I was in Lhasa on Tibet Uprising Day

Today is March 10, 2008, and I am writing by the light from a hotel room window, since the power is out, as it has been all afternoon, evening, and night. I suspect the authorities deliberately turned the electricity off in at least part of Lhasa — only because today is Tibet Uprising Day, when protests against the Chinese occupation of Tibet are most likely to occur. On this day in 1959, the current Dalai Lama sneaked out of his summer palace, the Norbulingka, and began a long journey to exile in India; two days later, the Chinese bombed the palace and still thought he was inside.

This morning, with equanimity I practiced my walking meditation around the Potala, the Dalai Lama’s palace, which is perched high on a mountain. I occasionally spun gold prayer wheels while I observed the pilgrims around me, some of whom greeted me with the words, “Tashe delek,” or “Hello!” I was the only Westerner in sight, but I wore a Tibetan-style chupa, or jumper, like many pilgrims. Some wore contemporary clothes, and I saw many women wearing sunhats. But other pilgrims who had traveled far wore traditional clothing that was often ragged, and they carried prayer wheels and might have coral and turquoise beads braided in their black or grey hair. I saw different styles of chupas from sundry Tibetan regions, for pilgrims walked great distances to reach Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. During one of my perambulations, when I reached the back wall below the Potala, I was startled by the sight of a white police vehicle — an extra-large golf cart — filled with six cops in formal uniforms as if they had dressed up to join a parade.

I crossed the street and stood in the center of the drab concrete-paved square, where I took a picture of the Potala, a beautiful sprawling red and white building with flat roofs and Buddhist banners; on top are ornate pointed gold roofs over the tombs of the Dalai Lamas. Most of the present palace dates to the seventeenth century, and it features traditional Tibetan style, with walls slanting inward and black-framed glass-less windows. The building is thirteen stories high, and earlier on my vacation I had enjoyed a tour and climbed many stairs.

Strangely, after my camera snapped a picture of the Potala, a soldier yelled at me from some distance, but I didn’t understand what he said. I looked at him for a moment; he and I were the only people across a large, paved space. He stood perfectly still in the square, so I shrugged, turned around, and took another picture of the Potala, to see what he would do. He didn’t do anything. Since I wore Tibetan clothing, perhaps he mistook me for a Tibetan and wanted to bully me. I soon crossed the street and happily circumambulated the Potala three more times.

Ready to head toward the Jokhang Temple, I noticed numerous blue uniforms standing around the street corner, so I jaywalked and moved on. I headed for the vicinity of the Barkhor, a path circling the Jokhang Temple, the most significant Buddhist temple in Tibet. I had lunch at a café near the temple and went to my hotel room to write in my journal and take a nap.

Around 4:30, I returned to the Barkhor and began a walking meditation around the Jokhang Temple. I was in basically the same mental state I had experienced while circumambulating the Potala. So much walking meditation, perhaps combined with the thin air, is enough to put me in a calm, content, and peaceful mood.

In the past week, I’ve walked around the Jokhang and stood on its roof. For the first time, I noticed police standing around the Barkhor, the paved and crowded circumambulation route for the Jokhang, where pilgrims from all over Tibet walk around clockwise, much as they do around the Potala. Espying the police reminded me what day it was, but I remained equanimous and continued my walking meditation while out of curiosity keeping an eye out for cops.

Some of the police wore navy blue uniforms: badges, caps, and all, like airline pilots. At first, those were the only police I noticed. I decided to circumambulate six times rather than only three. Next time around, I noticed not only several uniforms but also cops wearing navy blue, with navy blue windbreakers. Both kinds of police either stood around watching the steadily moving crowd or sat on stools or benches around the Barkhor. After that, I started noticing what I suspected were undercover cops, and one of them said, “Hello!” to me like anyone else. I am so sick of that word, the one English word that almost every Tibetan apparently knows; but I smiled faintly and said, “Hi.” I only saw three other Westerners the whole time I was circumambulating, and they all looked to be cheerfully shopping.

After walking around six times, I was about to depart through the large, paved square in front of the Jokhang, when a police siren jolted me out of my walking meditation. I gasped and paused in my steps.

A small police van drove onto the square, which is normally reserved only for pedestrians. Like many witnesses, I stopped to gawk and noticed two white cop cars and a huge crowd of police in navy blue uniforms standing, many of them forming a wall facing the temple. Brimming with curiosity, I was the only Westerner who joined the growing crowd. I wished I were fluent in Tibetan, so I could understand the comments around me. To the right was a white vehicle and a large crowd; many blocked my view, but it looked like most of that crowd was young, perhaps teenagers, and they stood staring. In front of them stood cops in full uniform.

