi’s ideas were rooted in Hinduism, as has been shown, his intention was that his general methods could be employed by anyone to transform all of Indian society. This was undoubtedly naïve, but Gandhi genuinely hoped that Muslims would be attracted by his message. Although as French points out, this was ‘overblown idealism’ on Gandhi’s part (1997: 39), and while Gandhi failed to transform society, there can be no doubt that his satyagraha had an enormous impact on the raj. Nehru, on the other hand, was educated in Britain and was ‘deeply impressed by what [he] read and saw in Europe’ (Brown 1994: 240). As noted in the previous chapter, English-medium education exposed a small section of Indian society to political theories of freedom and universal rights, and the Indian experience in World War One served to reinforce the view that liberty and equality in Europe could be applied in India. Nehru was preoccupied, however, with finding an Indian solution to the problems the country was facing; above all he realised that an Indian identity had to be constructed that was neither based on Hinduism nor Islam. European nationalist experience and theory alone could not address this issue. The solution, Nehru believed, was to introduce a new secularism into politics while respecting the variety of religious beliefs in India. This thinking was to be evident in the post-independence state. Although believing India required a unique solution, particularly in cultural and religious terms, Nehru continued to be attracted by Western political ideas. A visit to Britain in 1926–7, where he met various left-wing political thinkers, was to shape his political views further, and he became convinced of the need to link the Indian nationalist struggle with anti-colonial struggles all over the world. Gandhi, too, recognised the necessity of adopting this approach to the Indian struggle; in a letter to Nehru he wrote: We must recognise that our nationalism must not be inconsistent with progressive internationalism. . . . I can, therefore, go the whole length with you and say that ‘we should range ourselves with the progressive forces of the world’. (Chandra 1989: 391) While the leaders of the nationalist movement were developing their political ideologies in the mid- to late-1920s, the nationalist movement as a whole appears to have entered a period of stagnation during these years. This was perhaps inevitable, given the imprisonment of Gandhi, the first popular leader able to appeal across the religious divide. Religious differences remained a constant threat to unity, a threat that was bound to increase in the following decades. The despondency of the nationalist movement in the late 1920s is reflected in a letter from Motilal Nehru to his son, Jawarhalal, in 1927: 142

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Indian politics were low enough when you left India a year ago but even you who know your people and country so well can have no idea of the almost universal rot which has since set in. I do not think that there is one man among the old or the new set of Congressmen who will not go into a fainting fit on hearing the words complete independence for India. . . . What you say about the improvements made by the Chinese nationalists in the social and political spheres is only discouraging to one who does not believe that India is capable of doing half as much for a long time to come. . . . Religion is the home of this country and unless a strong personality arises who will knock the prevailing Shibboleths on the head there is no hope for the God-forsaken land. (Pandey 1979: 60) This seemingly despairing attitude was, fortunately, ill-founded. The 1930s saw a revival in the fortunes of the Indian nationalist movement, with an all-India satyagraha and a series of Round Table conferences in London, involving both Indian and British delegates. The beginning of the decade also saw Congress’s firm commitment to complete independence, despite the pessimism of Motilal Nehru expressed above. Towards purna swaraj The decision by Congress in December 1929 to adopt purna swaraj, or complete independence, as their goal was preceded by the influential Nehru Report of 1928. This report, written by Motilal Nehru, called for the granting of dominion status to India, as well as attempting to assuage Muslim fears of Hindu domination in a future India. The problem of Muslim representation in government would be addressed by the reservation of seats in the Muslim minority provinces, although no such provision was made in Muslim majority areas. The state would, however, be unitary, with power located in the centre rather than the provinces. Not surprisingly, the response of Muslims to this proposal was negative. M. A. Jinnah, the Muslim politician who had initially been involved with Congress before joining the Muslim League in 1913, called for power to be vested in the provinces rather than the centre, for he indeed feared a Hindu-dominated state. Khilnani points out that this was a ‘perfectly secular’ ambition: Jinnah did not want political institutions to be in the hands of a dominant religious group (1997: 163). This fundamental disagreement marked Jinnah’s parting with the Hindu political community. It was not only Muslim factions who responded in this way. Congress was also divided over the Nehru report. Jawarhalal Nehru, for example, called for complete independence rather than dominion status, while Gandhi preferred 143

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to err on the side of caution and allow the raj two years to accept dominion status. Compromise was reached: [T]he grace period was reduced to a year and, more important, the Congress decided that if the Government did not accept a constitution based on Dominion Status by the end of [1929], the Congress would not only adopt complete independence as its goal, but it would also launch a civil disobedience movement to attain that goal. (Chandra 1989: 264) The Muslim League gave their formal response to the Nehru report in March 1929, with the publication of Jinnah’s ‘Fourteen Points’. This was generally intended to safeguard the rights and interests of Muslims in India by recommending a number of provisions for inclusion in a future constitution of India. To these ends, the relevant points were as follows: 1 The form of the future constitution should be federal, with the residuary powers vested in the provinces. 2 A uniform measure of autonomy shall be granted to all provinces. . . . 4 In the Central Legislature, Mussalman representation shall not be less than one third. . . . 7 Full religious liberty, i.e., liberty of belief, worship and observance, propaganda, association and education, shall be guaranteed to all communities. . . . 9 Provision should be made in the constitution giving Moslems an adequate share along with the other Indians, in all the services of the State and in local self-governing bodies having due regard to the requirements of efficiency. 12 The Constitution should embody adequate safeguards for the protection of Moslem culture and for the protection and promotion of Moslem education, language, religion, personal laws and Moslem charitable institutions and for their due share in the grants-in-aid given by the state and by local self-governing bodies. 13 No cabinet, either Central or Provincial, should be formed without there being a proportion of at least one-third Moslem Ministers.6 The most important practical proposals in the Fourteen Points concerned the location of power in the provinces rather than in the centre. This would not only lend Muslims greater political power, but also benefit groups such as the Sikhs. Jinnah intended that the Fourteen Points should be seen as an answer to the Nehru Report, which he felt represented Hindu interests. Chandra argues that the Fourteen Points were to serve as the ‘basis of all future communal propaganda in the subsequent years’ (1989: 424). The development of 144

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Jinnah’s document in response to the Nehru Report marked the formal introduction of the notion of separation into a future India, as well as establishing the League as the acknowledged representative of Muslim aspirations. The Points effectively accused any central government of being inherently discriminatory; it was presumed that such a government could not represent minority interests. The seeming unwillingness of Congress to accept proposals for a weaker centre in a federal state also shows intransigence on their part, and perhaps a lack of perception and foresight. It does not after all seem to be an unreasonable demand: that the largest of India’s religious minorities should have some kind of autonomy in deciding their own political affairs. The federation that the League was proposing was designed to protect India’s religious minorities rather than deliberately weakening the centre, and, by implication, Congress. They were not calling for a separate nation for Muslims, but were developing a framework that would enable India to become an independent unified state. Federalism did not imply separation, but the rejection of the federal solution led to India becoming far more divided on religious and political lines. The British response to the calls of the Nehru Report was, in October 1929, to announce that their goal was the same: dominion status for India. The announcement, which became known as the Irwin Declaration after the then Viceroy, was vague about the timetable for the attainment of dominionhood. This led some to suggest that Irwin was ‘deliberately deluding Indians with a meaningless gesture’, while others understood that such reforms would necessarily take a long time (Brown 1994: 270). Many looked to Gandhi for guidance: but he had to satisfy both those in Congress who recognised the need for peaceful negotiation with the raj, and those who were pressing for the campaign of civil disobedience they had earlier promised. Gandhi pressed Irwin for an interpretation of the declaration and clarification of issues such as the future constitution, the level of Congress representation and an amnesty for political prisoners. Such clarification was unforthcoming so Gandhi agreed with the pro-civil disobedience elements of Congress, which included Jawarhalal Nehru, and the Irwin Declaration was rejected. At their session in Lahore in December 1929, Congress emphatically made their intentions clear: from this moment onwards they would fight for complete independence for India. This declaration of the goal of Congress stands in stark contrast to the Tibetan situation; far from demanding complete independence, the Tibetan leadership has watered down the goal to autonomy; swaraj, perhaps, rather than purna swaraj. Congress, however, declared 26 January 1930 to be Independence Day, when public meetings were held all over India for the reading of the pledge of independence: We believe that it is the inalienable right of the Indian people, as of any other people, to have freedom and to enjoy the fruits of their toil and have the necessities of life, so that they may have full 145

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opportunities of growth. We believe also that if any government deprives a people of these rights and oppresses them, the people have a further right to alter it or to abolish it. The British Government in India has not only deprived the Indian people of their freedom but has based itself on the exploitation of the masses, and has ruined India economically, politically, culturally, and spiritually. We believe, therefore, that India must sever the British connection and attain Purna Swaraj or Complete Independence. (Pandey 1979: 64–5) As Chandra indicates, amid the euphoria of the announcement there was a ‘grim resolve’ for together with the declaration of the new goal, there was a commitment to a campaign of civil disobedience (1989: 268). Civil disobedience The primary action of the civil disobedience campaign was Gandhi’s Salt March through the state of Gujarat to the coast at Dandi. This involved Indians from all social backgrounds, but although Gandhi had intended the satyagraha to bring religious communities together, Muslims took little notice of the action, or, indeed, of civil disobedience in general. This should not imply, however, that the Salt March was insignificant. Rather, it demonstrated the power of non-violent mass action and proved to Indians that they could successfully confront the raj. The Indian people began to feel empowered through action, and specific issues became increasingly entangled in the wider campaign. As well as the Salt March, the other significant actions were a boycott of the provincial elections in September 1930, and a boycott of foreign goods, particularly cloth. Brown argues that [T]he real strength of civil disobedience . . . was shown in areas where local political campaigns dovetailed with all-India protest, and local men found the ‘national’ campaign a vehicle for specific and often longstanding issues. (1994: 277) It is ironic that while the inclusion of many local issues had driven the earlier non-cooperation movement to violent collapse, the civil disobedience campaign successfully included such actions. This is perhaps because by the 1930s Congress had managed to appeal to a wide base in Indian society. The movement was dominated by the literate and prosperous loosely defined middle-class; as such they could not be easily dismissed by the raj. There are social reasons for the increase in such support. In the 1930s the Indian population increased by 15 per cent, which led to greater pressure on 146

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scant resources such as education. The Indian economy also improved greatly in the 1930s, with industry expanding rapidly together with an improvement in the communications and transport infrastructures. Such economic growth, coupled with social and ideological mobility afforded by the latter improvements, led to an increase in literacy. The problem, however, was that as the educated class grew, opportunities did not increase to keep pace with their rising expectations and ambitions. This gave rise to renewed social and political consciousness, which was increasingly expressed in nationalist action. The civil disobedience campaign was an ideal release for such frustrations, encompassing as it did a broad swathe of social and political issues. The civil disobedience campaign boosted the prestige of Congress enormously, particularly due to their partnership with Gandhi. It was evident that the campaign was drawing in Hindu politicians who had previously not been part of Congress, and, as Brown indicates, Liberals, too, felt increasing pressure to sympathise publicly with Congress and Gandhi, as the campaign gathered wide support and they feared government repression would increase that support. (1994: 281) It was because of the ever-increasing popularity of Congress that the Viceroy, Lord Irwin, realised the necessity of involving them in the decision-making process. Irwin made a pact with Gandhi in March 1931, following the first Round Table Conference in London. In return for Congress calling off the civil disobedience campaign, the government made a number of concessions, including: the release of non-violent political prisoners; the right to produce salt for domestic consumption; lenient treatment to those government employees who had resigned their positions; and the right to peaceful protest (Chandra 1989: 280). Gandhi did receive criticism, for some saw the pact as a betrayal and a signal that he was wary of radical protest. However, Gandhi appreciated that his campaigns would always be short-term; the satyagrahi would not have the moral stature needed to sustain such a protest over a long period. It was also evident that not only was the campaign winding down by the beginning of 1931, but far more importantly, the offer of negotiation with the raj had to be accepted while it was open. Generally, though, as Chandra argues, [T]he vast mass of people were undoubtedly impressed that the mighty British government had had to treat their movement and [Gandhi] as an equal and sign a pact with him. They saw this as a recognition of their own strength, and as their victory over the government. (1989: 282) 147

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Unfortunately the optimism of the Indian population following civil disobedience was short-lived. Illustrating only too well the need to co-operate with the raj while the opportunity was available, Irwin was replaced by a new Viceroy, Lord Willingdon, who did not believe it was necessary to involve Congress and Gandhi in discussions on India’s future status. Gandhi was arrested in January 1932, and within days many Congress members had also been taken into custody. The populace responded with a renewed campaign of civil disobedience. However, although the people were undoubtedly enthusiastic, the movement lacked leadership and inspiration, so it could not be sustained for long. Also, the response of the government was far more repressive: Congress was declared illegal and many of Gandhi’s ashrams were occupied by the police. The civil disobedience movement was able to continue until April 1934, when it was called off by Gandhi – although it had had real impact only in the first few months. Once again Gandhi was criticised, notably by Subhas Chandra Bose, the radical Bengali politician, who said that Gandhi had failed as a political leader.7 It was fortunate that the converse effect of the repression was an increase in support for Congress, which was to make massive gains in the provincial elections in 1937. The 1935 Government of India Act Following the calling off of the civil disobedience campaign, Congress was divided in its approach to the future. Gandhi believed the way to swaraj lay in his constructive programme, which emphasised social and economic regeneration as essential for the future of the nationalist movement. Nehru, on the other hand, rejected Gandhi’s approach as transitory: he believed that the time had come for a permanent, consolidated conflict with the British. Other elements in Congress felt it was necessary for the movement to fulfil its role in the provincial legislatures, and mobilise support at that level, although this approach risked accusations of cooperation with the raj. Gandhi was able to construct a compromise: while he felt that satyagraha was the most beneficial way forward, he recognised that not every member of Congress was able to follow this path, so these members could ‘give expression to their patriotic energies through council work in a period where there was no mass movement’ (Chandra 1989: 315). He also assured Nehru that it was necessary and pragmatic that the nationalist movement should work in phases of struggle, compromise and negotiation, rather than maintaining constant direct action. As a result of this combined approach, in elections to the Central Legislative Assembly in 1934, Congress took fortyfive out of seventy-five possible seats. In response to the internal wrangling in Congress, the government passed the Government of India Act in 1935. According to Chandra, this was designed to divide Congress further, for it gave Indians a greater role inside 148

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the colonial government, thus reducing the fragile unity of the nationalist movement (1989: 315). The main provisions of the act came into operation in 1937, and gave the provinces autonomy both from Delhi and London. It also enlarged the electoral franchise to about one-sixth (around thirty million) of the adult population. Congress, however, benefited from the Act, as in the elections to the newly powerful provinces in 1937, they took 716 out of the 1,161 seats they contested. Hindu–Muslim relations While the success of Congress in the 1937 elections signalled their basic acceptance of ‘Western-style democratic institutions’ as appropriate for India, particularly given the protection afforded to minorities by such institutions, there was still a distinct lack of religious unity in Indian nationalist politics (Brown 1994: 286). Although Congress had been able to become the party of the greater Hindu community, it should be noted that it displayed an astonishing lack of perception when it came to dealing with the political needs of the Untouchables. They had opposed the British offer of separate electorates for Untouchables (and other minorities) in 1932, on the grounds that it was damaging to unity. A compromise was reached with B. R. Ambedkar, the de facto leader of the Untouchables, which actually gave the community greater representation in the legislatures than had been offered by the raj. An added dimension to the problem was that by negotiating with Ambedkar, Congress risked alienating the far more influential, certainly in material terms, high-caste Hindus, upon whose support they depended. Thus for many Hindus Congress had become the only environment in which interests could be furthered. As Brown argues, ‘conflicts were fought out within [Congress] ranks rather than by forming parties opposed to it’ (1994: 305). But though Congress was able to claim to speak for India’s Hindu community, it continued to fail to represent the interests of Muslims. In the elections no Muslim candidate was returned on a Congress ticket in the provinces of Bengal, Sind, Punjab, and United Provinces, all of which had Muslim majorities or substantial minorities. Although Congress tried to claim that it did represent minority interests, many Muslims believed that it could and would serve only Hindu ends. As Congress grew in stature and influence with its success in 1937, the alienation of Muslims from the party increased. Muslim leaders were quick to respond to this perception. In 1938 Jinnah claimed that ‘Congress is nothing but a Hindu body. That is the truth and the Congress leaders know it’ (Pandey 1979: 150). Muslims realised that if they were to protect their identity they needed to broker cooperation between the Muslim communities at an inter-provincial level. Ironically, provincial autonomy alone had in reality failed to protect Muslim interests, though this had been a demand in the Fourteen Points. Muslims were further frustrated 149

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by what they saw as deliberate attempts on the part of Congress to undermine their political position. In some provinces Congress refused to enter into coalition with Muslim League politicians. Thus by the end of the 1930s, Muslims were increasingly turning towards the idea of a separate Islamic homeland, for this was perceived as the only solution to the problem of communal representation in India. As Congress grew stronger, and came to be perceived as the natural successors to British rule, Jinnah realised that the Muslims needed a similarly strong party to further their interests. That Congress had been so successful in 1937 without any significant Muslim support proved to many that Congress was simply not interested in gaining Muslim backing. As French argues, if ‘Congress could win power without the Muslims, there seemed little reason to make concessions to them’ (1997: 112). Consequently, the Muslim League began to portray Congress as a party that deliberately discounted Muslim interests, though Congress had claimed to be the natural party of the Muslim masses. The worrying position for the Muslim League in 1937 was that although Congress’s claim was untrue, the League could not claim to be the party of India’s Muslims either. In the provincial elections they had gained only 109 of the 482 seats reserved for Muslims. Therefore Jinnah set about making the League a truly mass party for Muslims, seeking to secure the support of local Muslim leaders as well as landlords. The approval of the latter group was particularly important for this meant their tenants would also back the League, because they relied on the landlords for security. By 1939 the League had developed into a mass party. As well as relying heavily on anti-Congress rhetoric and the constant reminder that Congress was not prepared to represent their interests, Jinnah drew in Muslim support through practical measures such as dropping the membership fee – ‘a tiny but symbolic two annas’ – to half that of Congress (French 1997: 113). The League also promoted the use of Urdu rather than Hindi, and expressed support for a minimum wage and improved sanitation. They were thus able to appeal to both the masses, who would provide the bulk of popular support, and the rich, whose financial backing was vital for the survival of the party. With the new-found confidence and popularity of the party, Jinnah’s demands for the Muslim community became increasingly uncompromising, culminating in the Lahore resolution in March 1940.

Towards division: India in the 1940s The Muslim League’s demand for a separate state for Muslims was formally approved at its session in Lahore in March 1940. Although the resolution passed at the meeting (the League’s largest ever gathering, attracting 60,000 people) did not specifically mention Pakistan, it was clear that the goal was a Muslim homeland that would not be subject to Hindu-dominated government. A part of the resolution read as follows: 150

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[I]t is the considered view of this Session of the All-India Muslim League that no constitutional plan would be workable in this country or acceptable to the Muslims unless it is designed on the following basic principles, viz., that geographically contiguous units are demarcated into regions which should be so constituted, with such territorial readjustments as may be necessary, that the areas in which the Muslims are numerically in a majority, as in the NorthWestern and Eastern zones of India, should be grouped to constitute Independent States in which the constituent units shall be autonomous and sovereign. (Pandey 1979: 154) Brown suggests that Jinnah did not actually want partition on the scale seen in 1947, as it was not an answer to the problems of Muslims, particularly those scattered in small communities across the country. She goes on to suggest that the notion of a separate homeland was more a ‘bargainingcounter’ which would give the League equal status with Congress and would lend Muslims a greater claim to autonomy and nationhood in the future (1994: 332). It is also certain that the Muslim League did not envisage, nor did it want, an exclusively Muslim homeland. Congress remained opposed to any notion of the partition of India, with many of its leaders being openly contemptuous of the League’s demands: [Congress] preferred to laugh off the demand for Pakistan. Nehru dismissed it as ‘fantastic’, Gandhi called it ‘baffling’, and Rajagopalachari [a leading lawyer from Madras] condemned it as the product of a ‘diseased mentality’ . . . [T]he Nehru family regarded the very idea of Pakistan as ‘a joke – it seemed absurd to imagine that such a thing could ever happen to India’. (French 1997: 125) Given these attitudes, it is hardly surprising that Muslims felt isolated from Congress politics. The activities of Congress in the early 1940s were, however, to benefit the League, albeit unintenionally. In 1939 all Congress provincial governments resigned in protest at the British declaration of war without consulting with Indians; who were, after all, to contribute hugely to the war effort. This action on the part of Congress reinvigorated the League. In an attempt to conciliate India, in 1942 the British government again offered dominion status or full independence in return for Indian cooperation during the war. Cooperation was vital as the war progressed, particularly as the Japanese advanced throughout Asia. The offer, led by the British Labour politician Stafford Cripps, was rejected by Congress. The last of their mass campaigns, Quit India, was launched in August 1942. They were not supported by the Muslim League, as Jinnah preferred orthodox political 151

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campaigning to agitation, and this only served to widen the gap between the Hindu and Muslim communities. Quit India differed from the earlier civil disobedience and non-cooperation campaigns in that there was little co-ordination and control. Furthermore, leading Congress figures such as Nehru and Rajagopalachari had reservations about the movement. Gandhi was practically alone in insisting that Britain could not defend India during the war, and even suggested that India should negotiate with Japan. Nehru recognised that should Japan invade India, British military support would be crucial. By this stage in India’s struggle, Gandhi’s pronouncements were becoming increasingly unfathomable, but the respect he continued to command within Congress meant that many went along with his stand, even though they disagreed with his attitude towards the war.8 The Quit India Resolution reflected his continued influence: The [All India Congress] Committee resolves, therefore, to sanction for the vindication of India’s inalienable right to freedom and independence the starting of a mass struggle on non-violent lines on the widest possible scale. . . . Such a struggle must inevitably be under the leadership of Gandhiji and the Committee requests him to take the lead and guide the nation in the steps to be taken. (Pandey 1979: 142–3) The heightened communal tension in India together with the less than enthusiastic support of the Congress leadership meant that Quit India was marred by violence; Gandhi insisted that any violence was the result of British repression. In Delhi, Muslim shopkeepers did not observe a hartal with their Hindu colleagues. The Muslim League’s refusal to support the movement led to accusations from Hindus that Muslims could not be true nationalists. To add to the lack of control, almost as soon as the movement began the entire Congress leadership was arrested and imprisoned. The Quit India agitation had been suppressed by the end of 1942, as the British responded forcefully to the ‘most serious rebellion since that of 1857’.9 State control was toughened through the revival of special ordinances, and the re-introduction of punishments such as whipping. The British, particularly the Viceroy, Lord Linlithgow, and Winston Churchill, interpreted the agitation as pro-Nazi,as it threatened destabilisationduringthe war.This charge wasplainly absurd, but Nehru argued that it was difficult to support the British in their fight for democracy in Europe when they were unwilling to extend it to India: If Britain fought for democracy, she should necessarily end imperialism in her own possessions and establish full democracy in India. A free democratic India would gladly associate herself with other free nations for mutual defence against aggression. (French 1997: 162) 152

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This argument is of course similar to the questions that were asked by the educated classes during World War One. While the Quit India campaign was brought under control quickly, it illustrated to the British that the basis of their rule was becoming ever weaker. The impact of the movement, despite the incarceration of Congress leaders and a general lack of organisation, served as a warning for the future.10 An added difficulty for the British was that their wartime ally, the United States, was lukewarm towards the raj. President Roosevelt, who was unsympathetic to the imperial interest anyway, believed that the British were primarily concerned with the continuation of their rule in India rather than the war in Asia. This external pressure is crucial, particularly when comparing the Indian case with that of Tibet, as will be explained below. The case for the raj dwindled to an even lower degree after the war, when the Labour landslide meant that government support for the continuation of British rule also diminished. The new prime minister, Clement Attlee, was anxious to withdraw the British from India as soon as possible, on both practical and ideological grounds. Without international support, and with decreasing credibility in post-war Britain, India was a liability. As Brown points out, [T]he British public and consequently their Parliamentary representatives had other priorities than keeping up the raj. Jobs, coal, electricity and housing were the political and practical agenda in the immediate post-war period. (1994: 330) The impending independence of India must be considered, then, with a view to the international and internal pressures facing the British at the time, as well as the unrest and obvious rejection of the raj within India. All these factors are of utmost importance if the Indian nationalist movement is to be of comparative use for the Tibetan struggle. The final years of British rule Towards the end of the raj, the British were primarily concerned with conciliating the needs of the various religious communities. While remaining aloof from agitation during the war, Jinnah and the Muslim League had strengthened their position as the major representatives of India’s Muslims. Jinnah was able to secure the backing of the leaders of the Muslim-majority provinces, a key success in India’s fragmented polity. In this he was helped by the death of the Chief Minister of the Punjab, who had been contemplating a reconciliation with Congress. Without the support of the Punjab, the future of Pakistan would have been unthinkable. But, as Brown argues, Muslim leaders began to realise that an all-India Muslim voice would be crucial after the departure of the British, if their identity was to be preserved (1994: 335). 153

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The growing support for the League is reflected in election results: in the winter elections of 1945–6 the League won all the Muslim seats in the central legislature and the vast majority of provincial seats. The electoral backing for the League lent legitimacy to their claim for Pakistan, although even by this stage the exact nature of the proposed state was still ambiguous. Relations between Hindus and Muslims became more and more strained as the League grew in strength and stature. The British realised that a solution needed to be reached quickly, and so only a month after the end of the war the Viceroy, Lord Wavell, announced various proposals that would take India to self-government: essentially a reiteration of the Cripps proposals that had triggered Quit India in 1942. He also announced plans for the interim period: the League and Congress would be represented equally in a reconstitution of the Viceroy’s Executive Council. The proposals would be further discussed at a conference in Simla, the summer capital of the raj, in June 1945. The leaders of Congress, except for Gandhi, who had been released in May 1944, were released from jail, where they had been since the advent of Quit India, to attend the conference. It lasted for less than a month, with no agreement being reached. The main difficulties were not between the British and the Indians, but between the League and Congress. The most important issue, which ultimately led to the failure of the conference, was the nomination of seats to the Executive Council. In the instructions to participants issued by Congress the following point was clearly made: While communal parity . . . is being agreed it must be clearly understood that this does not mean that all the Muslim members of the National Government will be nominated by the Muslim League. The Congress cannot recognise the sole right of nomination by a communal organisation, nor can it reduce itself as a consequence to a limited communal field. (Pandey 1979: 146) Jinnah refused to allow Congress to nominate Muslims to the Council because he believed that the League was the sole legitimate representative of Indian Muslims, a view confirmed for him by the 1945–6 election results mentioned above. Congress would not compromise as they insisted that they were a secular party who were entitled to represent all religious communities. The failure to agree on communal representation in the interim government, let alone the future Indian state, ‘confirmed the hostility between Congress and the Muslim League’ (French 1997: 200). A second attempt to resolve the deadlock between Congress and the League was held again in Simla in May 1946. The object of this conference was to discuss two proposals that had been outlined by the British Cabinet Mission – a group of three ministers plus civil servants – which, it was hoped, would resolve the issue of representation of the religious communities in an 154

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independent India. The first, and the preferred, proposal was that India would be a loose federation of Hindu and Muslim majority states, with issues such as defence and foreign affairs controlled by the inherently weak centre, at which Hindus and Muslims would have equal representation.11 Residual powers would remain within the provinces, which would be free to join together in groups with their own executives and legislatures. The second, less desirable, option was that there would be a separate Hindustan and Pakistan. Attlee believed that the prospect of partition would mean that India would be ‘confronted by grave dangers’ (French 1997: 237). An interim government would be formed in the meantime. No agreement was reached on these proposals during the conference. The Cabinet Mission left India in July 1946, having been unable to convince the various factions that their preferred proposal for a federation of strong provinces with a weak centre was desirable. This ‘last constructive attempt on the part of the British to achieve a settlement’ did not satisfy either the Congress or the League (Masselos 1993: 220). The interim government that was eventually formed initially contained only Congress members, for Jinnah believed the British had ‘shaken the confidence of Muslim India’ and so the League refused to take part (French 1997: 248). Communal violence The failure of the parties to reach agreement on communal representation was reflected on the streets, with the first serious wave of communal violence starting in Calcutta in August 1946. The ‘Great Calcutta Killing’ followed a call by Jinnah for Muslims to observe a hartal as part of a campaign of direct action, designed to bring about the creation of Pakistan. The League also wished to draw attention to their perception of the dealings of the Cabinet Mission and Congress: Congress is bent upon setting up Caste-Hindu Raj in India with the connivance of the British. . . . [Muslims are] convinced that now the time has come for the Muslim Nation to resort to Direct Action to achieve Pakistan. (French 1997: 248) During the violence, which lasted for around three days, between 4,000 and 6,000 people were killed, up to 15,000 injured, and 100,000 made homeless. Around three-quarters of the victims, however, were Muslim. It is generally recognised that the communal aspect was not the only element of the violence: the Governor of Bengal believed that organised gangs of goondas, or criminal hooligans, had been very much involved in the slaughter. The blame, however, was pinned on Jinnah and the Muslim League, even though Jinnah had intended the hartal to be peaceful. Congress felt that Jinnah had 155

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deliberately appealed to communal tensions and that this inevitably led to violence, particularly so given the Muslim League did not have the levels of organisation and resources necessary to control the mass protest more commonly associated with Gandhi and Congress itself. The literature that was distributed for the intended hartal certainly appealed directly to religious sensibilities: Let Muslims brave the rains and all difficulties and make the Direct Action Day meeting a historic mass mobilization of the Millat. . . . Muslims must remember that it was in Ramazan that the Quran was revealed. It was in Ramazan that the permission for jihad was granted by Allah.12 The mention of jihad, a specifically Muslim religious war, appears to have been particularly inflammatory. In the past – with Quit India, for example – Jinnah had been careful to emphasise his commitment to constitutional negotiations over the future of India, in contrast to Congress’s association with mass campaigning. The League’s experiment with the same style of campaigning was badly mishandled, as the massacres in Calcutta demonstrated. Relations between Congress and the League became even more acrimonious following the violence. The British believed that the only solution was to bring the League into the interim government, but Congress rejected this outright, and threatened to withdraw. Therefore when the government was finally sworn in in September 1946, there were still no Muslim League members. This did not, however, undermine the significance that for the first time Indian nationalists were in office in the capital, a situation French describes as ‘the most important moment in the demission of British authority – more significant, in many ways, than the handover of power in August 1947’ (1997: 256). The exclusion of the Muslim League was short-lived: they joined the government in October, despite their unchanged position on representation and direct action. The British believed that ‘without the League’s presence . . . civil war would have been inevitable’ (Chandra 1989: 494). The Muslim League finally recognised that if they chose to remain outside of government, their hold over the Muslim communities would be weakened. As French argues, Jinnah joined the government ‘out of desperation’ (1997: 266). The entry of Indian politicians into national government prompted the British, and in particular the Viceroy, Lord Wavell, to reconsider the timetable for their eventual departure from India. Wavell sent a communication to London that outlined the ‘Breakdown Plan’ for British withdrawal. His fear was that as India faced serious destabilisation, British control could only be maintained long-term by means of force. He wrote the following to Attlee and Lord Pethick-Lawrence, the Secretary of State for India: ‘we must have at 156

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once a definite plan, worked out in considerable detail, for withdrawal of our control from India [to be] completed by not later than the spring of 1948’. Crucially, Wavell also suggested that the ‘handing over of control to Indian hands should [not] be delayed by the failure of the Indian parties to agree among themselves’ (French 1997: 260). Wavell’s fears that India would slide towards civil war seemed justified in the last months of 1946. Even though Jinnah and the League had joined the interim government, communal violence continued to escalate; events had spiralled beyond the politicians’ control. In November 1946 Jinnah declared that the only solution for the violence was ‘absolute Pakistan’ and that ‘exchange of populations will have to be considered seriously’ (French 1997: 269). This had already begun: in the state of Bihar, which had witnessed thousands of killings, Hindu and Muslim communities began to move in an effort to group with their religious brethren; a foretaste of the calamity of the final Partition. The British Prime Minister, Attlee, summoned the Congress and League leaders to London for talks in December. Predictably, there was no agreement. The most significant consequence of the London talks was the eventual removal of Wavell as Viceroy. After the Indian members of the delegation had returned to India, he had remained behind once again to attempt to persuade the British politicians that the situation in India required fast solutions. He wanted to commit Britain to a firm date for British withdrawal, but was regarded by the Foreign Secretary, Ernest Bevin, as ‘defeatist’. Bevin went on to ask Wavell to ‘take a stronger line and not give way to this awful pessimism’ (French 1997: 272). Wavell was replaced by Lord Mountbatten, India’s last Viceroy, in February 1947. 1947: liberty and division With the appointment of Mountbatten, the process leading to independence and partition assumed the pace that Wavell had declared necessary. Mountbatten refused to begin his tenure in India without precise instructions as to his role from London. As French indicates, it is ironic that Mountbatten made almost identical demands of Attlee as had Wavell; yet Attlee, who disliked Wavell, trusted Mountbatten’s judgement (1997: 276). On 20 February Attlee announced to the Commons that power would be transferred as soon as possible: His Majesty’s Government desire to hand over their responsibility to authorities established by a Constitution approved by all parties in India in accordance with the Cabinet Mission’s plan. But unfortunately there is at present no clear prospect that such a Constitution and such authorities will emerge. The present state of uncertainty is fraught with danger and cannot be indefinitely prolonged. His Majesty’s Government wish to make it clear that it is their definite 157

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intention to take necessary steps to effect the transference of power to responsible Indian hands by a date not later than June 1948. (Pandey 1979: 209) In effect, the British were determined to hand over power regardless of the conditions in India, and Attlee even declared that power could be handed over ‘in some areas to the existing Provincial Governments’ (Pandey 1979: 209). This signalled the British acceptance that unity in India was now an impossible goal. Congress accepted the Attlee announcement in March 1947, and also finally accepted the creation of Pakistan, on the condition that the Punjab, which had been the scene of widespread violence, would be divided into Muslim and non-Muslim areas. This decision had various effects: Gandhi bemoaned that ‘no-one listens to me anymore’; Congress’s position was strengthened even further; and Jinnah ‘was confronted by the logical consequences of his own theory – if he wanted partition of territory, he could have it’ (French 1997: 278). The remaining, rather important, issue was exactly how power would be transferred, and to whom. Mountbatten’s first solution, known as ‘Plan Balkan’, was formulated in May 1947. Chandra describes the paradoxical objective of the plan thus: ‘to divide India but retain maximum unity’ (1989: 497). The essence of the plan was that power would be transferred to the provinces, which would then decide their own fate, with the partition of Bengal and the Punjab if those provinces so desired. The states ruled by the Indian princes could similarly decide their own future. As Mehrotra suggests, It is difficult to believe that in May 1947 a group of British civil servants and statesmen could have seriously put forward a plan which would have encouraged units to cut adrift from the union and the princely states to stand out and might have easily led to the total disintegration of India. (1970: 219) Nehru, who was given privileged access to the plan while staying with Mountbatten in Simla, described it as ‘a picture of fragmentation and conflict and disorder’ and rejected it entirely (French 1997: 298). It was clearly ‘extraordinary . . . that [Mountbatten] can ever have seriously imagined it would be accepted by Congress’ (French 1997: 299). A new plan was hurriedly drawn up on Mountbatten’s orders by V. P. Menon, a high-ranking Indian civil servant. Although as a bureaucrat Menon was theoretically impartial, he did in fact have close links with Congress. Mountbatten now acted upon these links: a plan drawn up by Menon would possibly be accepted by Nehru. Menon’s plan provided for the following: transfer of power to two central governments, one in India and one in Pakistan; a handover on the basis of dominion status, to ensure constitutional continuity; and a vote 158

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in the Punjab and Bengal on the prospect of internal division. This was accepted by Nehru on behalf of Congress, who in a speech on 3 June said ‘it is with no joy in my heart that I commend these proposals to you, though I have no doubt in my mind that this is the right course’ (Pandey 1979: 218). The representative of India’s six million Sikhs, Baldev Singh, also accepted the plan. From a Muslim perspective, however, although the plan agreed the principle of partition and the creation of two separate sovereign states, [The plan] was weighted in favour of Hindu India, as it deprived Pakistan of vital areas in the Punjab and Bengal and placed it at a serious disadvantage in the matter of the setting up of a state structure and administrative machinery from scratch. (Ispahini 1970: 354) Jinnah was in reality left with little choice but to accept the plan. Congress’s hold on central power in India could not be broken, and some move had to be made that could possibly quell the violence in the Punjab. Along with the announcement of the plan, the British also set a new date for their withdrawal: 15 August 1947. The reason for the dramatic change of date was that any interim government would be bound to be unstable, particularly given the history of such arrangements. In the little over two months before independence and partition, the existing interim government, controlled by Congress, lost its ability to function, and the administration was divided in two, with both halves based in New Delhi. Those employees who chose to opt for Pakistan were almost literally thrown out of office: senior civil servants reported that they had no choice but to work outside under trees or in tents. With the acceptance in the Punjabi and Bengali provincial assemblies of the division of their territories along communal lines, the process of the division of the country into two began. It is difficult to believe that anyone had thought it possible that all the assets of the Indian government would be equally divided within the space of two months; inevitably, Pakistan lost assets to India. Not least of all, Pakistan suffered from the unequal distribution of territory. It seems incredible that the matter of the new boundary between India and Pakistan was left until July 1947 before it was drawn. During the endless negotiations on the two nations, which had been an increasing reality from early 1946, it was not clear of which areas ‘Pakistan’ would eventually consist. French argues that this lack of clarity was used to the Muslim League’s advantage: supporters were encouraged to believe that Pakistan would be far more substantial than the territory that was eventually agreed upon (1997: 322–3). The boundary was finally drawn up by an English lawyer, Cyril Radcliffe, who started his mammoth task on 8 July 1947. His major concern appears to have been ensuring an adequate water supply for all parts of the central Punjab. His final decision certainly favoured India; this being a result of the need to placate the 159

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Sikh community, whose holy city of Amritsar was to be located in India. The decisions of the Boundary Commission headed by Radcliffe were not released until 17 August, two days after independence, to anger from all sides. The timing of the announcements led to the rather absurd situation of the transference of power ‘to a pair of dominions that did not even know their own frontiers’ (French 1997: 325). Given the confusion of the exact nature of the territories of the new nations, it is hardly surprising that the people whose lives were affected felt massively displaced. It is also extremely difficult to understand how the real prospect of partition could be accepted and resolved in such short a period of time. As Chandra states, The most unreal belief, given what actually happened, was the one that Partition would be peaceful. No riots were anticipated, no transfers of population planned, as it was assumed that once Pakistan was conceded, what was there to fight over? (1989: 503) The populations of Pakistan and India also assumed that even when the countries were separate, there would be freedom to travel between the two. Even Jinnah, the architect of Pakistan, kept his home in Bombay, presumably thinking he would be free to travel there whenever he pleased. However, the escalating violence soon proved such optimism to be ill-founded. It is probable that around a million people died in the violence accompanying the partition of India.13 Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs butchered each other in the Punjab, where the security forces were able to exert little control.14 There were reciprocal communal killings across northern India. Together with the killings, there was a mass exodus of people crossing both the Pakistani borders in each direction: an ‘estimated fourteen to seventeen million people were uprooted from their homes in what was to be the largest migration in human history’ (French 1997: 347). This resulted in a dramatic decrease in the size of the religious minorities in the new territories: by 1950 Muslims in Indian Punjab numbered 1 per cent, with a similar proportion of Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistani Punjab. The religious unity that had for so long been the goal of Indian nationalists, and which had of course existed in some form before the last years of the raj, had been destroyed in the name of freedom and independence.

Indian solutions to a Tibetan problem? The challenges facing the newly independent India were numerous and a consequence of the long years of struggle. Primarily, internal stability had been threatened, even before independence by partition, and it was vital that it be maintained while the Indian government could consolidate its position. 160

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Foremost amongst its tasks was the successful integration of the Muslim minority – around thirty million strong – that had remained in India. Congress was as determined as it ever had been to rule the new nation as a secular and democratic force: secularism was the doctrine of the new nation. Religion could never again be used as a basis for nationalism, and would certainly not be ‘a barrier to full participation’ in politics (Brown 1994: 347). This of course alienated Hindu fundamentalists, who were angered by what they saw as Congress’s conciliatory attitude to other religions and by their complicity in splitting India. This anger resulted in Gandhi’s assassination by a Hindu in 1948, which in turn led to a crackdown on Hindu sectarian organisations such as the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, which was banned.15 The experience of the use of religion as a basis for nationalism is vitally important in terms of the comparison between the Indian and Tibetan independence movements. It is apparent that as the Indian movement developed, there are fewer and fewer factors that are relevant to the Tibetan case. However, the work of Gandhi, developed within the context of both Hinduism and the political machinations of Congress, continues to be cited as a desirable influence on the Dalai Lama, and by implication, the Tibetan cause. It took a million deaths to teach Indian politicians the dangers of fusing religious identities with national identities; yet within the Tibetan independence movement the focus continues to be religious identity. A Tibetan is defined by his or her religion; Tibetan cultural survival seems more important than political power; the west perceives Tibetans as religious rather than political agents; Tibetan political actions are interpreted as religious statements. All of these factors are major obstacles to the success of the Tibetan struggle, and may usefully be considered in the light of the causes, consequences and lessons of Indian independence. The other issues of relevance to the Tibetan independence struggle are mainly practical and contextual. As noted above, one of the characteristics of the Indian independence movement was that it achieved unity of purpose, despite the religious differences. The two main communities knew their goal was independence from Britain, and this was always their primary objective. Tibetans as a homogenous community do not know their goal; the unelected Dalai Lama has selected genuine autonomy as a goal whereas traditionally Tibet has been perceived by Tibetans as an independent nation. A vital question is therefore whether the Tibetans – dominated by one religion rather than many – can, like the Indian people, achieve unity about their goal. A second practical concern should be the means of resistance the Indians employed. Various types of action were used in the struggle against the raj: non-cooperation, civil disobedience, Quit India, communal violence, and political negotiation. Although Gandhi is often perceived of as the leader of the Indian independence movement, the evidence shows that he was more concerned with the practical, ‘grass-roots’ aspect of the movement. Such 161

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concerted campaigns have not been a feature of the Tibetan struggle, with the notable exception of the guerrilla movement and perhaps the Gandhian tactics of the Tibetan Youth Congress. Ironically, these particular examples have not benefited from the support of the Dalai Lama. This suggests there could be great potential for a practical and political Tibetan campaign that enjoyed his unqualified support. The final factor arising from the study of the Indian independence movement is that of context. It is vitally important that the relationship between India and Britain is considered in an international framework: the United States, for example, did not approve of the raj in its later years. Furthermore, British people themselves were beginning to reject the Empire, particularly after World War Two. The change of government and ideology after the war meant that Britain was no longer favourably inclined towards an Empire. In terms of the relationship between China and Tibet, these conditions do not exist: no country or international organisation is willing to criticise China’s occupation of Tibet, and there is no vocal opposition from within China itself. The relevance of this cannot be overstated: the likelihood of an ideological shift in Beijing that would lead to the Chinese rejecting Tibet is zero for the foreseeable future. China may be embracing economic reform, but the political reform necessary to allow Tibet to gain its freedom is not in evidence. After all, China claims that Tibet is an historical part of its territory; Britain never claimed that India was a part of Britain. The Indian independence movement is useful as a ‘lesson’ for the future of the Tibetan struggle, if only to illustrate various practical and contextual problems. The implications of these are considered in the final chapter. Above all, however, the struggle against the raj proves there can be no more appropriate example of the dangers of fusing religious identity with a movement for political nationhood than the Indian independence movement. This is a lesson of which Tibetans, and in particular Tibetan political leaders, should be most aware.

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I am in no way claiming that achieving independence will be easy – or even possible, in the near future. All I am saying is that in the cold clear light of all the evidence we have before us, the struggle for independence, no matter how desperately hopeless it may appear, holds out at least a chance for Tibetan survival. Jamyang Norbu1

The reason for examining Tibet from a political perspective is that Tibet and the Tibetan community in exile offer an ideal opportunity to observe how a traditional society dominated by religion reacts and adapts to enforced political change. As has been shown, Tibetan society was dominated by religion before the Chinese invaded Tibet in 1950, and it has been argued that this situation could have contributed to Tibet’s vulnerability and inability to defend itself. When the country badly needed a military force to defend its territory, the responsibility instead fell to loose knit guerrilla bands, who were condemned for their violence by the Tibetan leadership. Since the demise of the guerrilla armies in 1974, resistance to Chinese rule has taken various forms. The Tibetan people have demonstrated their dissatisfaction with rule from Beijing in various ways, but with the same result: no change in China’s position. As illustrated earlier, contemporary protest inside Tibet has been overwhelmingly non-violent, and led by monks and nuns. This has been dealt with forcefully: many members of the clergy have been imprisoned, tortured or killed. Outside Tibet, the most significant examples of protest have been the hunger strikes initiated by the Tibetan Youth Congress (TYC), culminating in the lengthy action in 1998. As also noted earlier, this ended with the death by self-immolation of Thupten Ngodup; he is, perhaps, the first martyr of the Tibetan cause. However, as with the guerrillas before them, the TYC stood accused by the Dalai Lama of inflicting unacceptable violence upon themselves. 163

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While the Tibetan people have been demonstrating their willingness to be injured or die – whether through engaging in armed struggle, behaving in a manner certain to invite Chinese brutality, or starving themselves – the Tibetan leadership has attempted to negotiate with Beijing on the future of Tibet. This has been completely one-sided; the Tibetan government in exile and the Dalai Lama have repeatedly shown their willingness to compromise on the issue of Tibetan independence, while the Chinese government has failed to open official dialogue. Beijing continues to insist that the Dalai Lama is a ‘splittist’ and that his goal of autonomy, announced in Strasbourg in 1988, is a disguised form of independence. Significant political support for Tibet on an international level is nonexistent. The irony of President Clinton receiving the Chinese Premier Zhu Rongji in Washington while leading NATO action against Serbia in April 1999 has not escaped the notice of observers of Tibet. Indeed, Zhu indicated that China could not support the NATO action because China faced similar problems in Tibet as the Serbs did in Kosovo. China has a permanent seat on the Security Council of the United Nations, while isolationist Tibet has never been a member, and UN member states do nothing to help non-members.2 This was apparent during the TYC’s hunger strike in 1998 and in April 1999 when the TYC were on hunger strike again outside the 55th session of the UN Commission for Human Rights in Geneva. Despite personal pleas from Tibetans to the member states, China once more escaped formal censure for its human rights abuses.3 It would seem that China is simply too important to the global community for Tibet to be considered seriously. It must be asked why this is the case. An obvious answer is the size of the Chinese population. At over a billion people, the business potential for the governments and corporations of the West is too great to be jeopardised by criticism of China’s treatment of Tibet. Both the United Kingdom and United States insist that the best way to proceed with China is to engage in constructive dialogue, and that economic censure would be counter-productive.4 The world is asked to observe the economic modernisation currently underway in China, presumably on the pretext that political improvement will follow. There is little evidence, however, to suggest that the Chinese Communist Party will release its grip on power.5 Relative economic freedom may be enough to convince Western governments that China is improving, yet at a grass-roots level, political freedom continues to be severely restricted. This is most evident in Tibet, where ideological campaigns reminiscent of the Cultural Revolution have been instituted during the 1990s. The campaigns mounted by Beijing in Tibet focus on two political objectives: eradicating Tibetan nationalism, and removing the influence of the Dalai Lama from Tibetan politics. The second objective was foreshadowed in 1995 by the Panchen Lama affair, which demonstrated the determination of Beijing to interfere in Tibet’s complex religious traditions. In 1995 the Dalai Lama announced that he had recognised a child as the 164

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Eleventh Panchen Lama, the second most important religious figure in Tibetan Buddhism. The Chinese countered with their ‘own’ child. The Dalai Lama’s choice was placed under house arrest by the Chinese authorities and has not been seen since, while the Chinese choice has been enthroned by dubious methods. The implication is that it is inevitable the Chinese would try to lay claim to a future Dalai Lama, although it is also inevitable that such a figure would not be seen as legitimate by most Tibetans. In the meantime, the Chinese are attempting to reduce the Tibetan devotion to the present Dalai Lama, through intensive ‘patriotic education’ in the monasteries. Indeed, at the beginning of 2000, Ugyen Trinley Dorjee, the 17th Karmapa (the head of the Karma Kagyu sect of Tibetan Buddhism), made a dramatic escape from Tibet into India, apparently due to the renewed crackdowns on Tibetan Buddhism. His defection to Dharamsala was especially embarrassing for the Chinese authorities, for they had been grooming the Karmapa as a patriotic religious figure who would legitimise their programmes in Tibet.6 It is clear that Tibetans face an enormous challenge if they are to free themselves of Chinese rule. International circumstances do not favour them; Tibet’s freedom is not in the strategic or commercial interests of any other country, and China has no reason to relinquish its hold on Tibet. Furthermore, there does not seem to be a specific strategy for independence – or even autonomy – with which Tibetans can become engaged. The Dalai Lama asserts that Tibetans should follow the example of Gandhi, and free Tibet by peaceful means. The evidence presented above, however, has shown that the Gandhian model is not an appropriate one for Tibetans to follow. Younger, more radical Tibetans are frustrated by the Dalai Lama’s approach, particularly when violent groups such as the Palestinian Liberation Organisation, the Kosovan Liberation Army, or even the Irish Republican Army, are being taken seriously by the international community. Indeed, in a statement following the calling off of their 1999 hunger strike, the Tibetan Youth Congress drew attention to the situation in Kosovo: Tibetans inside Tibet are risking their lives every day for the freedom of our country. But under the leadership of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, the Tibetan people have adopted a non-violent approach to find a solution to our issue. The present tragic events in Kosovo clearly demonstrate that conflicts left unresolved peacefully eventually lead to immense human suffering and bloodshed. In the case of Tibet, if there is no further development, the situation there can further escalate.7 The strategies Tibetans have employed until now have been detailed above, and the success or failure of each has been assessed. All the methods used by Tibetans have serious implications for the formalised relationship between 165

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religion and politics, a relationship of which the Tibetan state is often cited as an ideal example. Whereas the introduction of the religious into the political is primarily viewed as a negative force in global terms – repressive Islamic states such as Afghanistan under the Taliban, or right-wing Christian politics in the US, for example – in Tibet the traditional ‘Shangri-la-ist’ perspective is viewed positively. The widely held view is that in Tibet religion brought harmony and peace. A commonly held assumption is that this peace and harmony had developed because the people had not lost sight of the importance of spirituality in all aspects of life, including politics. However, the crucial issue now, as Tibetans begin their sixth decade under Chinese rule, is whether this emphasis on religion is appropriate for a modern independence movement. The question to be asked is: has the infusion of spirituality in Tibetan political life helped or hindered those struggling to free Tibet?

Shangri-la-ism versus reality The emphasis on religion in the Tibetan independence movement has hindered its progress. The most concerted efforts made over the years of occupation to remove the Chinese and express discontent have been condemned for their inappropriateness in a religious polity. However, the aims of the movement are political: independence or genuine autonomy. The latter may be couched in the religious terminology of the Dalai Lama’s ‘Middle Way’ approach, yet the objective is purely political and pragmatic. Similarly, the aims of the Tibetan Youth Congress during their hunger strike of 1998 were overtly political; although, as has been shown, their actions were condemned in religious terms. It must be asked why such situations arise: why do the most courageous acts of Tibetans in attempting to free their country attract the implicit criticism of the Tibetan leadership? The answer is simple: violence. The Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government are aware of the attractive image Tibet presents to the spirituality-starved West. While Tibet may not attract international political support, it does enjoy the support of Western Buddhists throughout Europe and North America. Tibetan Buddhism is attractive because its emphasis on altruism, compassion and non-violence offer an alternative way of living. But how far is this appropriate now, for Tibetans themselves? It is convenient for those in the West to believe that Tibetans are concerned first with their religion and second with their political situation; this relieves them of responsibility to intervene on Tibet’s behalf. Perhaps Buddhist supporters of Tibet also believe that by advocating the cause of a free Tibet they are somehow gaining personal spiritual fulfilment. Tsering Shakya goes so far as to suggest that ‘there [is] no need to save [Tibet] from totalitarianism. After all, now there [is] a good chance of encountering the all-knowing lamas in the towering streets of Manhattan’ (1991: 21). If the Tibetan leadership were 166

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openly to advocate – or even covertly support – a violent struggle then Tibet might lose this base of support, which even though it does not contribute on any concrete political basis, does ensure that Tibet enjoys moral support and remains in the public eye. The reason why the Tibetan leadership is content to emphasise the importance of the preservation of Tibet’s cultural heritage is because awareness of the Tibetan situation is to be found not in international political organisations and governments, but in ordinary westerners, particularly followers of Tibetan Buddhism. Perhaps it is hoped that by outlining the dangers of cultural genocide in Tibet, Buddhists may be mobilised into helping place Tibet on the political agenda. Unfortunately, however, this does not seem to be happening. The immense popularity Tibetan Buddhism enjoys in the West, particularly the United States, has not been translated into significant active support for the Tibetan cause. We are asked to believe that the greatest danger Tibet faces is the destruction of its religion and culture. While this is undoubtedly tragic, the most serious aspect of the Chinese invasion has been what amounts to the actual genocide of the Tibetan people. The Tibetan government in exile estimates that over a million have died as a result of the Chinese occupation, through torture, starvation, or execution. This should be the emphasis of the Tibetan movement, along with maintaining a focus on for what exactly Tibetans are fighting. It is almost insulting to suggest that religion is more important; if the population is decimated or subjugated through torture, then the survival of the religion is surely irrelevant. The issue that persists here is why the Tibetan government in exile seem content to maintain that the most pressing danger is the destruction of Tibetan culture. The answer is surely pragmatic: the Dalai Lama recognises that no country stands to gain politically from fighting for an independent Tibet, and so pragmatically chooses to emphasise instead the importance of the survival of Buddhism. As Jamyang Norbu writes, [T]he few Tibetans who have vocally insisted on maintaining the cause of an independent Tibet have often been seen by non-Tibetan supporters of Tibet as dangerous extremists, undermining the good intentions of all those working towards the far nobler goals of establishing Tibet as a zone of peace or a Buddhist environmental theme park; and promoting the Dalai Lama as a global new-age super guru. (1999b: 21). These are issues in which it is far easier for Westerners to become involved: by becoming a practising Tibetan Buddhist, one is making one’s own small contribution to the survival of the religion, and thus the nation. The problem with this suggestion is that it presumes Buddhism to be by definition 167

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apolitical; this is most definitely not the case, as will be argued below. In fact, some kind of solution for Tibet may lie in the notion of ‘engaged Buddhism’, an active approach conceived of by the Vietnamese activist-monk Thich Nhat Hanh. The other difficulty with the concentration upon cultural survival is that it gives Tibetans little for which they can actually fight. What Tibetans need now is an outline of exactly what they are progressing towards, and the methods which may be employed – similar, perhaps, to the Indian National Congress’s declaration of the goal of purna swaraj in 1929. Although the fight for Indian independence is not an appropriate model that Tibet can follow now, it does serve as a ‘lesson’ for the future of the Tibetan independence movement.

What Tibet can learn from India The raison d’être for comparing the Tibetan independence movement with that of India is, as has been stated, that the Dalai Lama has often cited Gandhi as an influence on his political thinking. The aspect of Gandhi’s thought the Dalai Lama most admires is ahimsa, or non-violence. This is not surprising; as Tibet is a Buddhist nation, emphasis on non-violence is obvious. However, as has been shown, even Gandhi thought violence was sometimes acceptable; he preferred it to inaction where the honour of a country was at risk. This could perhaps be a justification for violent action in Tibet. A more pertinent advocate of violent, or ‘forceful’, action was the Thirteenth Dalai Lama. In his ‘Political Last Testament’, where he warned of the likely dangers posed by Tibet’s neighbours, he wrote: [W]e should make every effort to safeguard ourselves against this impending disaster. Use peaceful means where they are appropriate; but where they are not appropriate, do not hesitate to resort to more forceful means. (Smith 1996: 230) The Fourteenth Dalai Lama does not seem to have taken the words of either Gandhi or his predecessor to heart. He continues to insist that only non-violence can provide the freedom of Tibet, even though the historical evidence suggests that this is just not the case. Political organisation The major problem with advocating the Gandhian approach is one of context. This is both religious, as has been discussed, and political. The crucial point with regard to the development and practice of Gandhi’s ideology is that it took place against a highly organised political background. 168

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Gandhi did not win the independence of India through satyagraha alone; at least as important was the role of Congress and the Muslim League. The Indian independence movement is firmly rooted in a democratic, party political background.8 This does not exist anywhere in the Tibetan community, either inside Tibet – for obvious reasons – or in exile. In India, Gandhi’s synthesis of political action and spiritual ideology was backed by hard political negotiation on the part of Congress. In the Tibetan community, no such political organisation exists. It is vital to the future of the Tibetan independence movement that such a party is developed; the struggle cannot depend, in the long term, on the singular figure of the Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lama himself is aware of the need for a multiparty system in the Tibetan polity.9 However, due to reticence on the part of the Tibetan government in exile, the Dalai Lama’s proposals are at present limited to a future free Tibet. While this is undoubtedly important, it is crucial that a party system is adopted by Tibetans now, as part of a general move toward democracy. Such a process has been initiated, but there are many obstacles, discussed below. Jamyang Norbu describes democracy as the ‘only way in which the true feelings of the Tibetan people for Rangzen [independence] can be fully represented.’10 The lesson of democracy is perhaps the most important the Indian experience can offer Tibetans. Goal formation The Indian path to independence also offers the Tibetan people lessons in goal-formation and unity. The Indian National Congress made firm its commitment to independence in 1929. Previous to this time, Congress had hoped that within the raj some kind of framework could be developed that would give Indians a greater political role. Upon its inception, the organisation did not allude to independence at all; rather, it actually called for closer relations between India and Britain. The move toward independence was made because it became increasingly clear there was no truly representative future for Indians under the raj. Conversely, for the Tibetan people the progression of the movement has been in almost the opposite direction. Until 1988, the goal of the Tibetans was independence from China; a right, they believed, that was historically proven. From that date, the official goal of the Tibetan people became ‘genuine autonomy’. It must be asked why the goal was diluted in this way. It is likely that the Dalai Lama had in mind his increasingly sympathetic international audience when he made his proposal for autonomy at Strasbourg; indeed, after the announcement, he was applauded for his diplomatic initiative, while Tibetan exiles were left feeling bewildered. Of course the other reason why the Dalai Lama chose to aim for genuine autonomy was that this was a more realistic solution than independence to expect from the Chinese government. But it has to be pointed out 169

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that the Chinese already maintain that Tibet has autonomous status; so why ask for a solution that, in theory at least, already exists? Unity A further dimension to the Tibetan independence movement that was emphasised by the Strasbourg proposal is the lack of unity amongst Tibetans. In theory, and from the ‘Shangri-La-ist’ perspective, all Tibetans agree with the Dalai Lama and believe that, as the bodhisattva of compassion, he acts in their best interests. Therefore it is presumed that when the Dalai Lama took the decision at Strasbourg to aim for autonomy, this was the general wish of the Tibetan people. There are several problems with this. First, there are no indications from inside Tibet itself that the people who continually protest against Chinese rule are fighting for anything less than independence. Second, it is not uncommon for Tibetan people to state that while they support the Middle Way position of the Dalai Lama, which essentially calls for compromise, they also wish for an independent Tibet. Tibetan independence is, of course, incompatible with the Middle Way. Again this problem could be linked to the lack of democracy in the Tibetan exile polity; if a truly representative government in exile existed then such confusion may not arise. The Dalai Lama and his government would be aware of the aspirations of the people, and vice versa. In India, Congress, as a mass membership organisation, was responding to the wishes of the people when it chose to aim for complete independence. In the Tibetan exile community no such formal channels exist for aspirations to be formulated into policy. While unity exists in theory, it is clear that while the Dalai Lama officially champions autonomy, many Tibetans, such as the Tibetan Youth Congress or the newly formed Rangzen Alliance, disagree and still wish to fight for independence.11 Respect for the Dalai Lama’s religious position prevents a large-scale opposition organisation from being formed that could continue to insist upon independence. This issue, of the Dalai Lama’s dual religious and political role, is central to the Tibetan independence movement and constitutes one of the most profound obstacles to its progress. In India it took millions of deaths to prove how incendiary the relationship between religion and politics, in particular between religion and nationalism, can be. While religion does not have the potential to be as divisive in the Tibetan community – given there is only one major religion – the placing of political events in religious contexts is a hindrance for the Tibetans. That is certainly not to say that Tibetan Buddhism is per se detrimental; on the contrary, it has a great deal to offer, such as its emphasis on compassion, altruism, and non-violence. The crucial question here is how far this emphasis upon Buddhist values is appropriate for a modern independence movement, and whether in fact it may be an encumbrance to the progress of that movement. 170

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Religion, resistance and democracy Two aspects of the Tibetan independence movement have been adversely affected by the religio–political relationship inherent in the Tibetan polity: resistance and the process of democratisation. The latter may be a construction of the former: it may be suggested that the Dalai Lama’s keen advocacy of democracy is in itself a method with which to resist the Chinese and further the interests of the Tibetan independence movement. This notion is addressed below. With regard to resistance, the emphasis on Buddhist values has meant that some of the most effective methods of resistance employed by the Tibetan people have been condemned in religious terms. This in turn has meant that the significant contributions of the Tibetan guerrillas and the Tibetan Youth Congress have been essentially overlooked. The contribution of the guerrillas to the Tibetan independence movement is of paramount importance: without their help the Dalai Lama would probably not have been able to escape from Tibet, and the independence movement would in effect not exist. The overriding image the West holds of the Tibetan independence movement is that it is resolutely non-violent, an image shown to be simply false. The Dalai Lama’s unwavering insistence upon non-violence as the only way forward for the Tibetan people has had the result that the contributions of the guerrillas and TYC have not only gone unrecognised but also unacknowledged. The result of the emphasis upon non-violence is that the Tibetan independence movement occupies the moral high ground, but in serious political terms it is little more than a novelty. Tibetans are valued primarily for the contribution they can make in the cultural and religious fields, but are not appreciated as political agents. The West fears the loss of Tibet’s culture, yet is not, it seems, so concerned about its political status. Perhaps there is the unwitting perception that because Tibetans do not engage in armed struggle, they cannot be completely committed to their goal. The evidence shows that Tibetans have both willingly and ably engaged in armed struggle, nonetheless it is the above false perception that appears dominant. An answer to this image problem would be the adoption of democracy by the Tibetan government in exile. This would have many important consequences. It would allow all exiled Tibetans a representative voice in decision-making; it would prove to the West and to potential governmental supporters that Tibetans are sophisticated political agents; and it would allow Tibetans to prove to China that they do not want to return to the ‘old’ system of government. A possible difficulty could be China’s well-known antipathy towards democracy, which could endanger Sino–Tibetan relations; but short of the Tibetans accepting the legitimacy of Chinese rule in Tibet, it is inevitable that any stance the Tibetan government in exile takes will annoy Beijing. The adoption of full democracy by the Tibetan government in exile 171

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can therefore only be of benefit for the future of the independence movement, a fact the Dalai Lama, a keen advocate of democracy, appears to recognise. The case for democracy As has been shown above, the Dalai Lama has been committed to introducing democracy into the Tibetan exile polity since he first arrived in India in 1950. It is apparent from his comments at the time that he was influenced by the fledgling democracy in India: [A] communiqué was issued on behalf of the Indian Government saying it did not recognise the Dalai Lama’s Government in Exile. . . . [M]y wounded feelings quickly gave way to a sense of enormous gratitude as I saw, really for the first time, the true meaning of the word ‘democracy’. The Indian government vehemently opposed my point of view, but it did nothing to try to prevent me from expressing it, much less from holding it. (Dalai Lama 1990: 166) This comment alone suggests that the Dalai Lama’s wish to introduce democratic frameworks into the Tibetan government in exile was in reaction to the repression that Tibetans had experienced under Chinese rule. There are, however, several other reasons why democracy is desirable for the exile government. It appears that the efforts of the Dalai Lama to democratise the Tibetan polity have been primarily targeted toward a Western audience. At present the Tibetan government in exile does not enjoy the official recognition of any other government in the world or of the UN. While the obvious reason for this is fear of Chinese disapproval, it is perhaps felt by the Dalai Lama that he must democratise if his government is to be taken as legitimate, or at least modern, by the West. The adoption of legal–rational frameworks by a charismatic regime lends that regime greater legitimisation, at least in the eyes of other legal–rational regimes. Legal–rational domination is, according to Weber, the ‘modern “servant of the state” and by all those bearers of power who in this respect resemble him’ (Gerth and Mills 1970: 79). If the Tibetan government in exile can resemble a Western democracy, perhaps it can expect Western democracies to be more inclined to assist with the Tibetan struggle. Further, by embracing democracy, the Tibetan government will be seen as occupying the moral high ground when compared with China. The Dalai Lama’s downscaling of the goal of independence in favour of autonomy at Strasbourg in 1988 was a pragmatic appeal to the international community, though it angered many Tibetans. Perhaps because of this the Tibetan people have been reluctant to embrace democracy; they do not perceive it to be 172

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primarily for their benefit, though they may accept the anticipated Western attention is desirable. There are of course other reasons why the Dalai Lama has decided the Tibetan exile polity must be democratic. Foremost amongst these must be his concern for how the Tibetan community will cope in the event of his death. Weber felt that a particular problem faced by regimes where authority is based on charisma is how to deal with the death of a leader (Weber 1947: 364). Unusually, the Tibetans have a system for finding a replacement charismatic leader. However, the traditional method of a relatively simple search for a new incarnation is complicated now by the situation of the vast majority of Tibetans living under Chinese jurisdiction. The Chinese government would be bound to interfere in the process of selection, as they have in the selection of the Eleventh Panchen Lama. If the future political leader of the Tibetan people could be elected by democratic means (although at present this would only involve the exiles) then such problems would be averted. However, in the present Tibetan polity there are no means whereby such a leader could be elected, though the Dalai Lama has often expressed his desire for the necessary mechanisms to be put in place. It can be seen that the process of democratisation in the Tibetan polity is explicitly linked to the Tibetan struggle for independence or autonomy, whether it has been formed out of the desire to achieve legitimacy and therefore support from the West, or so there can be a smooth transition to effective leadership in the event of the present Dalai Lama’s death. It is vital that Tibetans have a leader who will be as strong and as able as the Fourteenth Dalai Lama; their sense of direction could be lost if competent leadership is absent.12 What is clear is that the process of democratisation is as centred on the Dalai Lama as Tibetan politics have ever been; for this reason it has been suggested that if democracy is to succeed the Dalai Lama must make it perfectly clear he can be criticised personally. Until the religious and political roles of the Dalai Lama can be separated, not necessarily in reality but certainly in perception, then true democracy in the Tibetan polity will be very difficult to achieve. The future of the Dalai Lama Just as the institution of the Dalai Lama has always been central to Tibetan politics, and indeed to the very nature of the Tibetan state, the future of the Tibetan political struggle depends upon the Fourteenth Dalai Lama. He alone must make the decisions that will, it is hoped, lead to the solution of the Tibetan problem. He has already attempted to do this through the Strasbourg Proposal and through the process of democratisation in the exile government, but these measures, particularly the latter, do not go far enough. A key problem remains: that of the Dalai Lama’s dual religious and political role. These must not only be separated in perception, but also in reality. For the 173

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process of democracy to succeed, the Tibetan exiles must elect a political leader. The Dalai Lama, if the institution continues to exist, could take on a purely religious role, while perhaps continuing to carry out ceremonial political acts. This would be similar to the role of the British constitutional monarch, who is in theory part of the British parliament and also head of the Church of England. The Dalai Lama would continue to be the sovereign head of state – in so far as he can be in exile – as well as the leader of the Tibetan religion, but political leadership would not be in his hands. If he did want to retain political power, he would have to renounce his religious roles. In effect, Tibetan politics in exile would be fully secularised, in readiness for a full transition to free and democratic government in Tibet. Ironically, the present Dalai Lama has made very similar proposals. He has indicated he would prefer a simple religious life outside of government affairs: I will not play any role in the future government of Tibet, let alone seek the Dalai Lama’s traditional political position in the government. . . . I think I will be in a better position to serve the people as an individual outside the government. Moreover, if Tibet is to survive as an equal member of the modern international community, it should reflect the collective potential of all its citizens, and not rely on one individual. This means the people must be actively involved in charting their own political and social destiny. It is, therefore, in the interests of the Tibetan people . . . that I have come to this decision, and not because I am losing interest in my responsibilities.13 He has also indicated he believes his leadership to be an impediment to the development of democracy (Dalai Lama 1995a: 211–12). Due to reticence on the part of the government in exile, however, the Dalai Lama has had to confine his wishes to plans for a future Tibet. Along with his preference for a multi-party system, as discussed above, a purely religious Dalai Lama belongs to a future free Tibet, not the exile polity. It cannot be overstated how important it is for such measures to be adopted while in exile. The Indian experience at the very least should give Tibetans an indication of how long the process of achieving their independence could take; democratic institutions need to be put in place now. This would allow for a party and leader to emerge in the Tibetan exile polity who are dedicated to the independence movement: a party and leader similar to Congress and Jawarhalal Nehru. The Dalai Lama, while not a central elected member of such an organisation, would still be most influential – similar, in effect, to Gandhi’s role in the later years of the Indian struggle. Democracy and secularisation would be an efficient part of the process of resistance; religion would be removed from practical political affairs. 174

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While there are no real problems in applying Tibetan Buddhist ethics, such as compassion, to political life, difficulties have emerged within the Tibetan exile community when political issues have been interpreted in religious terms, as illustrated by the Tibetan Youth Congress’s hunger strike in 1998. This problem would be averted by the separation of religion and politics. A potential cause of division also exists where religious events are politicised; this further illustrates the desirability of secularisation in the Tibetan exile polity. The Dorje Shugden affair During the late 1990s a dispute emerged within the Tibetan exile community that illustrates perfectly why Tibetan politics must become fully secularised. A long-standing issue in the Tibetan community has been the worship of the deity Dorje Shugden, considered to be the spirit of a seventeenth-century monk, Tulku Drakpa Gyaltsen, who protects the Gelug sect and its members, particularly from the influence of the Nyingma sect. Worship of this figure is especially popular in eastern Tibet, and the present Dalai Lama prayed to Dorje Shugden for many years. However in 1976 the Dalai Lama announced he was advising against the practice because it was promoting sectarianism, which could potentially damage the Tibetan independence movement. Twenty years later, in 1996, the Dalai Lama went further and announced that members of both government departments and monasteries under the control of the Tibetan exile administration were forbidden from worshipping the spirit because the ‘practice fosters religious intolerance and leads to the degeneration of Buddhism into a cult of spirit worship’.14 This led to a massive outcry from Shugden supporters, particularly in Britain. The Dalai Lama was accused of religious intolerance and provided an opportunity that was not missed by Beijing, who used the dispute as a further reason to denounce the Dalai Lama. In December 1998 the first secretary of the Chinese embassy in New Delhi was reported to have visited a Tibetan settlement in southern India notorious for its support of Shugden. Although a report by Amnesty International exonerated the Tibetan government in exile of human rights abuses, the unfortunate fact remains that the Dalai Lama, as political leader of the Tibetans, was at fault in forbidding his officials from partaking in a particular religious practice, however undesirable.15 The whole Dorje Shugden affair was an illustration of the complexities of the relationships, both religious and political, between the sects in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition. While the Dalai Lama’s stated concern, that worship of the deity threatened the Tibetan struggle, is entirely valid from a political perspective, this was not cause enough to ban it as a religious practice. It was also difficult to justify on the grounds that China would manipulate the issue, though this was extremely likely to happen. Rather, the Dorje Shugden affair was an example of an issue that should 175

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have remained completely in the religious arena and should not have been politicised at all. However, given the two concepts remain interwoven in the present Tibetan perception, an issue of religious controversy was seen as a threat to political unity. The Dalai Lama used his political authority to deal with what was and should have remained a purely religious issue. A secular Tibetan state would have guarded against this. While Gandhi insisted that religion and politics were inseparable, it was not this view that dominated the post-independence Indian state. Congress were resolutely secular, as they recognised that no single religion could be allowed to dominate government, having seen the damage that religio– politics could inflict during Partition. The Dalai Lama, a staunch admirer of Gandhi, should be aware of this. Although it was appropriate for the Gandhian infusion of religion and politics to influence the practical ‘means’ of independence, in other words, satyagraha, Gandhi’s religious ideas did not influence the political thinking of the state-builders of the new India. Perhaps there is a lesson here for Tibetans: religion may have a place in the practical means of resistance and protest, but it should not play a role in the government in exile, which, it is intended, should form the government of a future Tibet. Although Tibetans inside and outside Tibet may use some form of religious ritual or religious justification in their protest, this does not mean the government in exile should interpret all protest in religious terms. Nor does it mean that religion has to then infuse political life at an institutional level. For true Gandhian techniques to be developed, the Tibetan political process would need to become resolutely secular, while leaving religion to continue to play a role at grass-roots level. The feasibility of ‘engaged’ Tibetan resistance The Dalai Lama had often indicated he believes the Gandhian model is an appropriate one for the Tibetan people to adopt. The merits of this are dubious: Gandhi developed his approach within a specifically Hindu context; the Indian people were aided by favourable international circumstances; Britain as a democracy was more susceptible to the Indian calls for independence than China will ever be; and Gandhi was supported by a sophisticated party-political system. Therefore it is clear that at an institutional level the Gandhian approach cannot be adopted by Tibetans. Similarly, the usefulness of satyagraha as a means whereby Tibetans can challenge Chinese rule has been discussed and found wanting. The major problem with a Tibetan satyagraha is that while the main elements of the model, such as non-violence, are present in the Tibetan Buddhist context, specific concepts such as altruism that are central to the Buddhist perception should also be used. It has to be asked why the Dalai Lama and the leader of the parliament in exile, Samdhong Rinpoche, have recommended the Gandhian approach as a model for Tibetans to follow. Not only is it rooted in an alien spiritual 176

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tradition, but the success of satyagraha must also be located in both the domestic and international political contexts of the time. Why has the Dalai Lama not looked to approaches adopted by other Buddhist movements? One such model is ‘engaged Buddhism’, which was developed in the context of Buddhist opposition to the Vietnam war. The term is most often associated with the Vietnamese Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh, who led Buddhist peace delegations during the war, and has been defined as a ‘kind of active involvement by Buddhists in society and its problems’. Kraft goes on to explain that Participants in this nascent movement seek to actualise Buddhism’s traditional ideals of wisdom and compassion in today’s world. In times of war or intense hostility [Buddhists] will place themselves between the factions, literally or figuratively . . . no enlightenment can be complete as long as others remain trapped in delusion, that genuine wisdom is manifested in compassionate action. (1988: xii) As described above, the actions of the Tibetan Youth Congress during their hunger strike in 1998, together with the self-immolation of Thupten Ngodup, were similar in outlook and intent to actions led by Thich Nhat Hanh during the conflict in Vietnam. As Nhat Hanh indicates, the Vietnamese clergy used methods such as fasting to ‘arouse awareness and compassion in others’ (1993: 41). Self-immolation was carried out in order to awaken ‘the world to the suffering of the [Vietnam] war and the persecution of the Buddhists’ (Nhat Hanh 1993: 43). This is very similar to the way the TYC and Ngodup conceived their actions. A problem emerges, however, when Nhat Hanh describes his feelings after the war: The conditions for success in terms of a political victory were not present. But the success of a nonviolent struggle can be measured only in terms of the love and nonviolence attained, not whether a political victory was achieved. In our struggle in Vietnam, we did our best to remain true to our principles. We never lost sight that the essence of our struggle was love itself, and that was a real contribution to humanity. (Nhat Hanh 1993: 47) If this statement is applied to the Tibetan independence movement, independence itself would not matter, only the nature of the struggle; in other words, non-violence. Nhat Hanh’s words do correspond with the Dalai Lama’s approach to the Tibetan struggle, but cannot, it seems, offer a viable means for Tibetans to win the political victory of their independence. It would appear that this indigenous method of activism available to Buddhists 177

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is not appropriate for attaining a specific goal, just as Gandhi’s approach alone could not have achieved Indian independence. The difficulty appears to be that with both the Gandhian and engaged Buddhist approaches to social and political action the means and the ends are interchangeable, and the ends cannot justify the means. However, the struggles of both India and Vietnam did not focus on religio–political activism alone, whereas the focus of the Tibetan campaign has been almost entirely on this. For Tibetans, the means and the ends cannot be interchanged as long as the means advocated by the Dalai Lama are inappropriate for the ends. The examples of political activism that do have a specific spiritual focus serve to prove they are not viable methods for winning prolonged political struggles and achieving strictly defined political goals; unless, of course, they are matched by a strict democratic, multi-party system.

Tibet: the future It must be asked how and where Tibetans can make progress on the present inactive position. The options are varied. For the present, the Tibetan government in exile could continue its implicit support of the non-violent protesters inside Tibet while simultaneously offering China a variety of compromises. The problems with this approach are clear: the Tibetan government in exile effectively does not have a democratic mandate and so cannot claim to represent the views of the majority of Tibetans who have remained in Tibet, particularly the new generation who have lived entirely under Chinese rule. Indeed, it is apparent that Tibetans inside Tibet remain committed to the goal of independence, while the Dalai Lama had renounced this goal in favour of autonomy.16 Furthermore, China has shown no indications whatsoever that it is willing to negotiate on Tibet’s political status, let alone accept the Dalai Lama’s compromise. It does not have to after all; it is under no international pressure to relinquish its hold on Tibet. The major concern of Beijing is that the Dalai Lama should agree that Tibet is and always has been an ‘inalienable’ part of China; such an admission would give their occupation of Tibet total legitimacy. Should the Dalai Lama agree to the Chinese position then the Tibetan independence movement would be officially over, even though the majority of the Tibetan people would undoubtedly remain committed to their historical independence. The other theoretical option for the Tibetan government in exile would be to take a far more active role in resisting the Chinese occupation. This would mean acknowledging the violent resistance that has been used in the past, which would lend some legitimacy to a future violent movement without explicitly condoning it. That might risk the moral support which the Tibetan cause currently enjoys. The Dalai Lama must also introduce full democracy into the Tibetan exile polity, which would of course mean he would retire from an active political 178

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role. Ironically, the Dalai Lama has often indicated he would like very much to withdraw from political life. However, at the moment the situation is difficult because though it is the desire of the Dalai Lama to introduce such procedures, his religious position means government members are unwilling to challenge him politically, despite the fact that he has said that ‘the institution of the Dalai Lama could disappear overnight. It wasn’t established forever by some force outside human beings and the earth’ (Dalai Lama 1994: 19). A way to avoid such problems would be either to introduce an elected Tibetan political leader after the death of the current Dalai Lama, or for the Dalai Lama to insist that elections take place now, and give his personal approval to the winning candidate, thus lending him or her total legitimacy. If the former option is chosen, though, the process by which fully democratic elections could be introduced must be put in motion immediately. In his 10 March statement in 2001 the Dalai Lama initiated the process by which an elected Tibetan political leader would rule. The Dalai Lama said that [He had] always believed that in the future Tibet should follow a secular and democratic system of governance. . . . [He would] be transferring the day-to-day responsibility of running Tibetan affairs in exile to the elected chairman of the Kashag and an elected parliament in exile.17 This transferring of political power, effectively from the Dalai Lama to an elected prime minister, was underway in the spring of 2001. It looked likely that Professor Samdhong Rinpoche, the chairman of the Assembly of Tibetan People’s Deputies, would eventually become the new ‘prime minister’; in the first round of voting in May 2001 he gained 81 per cent of the vote.18 The final result in July 2001 saw him duly elected. This new, vitalised approach to Tibetan democratisation is welcome, as it represents the first time ever that Tibetans have been able to elect a new head of government, and as such is an extremely significant step. Despite this, though, there remains a requirement for an education campaign to illustrate to Tibetans in exile the benefits of democracy for the future of their struggle. This could also include information on multi-party democracy, of which the Dalai Lama has stated he is in favour. Certainly, the Dalai Lama believes education to be a key component of the process of democratisation: As we Tibetans have begun moving toward democracy, we have learned that to empower our people we must give them a sufficient understanding of their rights and responsibilities as citizens of a democratic society. For this reason, I have focused considerable attention on education. The more Tibetan people learn about their 179

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individual potential and their ability to play a role in their own governance, the stronger our society will become. (Dalai Lama 1999b: 6) Within this education campaign it must be continually emphasised that democracy is the desire of the Dalai Lama, and that it does not mean challenging his religious authority. For the relationship between Tibetans, China and the international political community, these measures could bring only positive results. It is very unlikely that an acknowledgement of the violent resistance of the Tibetan guerrillas would alienate international support. An increasingly vociferous lobby amongst Tibetan exiles is already demanding that the ‘Shangri-La-ist’ image be discarded and the true history of the struggle be recognised. The Tibetan Youth Congress, despite being condemned by the Dalai Lama, enjoyed some international attention during their hunger strike. Besides, the point has to be made that as the Tibetans do not now enjoy international political support, by acknowledging the past they have nothing to lose. By introducing full democratic processes into the Tibetan government in exile, they would increase their legitimacy in the eyes of other democratic governments, and would certainly occupy the moral high ground in comparison with China. Democracy would also allow all Tibetans in exile to take part in the process of deciding the goal of the Tibetan movement. With an elected political leader, those who supported independence would be able to voice their support without it being interpreted as criticism of the Dalai Lama’s religious authority. The most desirable consequence of introducing full democratic measures into the Tibetan political process would be the formulation of a clearly defined goal. The Dalai Lama’s stated goal of autonomy does not seem to correspond with the wishes of the majority of the Tibetan people; it certainly does not if the people inside Tibet are included. With representative democracy in exile this problem could begin to be addressed. Obviously there are no means at the present time whereby the views of Tibetans inside Tibet can be represented, but full democracy in exile would be a positive step forward. The Dalai Lama adopted the goal of autonomy because he felt it to be more realistic; however it is now over ten years since his proposal and China has shown no indication that it will seriously discuss the issue. Given that even consideration of genuine Tibetan autonomy is not on Beijing’s agenda, it is entirely reasonable to suggest that Tibetans should officially return to the historical goal of independence. This might not be ‘realistic’, but it would at least unite the Tibetans behind a clearly defined goal. In defining such a goal, those who suspected it of being unrealistic could take heart from Motilal Nehru’s letter to his son Jawarhalal in 1927. Motilal made it clear that he felt there was no hope for India for the foreseeable future. Twenty years later they won their independence. The main 180

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concern for Motilal was the disorganisation of the nationalist movements in India; this too should serve as a warning for the Tibetan people. The quotation at the beginning of this chapter signals why the Tibetans must choose their goal: because a Tibetan independence movement, whether realistic or not, offers hope for survival, and most importantly, gives political direction.

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The following abbreviations are used: HPTD TIN TYC WTNN

Himachal Pradesh Tourist Department Tibet Information Network Tibetan Youth Congress World Tibet Network News INTRODUCTION

1 Jawaharlal Nehru to the Dalai Lama; in Dalai Lama 1990: 161. The Dalai Lama also says here that he had the impression that Nehru thought of him as a ‘young person who needed to be scolded from time to time’. 2 The process of democratisation being undertaken by the Tibetan government in exile is similar to Max Weber’s notion of the routinisation of charisma. Weber correctly affirmed that the institution of the Dalai Lama was an unusual case of charismatic leadership in that there was a system for choosing a charismatic successor (Weber 1947: 364). The move toward democracy by the Dalai Lama goes beyond Weber’s theory, however, because the Dalai Lama is effectively seeking to remove the traditional process of selection and replace the position of Dalai Lama with an elected political leader. Rather than merely ‘routinising’ charismatic authority, through the introduction of bureaucratic structures (which are already present in the Tibetan polity), the Dalai Lama is actually seeking to transcend the charismatic system and replace it with a modern, democratic polity. 3 An exception would be the attitudes of some monasteries in Tibet prior to the Chinese invasion. See Chapter 1. 4 Dalai Lama 1990: 296. The Dalai Lama’s perception of socialism is more akin to social democracy than to Chinese communism. 5 See, for example, Schwartz 1994. 6 See, for example, Andrugtsang 1973; McCarthy 1997; Patterson 1960; and Peissel 1972. 7 Speculation as to why the Tibetan government in exile continues to present a non-violent image of the Tibetan struggle is pursued in the Conclusion. 8 Such as Norbu, D. 1979; Norbu, J. 1986, 1994 and 1999b.

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CHAPTER 1 1 This comment (by Charles Bell, a British Political Officer in Tibet during the early twentieth century) seems a little unfair, for he goes on to mention charcoal manufacture, construction of reservoirs, the introduction of irrigation, and development of mining in Tibet between the first century  and seventh century  (Bell 1992: 23). These do not appear to be religious pursuits. 2 The figures were obtained by a Tibetan guerrilla raid on a PLA convoy in the 1960s. 3 For example, the Eighth Dalai Lama died at 46, having left political affairs to his regent. The Ninth Dalai Lama died at 10, the Tenth Dalai Lama at 21, the Eleventh Dalai Lama at 17 and the Twelfth Dalai Lama died at 20 (see Shakabpa 1984: 170–90; Snellgrove and Richardson 1986: 225). 4 It is said that the Dalai Lamas share characteristics such as pointed ears and striped legs. 5 The monasteries of Reting, Tashilhunpo and Sakya were included because they were particularly important. Tsongkhapa joined Reting monastery in the fourteenth century; Tashilhunpo was the seat of the Panchen Lamas; and Sakya, after which the Sakya tradition is named, was founded in the eleventh century, and as such is one of Tibet’s earliest monasteries. 6 Figures from HPTD 1992 and Subba 1990: 26. 7 Goldstein 1989: 25. Goldstein says that the latter figure is more accurate. 8 For monastic involvement in violent resistance, see Chapter 2. 9 The British were involved with Tibet between 1904, the year of the British invasion of Tibet under Lieutenant-Colonel Francis Younghusband, and 1947, the year of Indian independence. Younghusband’s expedition ended Tibetan diplomatic isolation, and enabled the opening of British trading agencies in Tibet. For an analysis of the British role in Tibet during the period, see McKay 1997. 10 This position is similar to that of Mahatma Gandhi, who blamed Indians themselves for the British colonial occupation of India, and that of Samdhong Rinpoche, the chairman of the Tibetan parliament in exile, who adopts a Gandhian approach to the Tibetan struggle. See Chapters 4 and 5. 11 Goldstein 1989: 821. This refers to an English school which opened in Lhasa in 1944; an English school in Gyantse in the 1920s had been forced to close due to monastic pressure (Goldstein 1989: 421–6). 12 These principles are also in the Constitution of the People’s Republic of China (1982). Article 4 prohibits oppression of nationalities, as well as proscribing secessionist activity. 13 The province of Xinjiang in north-western China has, like Tibet, a history of resistance to Chinese (both Nationalist and Communist) rule. 14 The Dalai Lama has stated that isolation – both physical and political – damaged Tibet prior to the Chinese invasion: ‘Isolation is never good for a country. . . . In the first half of the [twentieth] century Tibet had very few contacts with other peoples or with other traditions; and that did us a great deal of harm. Time left us behind, and we got a rude awakening’ (Dalai Lama 1994: 10–11). 15 Tibet had decided not to join the League of Nations in the 1920s, due to fear of ending their isolation (Shakya 1999: 53).

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16 The role of religious faith in Tibetan resistance can be likened to the role of Islam in the Iranian Revolution (1979). In the latter it has been argued that traditional faith acted as a political ideology. 17 Kelsang Tashi and Sonam Gyaltsen were accused of murder by Beijing (Donnet 1984: 108–9). 18 In early 1999 the Dalai Lama indicated that Tibetans in Tibet should denounce him to the Chinese if their lives were at risk. 19 ‘Monks arrested for shouting slogans in Tibetan capital’ WTNN 11 March 1999. 20 ‘Closure of religious sites following “patriotic education” ’ TIN News Update 27 January 1999. 21 ‘Monks arrested at Kirti after major protest’ TIN News Update 22 January 1999. 22 ‘ “Denounce me” Dalai Lama tells followers’ WTNN 8 February 1999. 23 See, for example, Bell 1973: 87–9. Bell asserts that ‘few theorists conceive of violence as a means chosen in preference to nonviolence’. CHAPTER 2 1 Norbu, J. 1989: 55. Jamyang Norbu maintains here that liberty, Buddhism and democracy are the goals that are at the centre of the Tibetan independence movement. 2 ‘Shangri-la-ism’ refers to the idealised, romantic vision of Tibet as a land of enlightened, non-violent, happy and exotic people. The scholar Donald Lopez argues that this image ‘may ultimately harm the cause of Tibetan independence’ (Lopez 1998: 11). 3 Tashi Wangdi maintained that the Chinese authorities were responsible for the blasts, because they wanted to divert attention from China’s internal problems. (‘China may be behind Tibet bomb – exiled government’ WTNN 30 December 1996.) 4 There was a further bomb blast in Lhasa in October 2000, which caused minor disruption. 5 Kraft 1993: 44. The sutra referred to here is the Mahaparinirvana Sutra. 6 Norbu, J. 1994: 190. Norbu stresses here that any clashes during the Long March and earlier are not connected to the later occupation. This is clear: China was under the control of different regimes in the 1930s and 1950s. 7 One of the names of the guerrilla movement was Tensung Dhanglang Magar, meaning the Volunteer Army to Defend Buddhism. Jamyang Norbu identifies this movement as being formed from an alliance of tribal chiefs in 1956 (Norbu, J. 1994: 193); the name was adopted by Chushi Gangdruk (see note 10) when they joined with Tensung Dhanglang Magar in 1958. 8 The New York Times reported that an armed revolt had taken place in Tibet (‘Tibetan Rising Reported’ New York Times 19 September 1954). 9 Patterson 1960: 125–6. Also Keesing’s Contemporary Archives p.14942 (23–30 June 1956) ‘Reported Uprising in Tibet’. 10 Another resistance group, Chushi Gangdruk, meaning ‘Four Rivers, Six Ranges’ (an ancient name for eastern Tibet), was founded in Lhasa during Monlam (Great Prayer Festival) in 1956 by Gompo Tashi Andrugtsang and other Khampa merchants. The name Chushi Gangdruk was given to the guerrillas by Trichang Rinpoche, the junior tutor of the Dalai Lama, who was in favour of armed

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11

12 13

14 15

16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

24

resistance (information from Jamyang Norbu in correspondence with author, August 1996). Writers such as Mullin (1975) and Robbins (1981: 91–8) imply that without the CIA’s help, the Dalai Lama would have not been able to escape to India in 1959, as well as claiming that the CIA was the main financier (as well as being responsible for training and supplies) of the guerrillas when they operated in Mustang from 1960–71 (Mullin: 30). These claims are not substantiated and Mullin himself says that only 170 Khampas were trained in Camp Hale before 1962, and the Camp was closed in 1964 (33). Author interview with Jampa Tenzin, London, January 1997. Andrugtsang 1973: 51. It is not clear which movement is referred to here; possibly Chushi Gangdruk because that is the movement with which Andrugtsang is most often identified. The Dalai Lama says that the Se-tri Chenmo (another name for Tenshuk Shapten) meeting marked the formation of Chushi Gangdruk (Dalai Lama 1990: 116). This merging of the guerrilla groups is mentioned by Andrugtsang (1973: 62), Jamyang Norbu (1994: 194), Avdeon (1997: 48) and McCarthy (1997: 143). Avedon 1997: 48. The Mimang Tsongdu, or People’s Assembly, was created in 1954, and was led by a Tibetan called Alo Chonzed, who had visited India and witnessed the independence struggle there. They resented the erosion of the powers of the Dalai Lama, and their protest concentrated on poster campaigns and petitions. Shakya describes the Mimang Tsongdu as ‘the first popular movement in Tibetan history. Support for the group came from all sections of Tibetan society. They not only challenged the Chinese but also the political monopoly of the traditional ruling élite’ (1999: 147). In correspondence with author, August 1996. McCarthy confirms that many resistance fighters felt it better and safer to have their families with them (1997: 228). Author interview with Jampa Tenzin, London, January 1997. Author interview with Jampa Tenzin, London, January 1997. The survivors of the attack, including the chief lama, Zokchen Rinpoche, were given shelter by another monastery. Author interview with Jampa Tenzin, London, January 1997. Author interview with Jampa Tenzin, London, January 1997. The Seventeen Point Agreement was signed on the 23 May 1951 by an unauthorised Tibetan delegation in Beijing, using facsimiles of the Dalai Lama’s official seals produced in Beijing. It included the following points: Point One The Tibetan People shall unite and drive out imperialist aggressive forces from Tibet: the Tibet people shall return to the big family of the Motherland – the People’s Republic of China. Point Two The local government of Tibet shall actively assist the PLA to enter Tibet and consolidate the national defence. Point Seven . . .the religious beliefs, customs, and habits of the Tibetan people shall be respected, and lama monasteries shall be protected. For the full agreement, see Goldstein 1989: 765–9. The Panchen Lama is the second most important religious figure in Tibetan Buddhism.

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25 McCarthy claims that during the raids carried out on Chinese convoys, the guerrillas obtained information on the purging of moderates in the Chinese government, rebellions in other minority areas of China, famine in China, the failure of the Great Leap Forward, orders that Tibetan resistance should be eliminated, and plans to use Tibet for missile development (1997: 231). 26 Airdrops into Tibet had been suspended by Eisenhower in 1960, following the shooting down of the U-2 spyplane (McCarthy 1997: 244). 27 The guerrillas apparently believed Nepal to be friendly, for the Nepalese ruler, King Birendra, had visited the forces and posed for photographs with them. 28 This figure is the total of figures for various areas of Tibet given by George Patterson (1960: 152). 29 In 1988 the Dalai Lama controversially changed the goal of the Tibetan independence movement from Tibetan independence to genuine Tibetan autonomy within Chinese territory. 30 Dalai Lama 1999b: 5. The Dalai Lama’s argument that democracy and Buddhism are compatible, and thus that Asian countries can embrace democratic values, stands in stark contrast to the ‘Asian values’ thesis. This holds that due to the influence of Confucian culture in China and Singapore (and to a lesser extent South Korea, Vietnam and Japan), democracy is an alien concept in much of Pacific Asia. This is because of the emphasis Confucianism allegedly places upon hierarchical social relations and the community. Those who reject the Asian values position argue that it is used to justify the maintenance of authoritarian, or ‘soft’ authoritarian, rule in China and Singapore respectively. 31 It should be noted that actually there were no candidates for this first election. The Tibetan refugees simply wrote down the names of the people they respected most, and the deputies were picked from these nominations. As a result, the ‘winners’ were high lamas, aristocrats and tribal chiefs (Avedon 1997: 107). 32 Lodi Gyari, the chairman of the seventh ATPD, cited in Avedon 1997: 108. 33 A basic outline of the Tibetan Constitution is available at the official website of the Tibetan government in exile: http://www.tibet.com/future.html 34 Available from the Tibetan government in exile at http://www.tibet.com/ Govt/charter.html 35 See Chapter 4 for a discussion of Tibetan democratisation. CHAPTER 3 1 Statement of the Tibetan hunger striker, Palzom (‘Tibetan Hunger Strikers hoping to spur UN intervention’ WTNN 15 April 1998). 2 It is interesting to note that Hugh Richardson, who headed the British Mission in Lhasa in the 1930s and 1940s, advised the Tibetan government that their best course of action following the Chinese occupation was to ‘arouse moral feelings for Tibet’, advice that does, indeed, seem to have been taken to heart (Richardson, cited in McKay 1997: 182). 3 The six were: Dawa Gyalpo (male), Dawa Tsering (male), Karma Sichoe (male), Palzom (female), Yungdung Tsering (male) and Kunsang (male). 4 These demands are taken from a letter from the Tibetan Community in Britain to the Secretary General of the United Nations, Kofi Annan (WTNN 6 April 1998).

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5 This part of her statement unfortunately suggests that the High Commissioner was ill-informed. Of the six hunger strikers, four were over fifty, with two, Palzom and Kunsang, being sixty-eight and seventy respectively (‘Statement of Mrs Mary Robinson – UN High Commissioner for Human Rights to 6 Tibetan Hunger Strikers in New Delhi’ WTNN 9 April 1998). 6 ‘Spokesman of the Secretary-General Issued on 14 April 1998’ WTNN 14 April 1998. 7 ‘Tibetan nuns stage public prayer for hunger strikers, appeal to UN’ WTNN 20 April 1998. 8 ‘EU appeals to Tibetan hunger strikers to end their fast’ WTNN 24 April 1998. 9 ‘Dalai Lama visits Tibetan Hunger Strikers’ WTNN 2 April 1998. 10 ‘Tibet fast-unto-death wins many supporters: UN expresses helplessness to fulfil demands’ (Tibetan Review 33 (5) (May 1998), 5). 11 Author interview with Samdhong Rinpoche, Manchester, October 1997. The differences between fasting in the Gandhian and Tibetan methods of protest are covered in Chapter 5. 12 Dawa Gyalpo, one of the hunger strikers, reported that they had ‘been fed a diet of rice porridge, milk and orange juice forcibly by the hospital staff, even though we were not ready to take it’ (‘Tibetans will continue struggle (Times of India)’ WTNN 28 April 1998 (part 1)). 13 ‘Indian police break up Tibetan hunger strike’ WTNN 27 April 1998 (part 2). 14 ‘Statement on the Disruption of Our Unto-death Hunger Strike by the Government of India’ WTNN 27 April 1998 (part 2). The second round of the hunger strike ended after eighteen days on 15 May. The TYC said that a number of countries had agreed to take up their cause, and denied that their move was linked to India’s nuclear tests. The TYC also promised that the hunger strike would be resumed if there was no progress on the Tibetan issue (‘Tibetan protesters break marathon fast following global pledges’ WTNN 15 May 1998). 15 ‘Tibetan Protester Dies in India’ WTNN 29 April 1998. 16 ‘Statement on the Death of Mr. Thupten Ngodup – The Making of a Martyr’ taken from the official website of the Tibetan government in exile at http://www.tibet.com 17 ‘Tibetan self-immolation questions Dalai Lama’s middle-path’ WTNN 30 April 1998 (part 1). The Middle Path refers to the Dalai Lama’s policy of seeking ‘genuine autonomy’ within Chinese territory, and it also implies taking a nonviolent stance, in accordance with Buddhist principles. 18 A friend of Thupten Ngodup, Tenzin (no second name is given), reported that Ngodup had attended the annual March teachings of the Dalai Lama in Dharamsala, and had left 500 Indian rupees to be donated for the long-life prayer offering of the Dalai Lama (‘Biography of the late Thupten Ngodup’ WTNN 29 April 1998). 19 Jones 1989: 161. The ‘Five Precepts’ are: (i) refrain from taking life; (ii) refrain from taking that which is not given; (iii) refrain from misuse of the senses; (iv) refrain from lying; and (v) refrain from self-intoxication. 20 See Chapter 4 passim for a detailed examination of Gandhian principles and methods. 21 Author interview with Jampa Tenzin, London, January 1997.

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22 Williams 1989: 145. In this instance, Buddha killed a man to prevent him from killing 500 others and thus falling into hell. Therefore, the Buddha’s act was motivated by the purest compassion. The doctrine of skilful means can be used to justify violent action, such as that of the Tibetan guerrillas; but also somewhat troublingly, it can be used to justify capital punishment. 23 Williams 1989: 190. There is an account of the reign of Ralpachen (ralpa can; Lang Darma’s brother) and the assassination of Lang Darma in Shakabpa 1984: 48–53. 24 Nhat Hanh 1967: 119. The use of the generic term ‘monks’ should not be taken to imply that no nuns committed self-immolation. For example, the nun Nhat Chi Mai burned herself for peace in Vietnam. 25 Although the Lotus Sutra is the most influential text regarding the practice of self-immolation, in Chinese Buddhism there are other texts which recommend the burning of the body, including the Fanwang Jing (The Book of Brahma’s Net) and the Shouleng’yan jing (Suramgama-sutra, The Book of the Heroic-march Absorption) (Benn 1998: 295–6). 26 The other Six Perfections are morality, patience, vigour, meditation and wisdom. 27 ‘Biography of the late Thupten Ngodup’ WTNN 29 April 1998. 28 See Chapter 4 for an examination of the Gandhian fast. 29 It should perhaps be noted that Jesus was not directly responsible for his crucifixion, so this is not a particularly useful comparison. 30 Parekh 1989: 159–61. Here Parekh identifies seventeen different fasts, including those mentioned above, plus four against violence, one in Ahmedabad (see Chapter 4) and three against a government. 31 See Chapter 5 passim. 32 Tapas literally means ‘heat’ in Sanskrit; the ‘heat’ or power that is generated by ascetic practices. Gandhi used the term to refer to self-suffering. 33 Thich Tri Quang was one of the leaders of the Unified Buddhist Church of Vietnam. 34 Norbu, J. 1989: 44. This is the hunger strike that was later condemned by the exile Tibetan authorities. 35 ‘Excerpts from Clinton’s speech on China policy, state visit’ WTNN 11 June 1998. The only slight progress since Clinton’s visit to China to date has been a visit to Beijing by the Dalai Lama’s older brother, Gyalo Thondup, in October 2000. The object of this visit was to re-open negotiations between Dharamsala and Beijing, with the possibility of the Dalai Lama sending a Tibetan delegation to China. In January 2001 the Dalai Lama confirmed that there had been no response from Beijing to his proposal (‘Dalai Lama Says China Mute Over Proposed Delegation to Beijing’ AFP 28 January 2001). 36 A second hunger strike launched by the TYC in Geneva in April 1999 was abandoned on 1 May, after the TYC felt that they had attracted sufficient international attention to their demands. 37 India carried out several underground tests of ballistic missiles in May 1998, to almost universal condemnation. 38 ‘Dalai Lama defends Indian weapon tests’ Guardian 19 May 1998. The Dalai Lama did qualify this statement by adding he felt that ideally no country at all should possess nuclear weapons.

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39 On 19 June 1998 a French museum guard died after burning himself alive in Paris. He was making a ‘pacifist gesture to help Tibetans win freedom from China’s persecution’. This event received even less attention than Thupten Ngodup’s death (‘Frenchman burns himself alive to help Tibetans’ WTNN 20 June 1998). 40 See the essay ‘Adding Insult to Injury’ for a critique of the attitude of the press towards Tibet. Here Jamyang Norbu concludes that the inaction of the Tibetan government in exile is at fault, and only more dramatic events receive attention (1989: 15–21). 41 The 1997 film version of Heinrich Harrer’s ‘Seven Years in Tibet’ had a widelyderided scene where monks were called to a building site to remove worms that may have been one’s mother in a past life. This image of the non-violent stance impeding any type of progress is accepted by the West, particularly by those who are primarily interested in Tibetan religion. 42 Clinton actually said: ‘I urged President Jiang to assume a dialogue with the Dalai Lama in return for the recognition that Tibet is a part of China and in recognition of the unique cultural and religious heritage of that region’ (“We are building a friendship that will serve our descendants well”: Excerpts from the Clinton–Jiang News Conference’ WTNN 28 June 1998). 43 Since the time of Goldstein’s writing, there was a further bombing in Lhasa in October 2000. There was little evidence to suggest that the blast was symptomatic of a move toward sustained terrorist activity in Tibet. CHAPTER 4 1 Gandhi 1927: 420. 2 Satyagraha as a term was first used by Gandhi in South Africa in 1906. It literally means ‘truth-force’ and is a politico-religious method of protest that at its most basic encompasses non-violent civil disobedience and non-cooperation, together with a movement for self-renewal. 3 ‘Gujral rallies India for war on corrupt’ Guardian 16 August 1997. 4 A satyagrahi is one who practises satyagraha. 5 An interesting parallel may be drawn between the Gandhian boycott and a boycott organised by a Tibetan group, the Rangzen Alliance. This group call for direct economic action against China, in the form of a consumer boycott of Chinese goods. In their campaign literature, the group allude specifically to Gandhi’s boycott of British textiles (‘Direct Economic Action: for Tibetan Independence and for Freedom and Justice Worldwide: A Draft Proposal’ The Rangzen Alliance, http://www.rangzen.net/eng/dea/index.html). 6 Bondurant 1958: 37 and Iyer 1973: 302, 304. 7 On 13 April 1919 around 20,000 people gathered for a public meeting in Jallianwalla Bagh in Amritsar. The area was a meeting place with only one entrance. British troops under the command of General Dyer blocked the entrance and fired on the crowd, killing over 300 Indians. 8 Author interview with anonymous interviewee, London, January 1997. 9 The process by which the British gained control of India is explored in Chapter 6. 10 The Dalai Lama makes statements annually on 10 March to mark the anniversary of the Tibetan People’s National Uprising Day [Lhasa Uprising] of 1959.

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11 Edin 1992: 47. According to Edin, given all Tibetans have faith in the Dalai Lama, this is in itself democratic, for he truly represents the people. 12 Weber identified three ideal types of ‘legitimate domination’: traditional, charismatic and rational–legal. Traditional rule was legitimised by reference to custom and old rules and powers; charismatic rule by some extraordinary quality embodied by the leader; and rational–legal authority was legitimised by a legal code, a system of rules, an administrative staff, and so on. 13 An important NGO is the Tibetan Youth Congress (TYC). This organisation is often seen as being the de facto opposition in the Tibetan polity, mainly because they are radical and disagree with the Dalai Lama’s policy of total non-violence. Evidence of their stance was tragically apparent in 1998, when six members of the TYC went on hunger strike to call the UN’s attention to the Tibetans’ cause (see Chapter 3 passim). The TYC implied that violence against themselves could well be transformed into violence against property and others in the future, if their objective (total independence) is not addressed. A fledgling political party, the National Democratic Party of Tibet, emerged from the Tibetan Youth Congress in 1994. Its aim is to ‘safeguard and strengthen the democratic process inaugurated by the Dalai Lama’, and it is unequivocally committed to Tibetan independence (home page of the National Democratic Party of Tibet: http:// hometown.aol.com/Wangchuk/NDPT.html). 14 This announcement is referred to as the Strasbourg Statement, and is reproduced in Kelly, Bastian and Aiello 1991: 300–5. 15 A 1997 edition of Tibetan Bulletin contains a series of articles outlining all the arguments that the referendum was designed to resolve (1 (2) July–August 1997). 16 It was stated in an anonymous article published on the Office of Tibet’s website that ‘if the leadership of the government-in-exile fears embarrassment by a strong independence vote, it may call the referendum off ’ (‘Turmoil among exiles in India over referendum’ available at: http://www.tibet.com/Referendum/r-8. html). 17 An example of the people disagreeing with the Dalai Lama is the debate over the inclusion of secularism in the constitution (see Chapter 2). 18 Author interview with anonymous interviewee, London, January 1997. 19 Author interview with Jampa Tenzin, London, January 1997. CHAPTER 5 1 Mahatma Gandhi, quoted in Iyer 1973: 41, and the Dalai Lama 1995b: 89. 2 Parekh 1989: 100–1. A sannyasi (Sanskrit) is one who renounces the world (sannyasa) as a means of achieving moksha, or spiritual liberation. 3 In traditional Hindu thought, liberation could also be reached through devotion (bhakti), knowledge (jnana) and worldly renunciation. 4 The cardinal virtues are: (i) purity (sattva suddhi); (ii) self-control (sama and dama); (iii) detachment (vairagya); (iv) truth (satya); and (v) non-violence (ahimsa). 5 From the translation by Radhakrishnan (1953). 6 From Radhakrishnan (1953). 7 From the translation by Edgerton (1965). 8 From Edgerton (1965).

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9 Yoga here refers not just to physical exercise, but to any number of both physical and contemplative techniques that are designed to free the consciousness from worldly involvement. 10 The Bhagavad-Gita consists of a dialogue between the god Krishna and the warrior prince Arjuna, on the eve of the great battle of the Mahabharata; of which the Gita is a part. 11 Dharma (Pali: dhamma) refers to the teaching and practice; most particularly of Buddhism, but also of Hinduism. 12 Swami Vivekananda was a disciple and successor to Ramakrishna, a Hindu mystic of the nineteenth century who taught the importance of self- and Godrealisation. Vivekananda built on this, and included notions of self-reliance and tolerance, as well as undertaking pioneering work in social issues. 13 Gandhi’s translation of the Bhagavad-Gita, with a commentary by his secretary Mahadev Desai, is called The Gospel of Selfless Action or The Gita According to Gandhi. It was completed while Gandhi and Desai were in prison in the 1930s. 14 Krishna is called by various names, including Keshav (‘having fine hair’), Govinda (‘giver of enlightenment’), Janardana (‘liberator of man’) and Hari (a name of Vishnu, the god of which Krishna is a form). Arjuna means ‘white’, and he is usually referred to by his role, for example, ‘Son of Kunti’ and ‘Glory of the Kurus.’ 15 Desai 1948: 129. The translation of the Gita in this work is in Gandhi’s own words, as is the conclusion – ‘Anasaktiyoga: The Message of the Gita’ – from which this quote is taken. 16 Arjuna is the younger brother of Yudhishthira, the oldest of the Pandava brothers. 17 From the translation by Zaehner (1969). 18 From Zaehner (1969). 19 From Zaehner (1969). 20 Arnold (1899) poetically entitles the tenth discourse ‘Religion by the Heavenly Perfections’. 21 From Zaehner (1969). 22 From the translation by Parrinder (1996). 23 From Zaehner (1969). 24 Zaehner and Arnold translations as above; Mascaro (1962) and Besant and Das (1926). 25 Jainism is an indigenous religion of India that can be traced back to the Indus River valley civilisation of 3,000 . It sprang up as a reaction against the elitism of the Hindu caste system and bears some resemblance to Buddhist philosophy. 26 The experiences of other religions often had this effect on Gandhi; for example it was the Theosophists who pointed him in the direction of the Bhagavad-Gita. 27 In 1997 a referendum was planned in the Tibetan exile community to decide the direction the Tibetan struggle should take, with satyagraha as one of the options. However, this was cancelled in September 1997, apparently because around 64 per cent of Tibetan exiles had stated that the referendum should be dispensed with because they felt such decisions should be left to the Dalai Lama (‘Exile parliament puts off referendum, authorises new initiative towards China’ in Tibetan Review (32)11 (November 1997) pp. 7–9). It was also pointed out by

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28 29 30 31 32

33

34 35

36

37 38 39 40 41 42

many that exiled Tibetans did not have the right to take a potentially binding decision on behalf of those who remained in Tibet. The Four Noble Truths are: (i) that suffering exists; (ii) that suffering has a cause; (iii) the cause can be removed; and (iv) the method of that removal; in other words, the Middle Way. The bodhisattva levels are the stages through which one passes to become a bodhisattva. Bodhisattva is a Sanskrit term meaning ‘enlightenment being’. In Tibetan the term is translated as byang chub sems dpa, meaning ‘enlightenment hero.’ Powers 1995: 91. Hinayana is used by the Mahayana school to refer to the other Buddhist schools. It is a somewhat derogatory term, for it means ‘Lesser Vehicle’, compared with Mahayana, which means ‘Greater Vehicle’. The Dalai Lama made an address concerning the future of Sino–Tibetan relations to the European Parliament in June 1988, in the hope that China would agree to open negotiations on the future status of Tibet. His speech coincided with various western leaders’ calls for Beijing to speak with the Dalai Lama. The speech can be found in Dalai Lama 1988b: 300–5. Tsering Wangyal 1994: 202. Formal contacts between Beijing and Dharamsala were cut in 1993, and informal links were severed in November 1998. The Dalai Lama’s older brother, Gyalo Thondup, visited Beijing in October 2000 with a view to resuming dialogue. It has been suggested that Beijing may have wished to be seen to appease the Dalai Lama before the decision in July 2001 on their bid for the 2008 Olympic Games (‘Beijing “playing Games” on Tibet’ WTNN 7 December 2000). Author interview with anonymous interviewee, London, January 1997. All basic information on Samdhong Rinpoche’s satyagraha proposal taken from the text (entitled ‘Satyagraha: The Right Way’) of a series of speeches given by him in Britain in October 1997 (provided by Samdhong Rinpoche, care of the Tibet Society of the United Kingdom). Samdhong Rinpoche had still not returned to Tibet by early 2002. He said that his ‘satyagraha could not progress any further nor could [he] attract many satyagrahis due to [his] limitation[s] and involvement in many other unavoidable activities. [He] still did not give up . . . hope and . . . look[ed] forward [to] an opportunity to devote [him]self [to] satyagraha’ (in correspondence with author, November 2000). Author interview with Samdhong Rinpoche, Manchester, October 1997. At a public talk in Manchester, England, in October 1997, Samdhong Rinpoche made this assertion, to the obvious disquiet of many (non-Tibetans) in the audience. From the text of Samdhong Rinpoche’s speeches. From the text of Samdhong Rinpoche’s speeches. Samdhong Rinpoche indicated this at his talk in Manchester in October 1997. In July 1997 the Party Secretary of the Tibet Autonomous Region condemned the teaching of religion at the University of Tibet, and said that Tibetan culture was actually ‘non-Buddhist’ (TIN News Update 15 August 1997; published as ‘Cultural Policy: History Book Banned, Tibetan Culture declared “NonBuddhist” ’ on WTNN 17 August 1997). Human Rights Watch/Asia concluded in 1997 that China continued to violate the right to freedom of religion in all

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43 44 45 46 47 48

49 50

regions. In Tibet, HRW/A reported, monks and nuns were subjected to political vetting and strict supervision of institutions, and the Chinese government continued to label Tibetan Buddhism as a cult and superstitious sect (‘China Tightens Control on Religion: Human Rights Watch Report’ WTNN 21 October 1997). From the text of Samdhong Rinpoche’s speeches. Author interview with Samdhong Rinpoche, Manchester, October 1997. Author interview with Samdhong Rinpoche, Manchester, October 1997. Author interview with Samdhong Rinpoche, Manchester, October 1997. From the text of Samdhong Rinpoche’s speeches. From ‘Satyagraha – Truth – Insistence’, which appeared on WTNN on 11 August 1995. This statement should be reconsidered with the benefit of hindsight; the Tibetan Youth Congress undertook a hunger strike in 1998, which ended with the self-immolation of one of their members (see Chapter 3 passim). Author interview with Samdhong Rinpoche, Manchester, October 1997. Difficulties would clearly emerge as those who are tortured or imprisoned obviously cannot continue with the satyagraha. CHAPTER 6

1 From a speech by Rajendra Prasad (former President of Congress and first President of independent India) on the independence of India, 15 August 1947 (reprinted in Pandey 1979: 219). 2 While the Tibetan government in exile does run its own schools, under the auspices of the Indian government’s Ministry of Education, there is virtually no provision (apart from the Central Institute for Higher Tibetan Studies in Varanasi) for specifically ‘Tibetan’ higher education. 3 The Moghul Empire began to collapse in the early eighteenth century as it became increasingly factionalised, and Delhi’s control over the provinces was weakened. A Persian invasion in 1739 and the consequent sacking of Delhi revealed to India just how weak the Empire was, and further damaged its prestige. However, while the capital was substantially weakened, regional centres of Moghul power remained, most notably in Lucknow, Hyderabad, Murshidabad and Faizalabad. 4 Chandra contends that the Mutiny of 1857 was ‘the culmination of a centurylong tradition of fierce popular resistance to British domination’ (1989: 41). Various causes of discontent during this period include increasing demands for land revenue; harsh punishments for rent arrears and interest on debt; the collapse of Indian handicraft industries, due to the imposition of free trade; oppression and extortion by petty officials; and general resentment of foreign rule (42–5). 5 There are many examples of this type of justification of Chinese rule, in both Chinese and European literature. For example, the introduction to Tibetans on Tibet (China Reconstructs Press, Beijing, 1988) states that ‘this pretty fiction [of a peaceful Tibet] could not be further from the truth, for the ‘old Tibet’ featured a brutally harsh feudal serfdom which enforced on the great majority of the people a life of poverty, deprivation and fear’ (1). The book goes on to detail the methods that were used to control the ‘serfs’: ‘They were frequently flogged, and those who tried to escape or violated the law could have their eyes gouged out, or

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7 8

9

10 11

12 13

their nose, hands, feet, and even knee caps removed . . . [the serfs] welcomed the democratic reforms of 1959 with great joy, and just as naturally they indignantly reject any movement that would suggest a return to the past’ (16). Such views are shared by some European China experts: ‘Fear of devils and hellfire for the impious combined with barbaric torture and death for fugitives from the [Tibetan] system kept the population in subjugation, as in other feudalisms’ (Snow 1962: 562). Wei Jingsheng, the Chinese pro-democracy activist, reports that when he informed his parents of his intention to marry his Tibetan girlfriend, their response was that ‘Tibetans were half-human, half-beast. . . . [T]hey expressed the strongest opposition and even threatened to sever all relations with me.’ Wei says that this reaction was a result of Communist propaganda (Seymour and Changching 1998: 85). It should be noted that the Chinese do not claim torture to have been a political or religious custom in Tibet, rather a tool of the Dalai Lama’s traditional rule. Sati was a religious custom; the term is also a name for the consort of Shiva, and the act is referred to in Hindu scripture. In Hind Swaraj Gandhi wrote that ‘To give millions a knowledge of English is to enslave them. . . . Is it not a sad commentary that we should have to speak of Home Rule in a foreign tongue?’ (Gandhi 1997: 103). Under Chinese occupation the preservation of the Tibetan language has been of great concern to Tibetan nationalists. Some suggest, however, that Tibetans in Tibet must learn Chinese if they are to prosper. Furthermore, knowledge of the dominant language of the region – and, indeed, a major world language – can only be of benefit in the future; whether or not this future is independent of Chinese rule. Jhansi had been annexed by the British in 1853, and the Rani was so angered by this that during the Mutiny she led a rebellion against the British with her general, Tantia Topi, who was not captured until April 1859. The Rani has been described as ‘India’s Boadicea’. Chandra also accuses the Indian rulers of actively supporting the British, arguing that ‘the sepoys might have made a better fight of it if they had received [the rulers’] support’ (1989: 38). Interestingly, there is increasing opposition in Tibet (and from Tibetan support groups abroad) to the development of transport infrastructure there, particularly railways. The Chinese authorities hope to extend a railway line, which currently terminates at Golmud in Qinghai, to Lhasa. This would create possibilities for the further exploitation of Tibet’s mineral resources, as well as increasing the level of Chinese immigration into Tibet. Tibetans and their supporters fear that the railway, a decision on which was due in spring 2001, would accelerate the assimilation of Tibet into China. There would, however, be some benefits from a rail link with China: Tibetans would be able to export goods (such as meat) to China with greater ease (‘China set to build railway to Tibet’ TIN News Update, 22 December 2000). For example, in 1881 three-quarters of the University of Calcutta’s graduates were settled somewhere other than Calcutta. It should be noted that the Act, which enabled the government to seize printing equipment if newspapers printed anything that might lead to agitation, was never actually used.

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14 The cow is sacred to Hindus – Gandhi described it as the ‘protector of India’ – and therefore should not be harmed. However, it was used for sacrificial purposes in many Muslim festivals, so the issue of cow-protection was potentially troublesome. CHAPTER 7 1 Nehru 1956: 579. 2 E. S. Montagu, the Secretary of State for India, quoted in Brown, 1994: 204. Ironically, the Montagu Declaration is similar to the Dalai Lama’s Strasbourg Proposal, whereby Tibet would be a genuinely autonomous entity within the greater Chinese state. Neither proposal offered freedom and independence. 3 In this Gandhi could not be more different from the Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lama recommends non-violent action to others, but himself prefers diplomatic negotiation. 4 French 1997: 34. General Dyer received a vote of support in the House of Lords. 5 The burning of foreign cloth was part of the Gandhi-inspired campaign to boycott imported cloth in favour of khadi, or home-spun cloth. The production of khadi represented India’s goal of self-sufficiency (swadeshi), which would bring economic freedom. 6 The Fourteen Points were published originally in Indian Quarterly Register (1929) Vol. I, 365–6. They are reproduced in Pandey 1979: 82–3.The other points were, in brief, as follows: (3) Legislatures to be elected on the principle of adequate representation of minorities; (5) Communal groups to continue to be represented by separate electorates; (6) Territorial redistribution should not affect Muslim majorities in Punjab, Bengal and NWF Province; (8) Bills should not be passed if three quarters of any minority objected on grounds of community interest; (9) Sind should be separated from Bombay Presidency; (10) Reforms should be introduced in NWF Province and Baluchistan; and (14) Constitutional changes should not be made without consultation with the States of the Indian federation. 7 Subhas Chandra Bose (known as ‘Netaji’) was an advocate of militant action against the British, and as such never agreed with Gandhi on the matter of tactics. He was, however, a popular figure, and was president of Congress in 1938–9. He believed that foreign assistance was vital for the Indian nationalist movement, and sought assistance from Hitler, Mussolini and the Japanese. He was instrumental in the establishment of the Indian National Army (see Conclusion, note 8). 8 For example, in his journal Harijan he wrote ‘Leave India to God. If that is too much, then leave her to anarchy’ (cited in French 1997: 152). 9 Viceroy Linlithgow to Churchill, 31 August 1942, cited in French 1997: 161. 10 In the first week after the arrest of the Congress leaders, 250 railway stations were damaged, together with attacks on over 500 post offices and 150 police stations. By the end of 1942, over 60,000 people had been arrested (Chandra 1989: 462). 11 This is of course rather similar to the Dalai Lama’s Strasbourg Proposal, wherein he advocated Tibetan self-rule within a Chinese state that would be responsible for defence and foreign policy. The problem, however, is that Beijing would always be inherently strong.

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12 Cited in French 1997: 253. Millat means the Muslim religious community, or Muslims in general; ramazan refers to the Muslim month of fasting. 13 The figures given at the time were 200,000, and although many commentators since feel that around one million is far more accurate, the exact total will never be known. 14 The Sikh community in the Punjab were opposed to the notion of a Muslim homeland in their territory from its inception, but realised that there was little they could do to prevent it. Neither the Congress nor the Muslim League made much effort to placate their fears, and the plan drawn up by Menon did not address their concerns. The basic and insurmountable difficulty was that the Muslim desire for a homeland in the Punjab was always going to conflict with the wishes of the Sikhs. Thousands of Sikhs were murdered by Muslims, and around 80,000 Sikh refugees moved to east Punjab to ensure their position in India. The origins of the Sikh separatist movement can be traced to their dislocation during partition. 15 The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh was founded in 1925 as an organisation to unite and protect Hindus. CONCLUSION 1 Jamyang Norbu 1999b: 21. 2 Under the Thirteenth Dalai Lama, Tibet decided not to join the League of Nations in the 1920s, for fear of allowing outsiders into the country (Shakya 1999: 53). 3 The UN Commission for Human Rights accepted a ‘no action motion’ in April 1999 that quashed all debate on China’s human rights record. Twenty-two members (including Russia, India and Pakistan) voted for the motion and seventeen (including the UK, US and France) against, with fourteen abstentions. China has escaped censure at the UN every year since 1990 (‘China escapes censure at UN rights body’ WTNN 23 April 1999). The Tibetan Youth Congress called off their hunger strike on 1 May 1999, as they felt that they had drawn the attention of the UNCHR, and in particular the High Commissioner, Mary Robinson, to the situation in Tibet (‘Tibetan Youth Congress calls off hunger strike in Geneva’ WTNN 1 May 1999). 4 The new US president, George W. Bush, has signalled that he may not ‘engage’ China in dialogue, and it is said that he regards China as a rival rather than a partner. The US promised to sponsor a resolution criticising China’s human rights record at the UNCHR in March 2001, and Secretary of State Colin Powell asserted that the Bush administration would show an interest in expressing solidarity with the Dalai Lama. However, as thousands of American jobs are created by US exports to China, it seems likely that Bush’s anti-China rhetoric is just that. Bill Clinton also displayed hostility toward China during his election campaigns (‘China hopeful Bush will choose pragmatism over confrontation: analysts’ WTNN 15 December 2000; ‘Tibetans cheer Powell stand on Dalai’ WTNN 19 January 2001). 5 There are a number of forces which may foster democracy in China. First, the economic reforms undertaken in the post-Mao era could eventually weaken central government control over society. Second, the rapid changes in Asia,

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9 10 11 12

13 14

particularly in formally authoritarian regimes such as Taiwan and South Korea, have produced economic growth, and this has encouraged the rise of an educated middle class. In turn this middle class demanded and obtained democratic reform. Third, China’s entry into the World Trade Organisation might increase pressure to democratise; the Dalai Lama has indicated that he believes this to be the case. Fourth, changes in Hong Kong could influence the rest of China; and last – and probably the least likely – there could be a shift in the attitudes of the Chinese leadership. Indeed, Jiang Zemin said in September 2000 on American television that he understood the demands of the students in Tiananmen Square in 1989, and said that China was trying to improve its system of democracy. The Karmapa was granted refugee status by India in February 2001. ‘Tibetan Youth Congress calls off hunger strike in Geneva’ WTNN 1 May 1999. Although the Indian nationalist movement was characterised by the negotiations of Congress and the Muslim League, and Gandhi’s non-violent resistance, the role of the Indian National Army (INA) should not be overlooked. The INA was conceived of by Mohan Singh, an officer in the British Indian army, who attempted an alliance with the Japanese during World War Two. However there were serious differences between the Japanese and the Indian members of the INA; it was clear that Japan was contemplating an invasion of India. Discrimination by Japanese soldiers further demoralised the INA, and by the end of the war they were threatened with serious punishment from the British. Nehru was among those who called for leniency; he hailed the INA as misguided patriots (Chandra 1989: 471–5). The militant nationalism of Bal Gangadhar Tilak should also be acknowledged; he fought for press freedom in India and in 1908 wrote a series of articles that held the government responsible for bomb attacks on officials, because the government was suppressing freedom (Chandra 1989: 111). He received six years imprisonment for sedition; after his release from prison in 1914 he renounced violence and was later to advocate civil disobedience. Finally, the role of Subhas Chandra Bose, a firm advocate of militancy, is vital (see Chapter 7, note 7.) The Dalai Lama’s views on multi-party democracy can be found in ‘Dalai Lama for secular, multi-party Tibet’ Tibetan Review 34 (4) (April 1999) 6–7. Norbu, Jamyang (1999a) ‘The Rangzen Charter’. This appeared in the form of a leaflet that was released on the first anniversary of the self-immolation of Thupten Ngodup. It is available through the Rangzen Alliance at http://www.rangzen.net ‘Rangzen’ (Tibetan: rang bstan) means independence. In early 2001 it was reported that the Dalai Lama had decided to bequeath his political authority to an elected leader, while his religious role would continue through the reincarnation system (‘Dalai Lama plans to transfer political power’ WTNN 31 January 2001). The Tibetan government in exile issued a statement that said the Dalai Lama had in fact changed the system for the election of the chairman of the kashag, or cabinet, and had not been speaking about his own successor (‘His Holiness the Dalai Lama on successor’ WTNN 2 February 2001). From the preamble to the Tibetan constitution, available at the website of the Tibetan government in exile: http://www.tibet.com/future.html From ‘The Worship of Shugden – Documents Related to a Tibetan Controversy’ available at the website of the Tibetan government in exile: http://www.tibet. com/dholgyal/CTA-book/forward.html

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15 From ‘Amnesty International’s position on alleged abuses against worshippers of Tibetan deity Dorje Shugden’ WTNN 22 July 1998. 16 Elliot Sperling, in an article concerning the nature of protest literature inside Tibet, points out that the Dalai Lama’s renunciation of independence has been largely ignored by Tibetans inside Tibet. Literature produced by protesters inside Tibet continues to be overtly concerned with independence, believing this is a historical right of the Tibetan people (Sperling 1994: 267–84). 17 The Statement of His Holiness the Dalai Lama on the Forty-Second Anniversary of Tibetan National Uprising – March 10 2001, can be found at: http://www. tibet.com/NewsRoom/10-march-eng.htm 18 From ‘Prof. Rimpoche ahead of rivals – First round of Tibetan poll for Prime Minister’s post’ WTNN 2 June 2001.

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Books and journal articles Anderson, Benedict (1991) Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, London: Verso Andrugtsang, Gompo Tashi (1973) Four Rivers, Six Ranges: Reminiscences of the Resistance Movement in Tibet, Dharamsala: Information and Publicity Office of His Holiness the Dalai Lama Ardley, Jane (1999a) ‘Resistance, Religion and Politics: the Tibetan Independence Movement in Comparative Perspective’, Keele University: unpublished Ph.D. thesis —— (1999b) ‘From theocracy to democracy? Modernising the Tibetan polity’, paper given at the 1999 PSA Politics and Religion Group Conference, University of Sheffield Arnold, Edwin (1899/1993) Bhagavadgita, New York: Dover Publications Avedon, John F. (1997) In Exile from the Land of Snows, New York: HarperCollins Barnett, Robert and Shirin Akiner (eds) (1994) Resistance and Reform in Tibet, London: Hurst and Company Bell, Charles (1992) Tibet: Past and Present, Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Bell, David V. J. (1973) Resistance and Revolution, Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company Benn, James A. (1998) ‘Where text meets flesh – burning the body as an apocryphal practice’ in History of Religions 37 (4) pp. 295–322 Besant, Annie and Bhagavan Das (1926) The Bhagavad Gita, Madras: Theosophical Publishing House Bharati, Agehananda (1970) ‘Gandhi’s Interpretation of the Gita: An Anthropological Analysis’ in Ray, S. (ed.) Gandhi, India and the World: An International Symposium, Melbourne: Hawthorn Press pp. 57–70 Bhattacharjee, Arun (1988) A History of Modern India, Liverpool: Lucas Publications Bondurant, Joan V. (1958) Conquest of Violence: The Gandhian Philosophy of Conflict, Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press Bose, Anima (1987) Dimensions of Peace and Non-Violence: The Gandhian Perspective, Delhi: Gian Publishing Brown, Judith M. (1994) Modern India: The Origins of an Asian Democracy, Oxford: Oxford University Press Burman, Bina Roy (1979) Religion and Politics in Tibet, New Delhi: Vikas Publishing

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INDEX

ahimsa (non-violence) ix, 69, 70, 71, 74, 75, 82, 90, 91, 92, 96, 98–9, 101, 104, 108 Aligarh movement 133 All-India Muslim League see Muslim League Ambedkar, Bhimrao Ramji 149 Amdo 7, 11, 24, 25, 28, 29, 32, 36, 43, 107 Amnesty International 4, 175 Amritsar, massacre at Jallianwalla Bagh 76, 91, 138, 139 Anglo-Indian Defence Association 131 Annan, Kofi 47, 59 Arafat, Yasser 57 Assembly of Tibetan People’s Deputies (ATPD) 42, 43, 44, 84, 85, 88, 106, 108, 179 Atman ix, 70, 96, 97, 98, 100, 112, 113, 114 ATPD see Assembly of Tibetan People’s Deputies Attlee, Clement 153, 155, 156, 157, 158 Avalokiteshvara (bodhisattva of compassion) 9, 86 Baba Yeshi, General 38, 39, 40 Bahadur Shah 124, 125 Bell, Charles 6 Besant, Annie 103, 137 Bevin, Ernest 157 Bhagavad-Gita ix, 98–9, 100–1, 102, 103, 104 bhaktiyoga 99, 100, 102, 103, 104 Bhutan 89 bodhicitta ix, 112 bodhisattva ix, 9, 51, 53, 54, 55, 64, 88, 92, 104, 106, 113, 116, 117, 170 Bon 10 Bose, Subhas Chandra 148

Boundary Commission (Indian) 160 Brahman 86, 97, 102, 114 Brahmo Samaj 123 British Cabinet Mission 154, 155, 157 British, in India 68, 70, 76, 77, 79, 80, 81, 91, 119 and passim; in Tibet 18, 21 Buddha, the 53, 54, 59, 84, 106, 115 Buddhism 4, 9, 10, 18, 20, 26, 27, 31, 42, 44, 48, 51, 54, 55, 59, 60, 63, 65, 86, 87, 92, 96, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 166, 167, 168, 171, 175, 177, 178; and selfharming 51–2; Cambodian 109; Chinese 54, 55; Hinayana 106; Mahayana 53, 104, 106, 113; Sino-Japanese 54; see also Tibetan Buddhism cabinet, Tibetan see kashag Carnatic Wars 121 Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) 21, 29–31, 32, 39, 49 Central Legislative Assembly (Indian) 148 Central Tibetan Administration 88 Chamdo 6, 36 Chiang Kai-shek 41 chigyab khembo (Tibetan Lord Chamberlain) ix, 15 China, Chinese 1, 2, 3, 4, 7, 9, 18, 20, 21, 22, 23, 27, 32, 33, 39, 41, 42, 44, 46, 55, 62, 63, 65, 72, 78, 90, 91, 92, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 116, 123, 126, 134, 135, 162, 163, 164, 165, 170, 171, 172, 173, 176, 178; Communist Party 7, 28, 120, 164; constitution 20; Cultural Revolution 9, 22, 23, 38, 164; invasion of Tibet 11, 12, 13, 15, 17, 21, 22, 28, 31, 62, 122, 167; Japanese invasion of 91; Nationalists 28; People’s Political Consultative

206

INDEX Conference (1949) 20; settlers in Tibet 8, 107 Churchill, Winston 152 chos srid gnyis ldan ix, 4, 11 Chushi Gangdruk x, 31, 66; see also guerrillas, Tensung Dhanglang Magar CIA see Central Intelligence Agency circumambulation see khorra civil disobedience 73, 74, 77, 78, 79, 82, 145, 146, 147, 148, 152, 161 Clinton, Bill, President 61, 62, 63, 64, 66, 164 Clive, Robert 121 communal violence, in India 155, 156, 157, 160, 161 communications, in Tibet 33; in India 128–9, 130 Congress, Indian National 120, 124, 130, 132, 133, 134, 138–41, 143, 144, 145, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 161, 168, 169, 170, 174, 176 Constructive Programme 74, 75, 78, 81–3, 84, 89 cow-killing 132, 141 Cripps, Stafford 151, 154 CTA see Central Tibetan Administration Cultural Revolution see China ‘Dalai Clique’ 44 Dalai Lama, the Fifth 11, 12, 15 Dalai Lama, the Fourteenth 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 12, 13, 14, 17, 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 28, 30, 31, 32, 34, 35, 36, 40, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 50, 51, 55, 56, 57, 58, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 68, 78, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 90, 92, 93, 95, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 117, 118, 134, 136, 141, 161, 162, 163, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179; address to US Congress 23; as ‘splittist’ 25, 164; autobiography of 36; bodyguard of see kusun depon; in exile 7, 36, 77, 90; Strasbourg Statement of (1988) see Strasbourg Statement Dalai Lama, the Thirteenth 11, 12, 13, 14, 168; in exile 14, 18; Political Last Testament of 168 Dalai Lama, institution of 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, 18, 86, 123 Dawa Norbu 22 Defence of India Act (1915) 137

democratisation, of Tibetan government in exile 42, 44, 65, 83, 85, 86, 87, 88, 169, 171, 172, 173, 174, 178, 179, 180; and Buddhism 42, 43 demonstrations (in Tibet) 24, 25, 26, 36 Deng Xiaoping 66 densa sum (Three Seats) 16, 17 Desai, Mahadev 101, 103 Dharamsala 42, 43, 48, 50 ,83, 165 dharma x, 27, 44, 53, 54, 87, 100 dobdobs (Tibetan fighting monks) x, 16–17 dominion status (for India) 143, 144, 145, 151, 158 Dorje Shugden affair 175–6 drungkhor (Tibetan lay civil service) 11 Dyer, Brigadier General Reginald 139 East India Company 83, 120, 121, 125, 127 education, in British India 128–30, 147; in Tibetan exile community 179, 180 Eightfold Path 106 English (language) 123–4, 127, 128, 142 EU see European Union European Union 47, 58 exile community, Tibetan see Tibetan exile community famine 8 fasting 72, 75, 90, 114–15, 177; see also hunger strikes federalism 145 Five Precepts 51 Ford, Robert 6 Four Noble Truths 106 Gandhi, Mohandas Karamchand [Mahatma] 2, 26, 35, 45, 46, 49, 52, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 65, 68–83, 89, 90, 91,92, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 110, 112, 113, 114, 116, 117, 116, 119, 122, 124, 128, 132, 138–41, 142, 145, 146, 147, 148, 154, 156, 158, 162, 165, 168, 169, 175, 178; and fasting 56, 57, 60, 66; and Jainism 104–6; and railways, 128; and Westernisation 128; assassination of 161; imprisoned 141, 142 Gansu 7 Gautama, Siddhartha see Buddha, the Gellner, Ernest 123, 124 Gelug 10, 11, 16, 175 genocide 8, 167 Ghosananda, Maha 109

207

INDEX Gita see Bhagavad-Gita God, concept of in Hinduism 69, 70, 96, 97, 98, 100, 101, 102, 105, 112, 114 Goloks 28, 29 Gompo Tashi Andrugtsang 28, 31, 32, 34, 40, 41 Gorakhpur 139, 140 government in exile, Tibetan see Tibetan government in exile Government of India Act (1919) 137; (1935) 148–9 guerrilla(s), Tibetan 21, 22, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 45, 49, 57, 65, 93, 125, 126, 128, 162, 163, 171, 181; see also Chushi Gangdruk, Tensung Dhanglang Magar; Maoist 40, 41 Guevara, Ernesto ‘Che’ 42 Guomindang 29, 41 Gyalo Thondup 30, 39, 41 gyaltsab see Regent Gyato Wangdu 40 hartal x, 75, 76, 138, 139, 152, 155, 156 hijrat x, 75, 77 Hind Swaraj 81, 83, 128 Hindu, Hinduism 59, 60, 65, 69, 70, 79, 80, 83, 92, 93, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 104, 105, 106, 110, 112, 114, 115, 116, 118, 121, 123, 124, 125, 129, 130, 133, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 147, 149, 152, 154, 155, 157, 159, 160, 161, 176 Home Rule Leagues (1916) 136, 137, 138 home-spun cloth see khadi Hu Yaobang 22, 23 Human Rights, UN Commission for 164 human rights, violation of in Tibet 78, 107, 175 Hume, Allen Octavian 132 hunger strikes 46, 47–67, 115, 163, 164, 165, 166, 175, 177, 180; see also fasting; by IRA 63 Ilbert Bill (1883) 131, 132 India, 2, 7, 10, 18, 21, 30, 36, 39, 40, 42, 46, 47, 49, 50, 51, 60, 65, 66, 68–72, 75–6, 89–91, 93, 95, 106, 113, 117, 170, 172, 178, 180; civil service of 127; European interests in 121; independence of 118–34, and passim; National Congress of 78, 91, 127, 130, 136; see also

Congress; nationalist movement in 119 and passim; nuclear testing by 78, 91 Indian Councils Act (1861) 125 International Commission of Jurists (ICJ) 8, 30 IRA see Irish Republican Army Irish Republican Army 63, 165 Irwin, Edward Wood, Baron (later Earl of Halifax) 78, 147, 148; Declaration 145 Islam see Muslim(s) Jallianwalla Bagh see Amritsar Jainism x, 69, 70, 92, 93, 96, 104–6 Jamyang Norbu 30, 31, 32, 93, 163, 167, 169 Japan, Japanese 151, 152 Jhansi, Rani of 125 Jiang Zemin 61, 63, 64, 66 jihad 156 Jinnah, Muhammed Ali 91, 143, 145, 149, 150, 151, 153, 154, 155, 157, 158, 159, 160; Fourteen Points of (1929) 144, 1 49 jnanayoga 99, 100, 102, 103, 104 Jokhang temple 24, 25; demonstration at (1987) 24 Kadam x, 10 Kagyu xi, 10 kalon xi, 14, 84 ‘Kanting Rebellion’ 29 karma xi, 93, 111 Karmapa, the Seventeenth 165 Karma Yeshi 50 karmayoga xi, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104 kashag xi, 14, 15, 19, 34, 84, 107, 179 Kathmandu 39, 40 Kelsang Gyaltsen 108 khadi 75, 82, 89 Kham 6, 7, 28, 29, 31, 32, 34, 36, 38, 41, 43, 107 Khampa guerrillas 29, 31, 32, 33, 34, 38, 39, 41, 42, 46; resistance movement of 35; see also guerrillas, Chushi Gangdruk, Tensung Dhanglang Magar Khan, Syed Ahmed 133 Khilafat Movement 130, 138, 139, 141 khorra xi, 24, 25 Kosovan Liberation Army 165 Krishna 101, 102, 103 kusun depon xi, 35, 36

208

INDEX Lahore Resolution (1940) 150 Lhasa 15, 17, 18, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 36, 42, 66, 77, 115, 128; Uprising 7, 35–7, 38, 42, 122; Valley 10, 14, 15, 16 Lhasang Tsering 58, 108 Lhoka 29, 31, 33, 36, 37, 38, 41 liberation see moksha Linlithgow, Alexander, Marquess of 152 Lithang, nomads of 29 Long March (1935) 28 lord chamberlain, Tibetan see chigyab khembo Lotus Sutra 54, 55 Lungshar (Dorje Tsegyal) 18, 19 Mahabharata 100, 103 Mao Zedong 9, 20, 22, 39, 40, 41 Mehta, Raychandbhai 105 Menon, Vapal Pangunni 158 Middle Way, the 55, 92, 106–7, 108, 109, 110, 111, 115, 166, 170 mill-workers, in Lancashire 74, 75, 90 Mimang Tsongdu 31, 36 Mo (divination) 36 monasteries, Tibetan 8, 9, 10, 14, 18, 19, 20, 22, 23, 28, 29, 30, 34, 37, 84, 111, 122, 175; Dip Tsechokling 50; Drepung 10, 11, 14, 15, 16, 21, 24, 115; Ganden 10, 15, 16, 21, 24; Kirti 25; Kumbum 28; Menri 10; political influence of 16–17; Reting 15; Sakya, 10; Samye 10; Sera 10, 14, 15, 16, 17, 21, 24; Shichen 34; Shigatse 10, 25, 34; Tashilhunpo 15, 49; Zokchen 34 monastic administration, in Tibet 15 monastic universities, in Tibet 15, 16 monks, Tibetan 11, 15, 16, 18, 22, 24, 25, 26, 28, 34, 46, 54, 55, 71, 88, 115, 163 Moghul Empire 121, 130 moksha xi, 96, 99, 100, 106, 113 Montagu-Chelmsford reforms 120, 137 Montagu Declaration (1917) 137 Mountbatten, Louis, Rear Admiral Viscount (later Earl) 118, 157, 158 Muslim League 91, 120, 130, 133, 134, 136, 138, 141, 143, 144, 145, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 159, 169 Muslim(s) 119, 121, 124, 125, 129, 130, 133–4, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 145, 146, 149, 151, 152, 155, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161

Mustang 37–8, 39, 41, 48 Mutiny, Indian (1857) 122, 124–7 NATO 164 Nechung oracle 36 Nehru, Jawaharlal 21, 135, 140, 141, 142, 143, 145, 148, 151, 158, 159, 174, 180 Nehru, Motilal 142, 143, 180, 181 Nehru Report 119, 143, 144, 145 Nepal 18, 37, 38, 39, 40, 89 New Delhi 47, 48, 60, 159, 175 Ngabo Ngawang Jigme 36 Nhat Hanh, Thich 51, 52, 55, 168, 177 Noble Eightfold Path 51 non-cooperation 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 82, 90, 138–41, 152, 161 non-violence 2, 4, 22–4, 25, 26, 35, 42, 44, 45, 46, 51, 52, 53, 56, 60, 63, 66, 68–70, 72, 81, 82, 90, 91, 92, 93, 98, 99, 101, 110, 113, 118, 134, 140, 146, 147, 166, 168, 170, 171, 177, 178; see also ahimsa Norbulingka 35, 36 nuns, Tibetan 22, 24, 25, 46, 47, 71, 115, 163 Nyingma 10, 175 opposition, lack of in Tibetan government in exile 87 Oudh 125 Padmasambhava 10 Pakistan 62, 150, 151,153, 154, 155, 157, 158, 159, 160 Palestinian Liberation Organisation 57, 165 Panch Shila (Five Principles of Peaceful Coexistence) 21 Panchen Lama 13, 37, 164–5, 173 partition (of India) 135, 145, 150, 151, 155, 157, 159, 160 ‘patriotic education’ 24, 25, 165 PCART see Preparatory Committee for the Autonomous Region of Tibet People’s Liberation Army (PLA) 6, 18, 27, 38, 39, 40, 41, 49; Han Chinese domination of 126 Pethick-Lawrence, Frederick, Baron 156 PLA see People’s Liberation Army PLO see Palestinian Liberation Organisation political re-education 24 Potala 15 Prasad, Rajendra 118

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INDEX Preparatory Committee for the Autonomous Region of Tibet 7, 120 prime minister, Tibetan see silon Punjab 158, 159, 160 purna swaraj (complete independence) 143, 145, 146, 168 Qinghai 7 Quang Duc, Thich 51 Quit India campaign 151, 152, 153, 154, 156, 161 Radcliffe, Cyril 159, 160 raj 133, 134, 138, 142, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 153, 154, 160, 161, 162, 169 Rajagopalachari, Chakravarti 151, 152 rangzen (Tibetan independence) 169, 170 Raychandbai see Mehta, Raychandbhai Red Guards 9 referendum (abandoned), in Tibetan exile community 87, 106 Regent, in Tibet 13, 14, 17–18, 19, 20 resistance (in Tibet) 21, 27–45, 171; see also guerrillas, Chushi Gangdruk, Tensung Dhanglang Magar Reting Rinpoche, Regent 17 Reting Conspiracy 17–18, 19, 111 revolution, Chinese communist (1949) 6; Chinese republican (1911) 12 Ripon, George, Marquess of 131 Robinson, Mary 47 Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, President 153 Round Table Conference(s) 143, 147 Rowlatt, Act 75, 76; Commission 138 rta 93 Ruskin, John 92 Sakya 10 Salt March (1930) 79–80, 146 Samdhong Rinpoche 26, 48, 68, 106, 110–17, 122, 176, 179 sannyasa, sannyasis xii, 95 sati (widow-burning) 122, 123, 130 satya (truth) xii, 69, 70, 71, 82, 96, 97, 98, 101, 111 satyagraha, satyagrahis xii, 2, 26, 45, 52, 56, 58, 68–83, 90, 91, 92–4, 96, 97, 98, 99, 104, 106, 110–17, 118, 119, 132, 142, 143, 146, 147, 148, 169, 176, 177 secularism 142, 161, 174, 175, 176 self-development 83 Self, Gandhian view of see Atman

self-immolation 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 59, 63, 115, 163, 177 self-suffering 116, 117; see also tapas Seventeen Point Agreement (1951) 6, 7, 31, 36 SFF see Special Frontier Force ‘Shangri-la-ism’ 1, 27, 63, 166–8, 170, 180 Shenrab Miwo (founder of Bon) 10 Sichuan 7 Sikhs 144, 159, 160 silon (prime minister) xii, 14 Simla 154, 158 Six Perfections 55, 117 Smuts, General Jan 74 South Africa 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 78, 90, 93, 105, 113, 119, 138 Special Frontier Force (SFF) 39, 49 Strasbourg Statement 107, 108, 109, 164, 169, 170, 172, 173 strikes, use of by Gandhi 75, 76, 77 swadeshi (self-sufficiency) xii, 75, 82 swaraj (self-rule) xii, 78, 79, 81, 82, 83, 89, 96, 110, 119, 132, 139, 140, 145, 148 Taiwan 29, 63 Taktra Rinpoche 17 Tan Guansan, General 35, 36 tapas (self-suffering) xii, 52, 60, 71–2, 90–1, 96, 97, 99, 114, 115 TAR see Tibetan Autonomous Region Tashi Wangdi 27 Tempa Tsering 57–8 Tenzin Gyatso see Dalai Lama, the Fourteenth Tensung Dhanglang Magar 21–2, 28, 29, 31; see also guerrillas, Chushi Gangdruk terrorism 27, 57, 65, 138 thamzing (struggle session) xii, 7, 34, 83 Third Work Forum (1994) 8, 24 Thirty-Seven Aspects of the Path to Enlightenment 106 Thoreau, Henry David 73, 78, 92 Three Seats see densa sum Thubten Jigme Norbu 5, 28, 30 Thupten Gyatso see Dalai Lama, the Thirteenth Thupten Ngodup 49, 50, 51, 52, 55, 56, 62, 63, 66, 115, 163, 177 Tibet, National Assembly of see tsongdu Tibetan Autonomous Region (TAR) 7, 8, 9, 23, 42, 46, 120; Communist Party of 120

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INDEX Tibetan Buddhism 4, 10, 11, 15, 22, 25, 28, 35, 48, 51, 55, 61, 63, 65, 67, 87, 94, 104, 106, 116, 117, 165, 166, 167, 175, 176; and altruism, 117, 166, 170, 176; and compassion, 54, 117, 166, 170, 175 Tibetan exile community 3, 42–3, 64, 65, 66, 83, 84, 85, 87, 88, 89, 106, 109, 116, 119, 120, 163, 169, 170, 172, 173, 175, 179; charter of 43, 44, 84, 86, 87; constitution of (1963), 43, 44, 84, 86, 87 Tibetan government in exile 36, 42–5, 48, 50, 58, 62, 66, 68, 78, 84, 85, 87, 88, 106, 108, 109, 136, 164, 167, 171, 172, 174, 175, 176, 178, 179, 180; democratisation of see democratisation Tibetan independence movement 1–94, 163–81 Tibetan National Uprising Day 47 Tibetan Review 56, 58, 64 Tibetan Youth Congress (TYC) 46, 47, 49, 50, 51, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 115, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 170, 171, 175, 177, 180 Tilopa 10 Tolstoy, Leo 92 Travancore 121 Tri Quang, Thich 60 Trisong Detsen, King 10 truth see satya tse khor (Tibetan monastic civil service) xii, 11 Tsering Shakya 9, 35, 120, 166 Tsetang, garrison 33 Tseten Norbu 49, 56, 58, 59, 64 tsigang (Tibetan finance department) xiii, 14, 15 tsipon(s) xiii, 14, 15 Tsang, province of 37 tsongdu (Tibetan national assembly) xiii, 13, 14, 15, 17 TYC see Tibetan Youth Congress

Ugyen Trinley Dorjee see Karmapa UN see United Nations unemployment, in Tibet 8 United Nations 8, 47, 49, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 164, 172; High Commissioner for Human Rights 47; Universal Declaration of Human Rights 45; Secretary General 47; Security Council 58, 164 United States 21, 23, 39, 58, 153, 162, 167 universal responsibility 112 Untouchables, Untouchability 72, 80, 82, 83, 149 Upanishads 97, 98 U-Tsang 7, 107 Vernacular Press Act (1878) 129, 131 Vietnam 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 60, 63, 64, 168, 177, 178 violence 52–3, 90, 99, 101, 104, 110, 138, 146, 163, 166, 167, 168, 178; see also communal violence Vivekananda, Swami 100 Volunteer Freedom Fighters see Tensung Dhanglang Magar, Chushi Gangdruk warfare, methods of in Tibet 32–3 Wavell, Archibald, Field Marshal Viscount 154, 156, 157 Weber, Max 86, 172 Willingdon, Freeman, Baron (later Earl, then Marquess) 148 World War One 127, 134, 135, 136, 142, 153 World War Two 150 Xinjiang, 33, 38 yigtsang (monastic council) xiii, 14–15 Yunnan 7 Yuru Pon 29, 41 Zhu Rongji 164

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