My first thought was that a political demonstration had begun, even though I had assumed that nobody would demonstrate unless they were suicidal. But as I observed the central crowd of cops, most of whom formed a line, I suspected them of attempting to incite the crowd to riot or at least nonviolently protest — an excuse to get ugly with the crowd. Finally, I concluded that this was all a power-tripping display. This could provoke Tibetans who believe in freedom and are loyal to the Dalai Lama to enact a political protest. The shooting would commence.

Twice while I stood in this gawking crowd, a cop approached the cluster of people around me and yelled something while holding up his arms as if to push the people in front, and the crowd started to back away and disperse. But other people walked up and took the place of those who walked away. I finally decided that standing around and gawking like this was silly, so I turned and continued circumambulating the temple and observing the police.

I must admit that at this stage I felt less equanimous and more interested in observing the police than in mindfully walking. Cops still stood or sat here and there around the crowded Barkhor. Walking around the left front side of the Jokhang, I saw a cop standing on a wooden bench and holding onto the roof of a merchant’s booth.

Eventually I heard a siren again, but this time I was not in front of the temple but rather surrounded by booths and shops behind the Jokhang. A white police van with a blaring siren moved toward the crowd, counterclockwise, same as the golf cart I saw behind the Potala. I have no doubt this was deliberate, since Buddhists traditionally circumambulate temples clockwise. The crowd stepped out of the way of the police van and stared. I kept glancing back at the van, and it turned around behind me. This senseless driving around with a siren during no emergency struck me as ridiculous, and again the phrase “power-tripping display” came to mind.

On another round, I saw two young monks and maybe two other people standing in front of a wide and colorfully painted gateway, like the driveways to hotel courtyards in Lhasa. I stopped next to the monks and was astonished at what I saw. On the other side of the gateway, two white vehicles were parked inside the courtyard with their right sides facing the entrance. Two little kids in pale blue school uniforms stood in front of the headlights, and next to them stood a military officer in a green uniform. Facing the children and the officer were at least four rows of green-clad soldiers, all squatting close to the ground, as if frozen in position, and wearing motorcycle-like helmets — riot gear. This was too bizarre! Nobody was rioting, and I had yet to even see a single protester. After gawking with my mouth hanging open, I looked up in search of a sign over the gateway and spotted a little square one overhead. It said “Police Station” in three languages.

I circumambulated twelve times, not stopping until seven in the evening. Merchants had begun to take down their merchandise from the booths around the Barkhor. I truly did not expect a demonstration to take place, since the cops’ attempts at provoking the crowd hadn’t succeeded yet. I decided I’d seen enough and assumed the rest of the evening would look much the same: the police and soldiers would continue their power-tripping nonsense, while the crowd would merely gawk and keep walking rather than protest or riot.

Today is the day after Tibet Uprising Day, and I have returned to Kathmandu, where the power is of course out; if the power were more reliable, I would go to the cybercafé, type up my eyewitness account, and e-mail it to the International Campaign for Tibet and anyone else. Under the circumstances, I shall wait a few days, until I return to the United States.

In the morning, I rode the jeep with my driver and tour guide on the way to the airport. Along the main drag, Beijing Road, we saw many green military trucks and green-clad soldiers, some still wearing riot gear helmets. The guide told me that monks at Drepung Monastery (which we had visited earlier in the week) fought with the military, and laymen joined in. The same happened at the Jokhang, perhaps only shortly after I left the Barkhor. I said, “I left the Jokhang around seven.” My guide said that Drepung is now closed to tourists. On the outskirts of Lhasa, a military convoy was leaving a base. We passed some of the vehicles; I counted at least nine trucks.

At the airport, a friendly Chinese guy in a uniform was stamping my passport and asked, “Was this your first visit to China?” The question startled me, since I wasn’t in China, but I saw no point in arguing and replied in the affirmative. He asked, “Did you enjoy your first visit to China?”

I said, “Yes, it’s gorgeous! Maybe next time I’ll learn the language first.” I felt slightly ashamed of not arguing, of not righteously correcting him by saying I haven’t visited China yet. But I dislike confrontation and didn’t know what to say. I had to be content with writing my eyewitness account and sending it to the media and to such organizations as the International Campaign for Tibet. It was a small bit of activism, but it was much more useful than arguing at the airport.

A year after I returned from that trip, I learned that now the Chinese authorities won’t allow tourists to visit Tibet in the month of March. My timing couldn’t have been better!

I wonder if my writing was to blame for the new restrictions… although I only saw three other Westerners near the Jokhang on Tibet Uprising Day. Plus I e-mailed my eyewitness account to many people and to mainstream media, The International Campaign for Tibet, Amnesty International, possibly Human Rights Watch… and ultimately to the president of China. But the Chinese might have barred tourists from visiting in March anyway, because they don’t want witnesses to their power-tripping and inhumane ways.

I originally self-published a version of this essay on Hubpages.com in 2008.

My travel memoir, Every Day is Magical: A Buddhist Pilgrimage in India and Nepal, is available here: