A Year in Tibet

But that day on the way back from the gunnery demonstration, I could not get that image out of my mind — Tibetan peasants wielding Mao's Red Book against the weather. But perhaps I should not be surprised. When I grew up during the Cultural Revolution, we learned to revere Mao as the great helmsman and saviour; from our earliest years we were taught that we should be ready to follow in the footsteps of our revolutionary forefathers, to lay down our lives for the Communist cause if Mao gave us the order. In the political jargon of the time, Mao's thoughts were carved on our bones and melted into our blood. And many Red Guards really did pin a Mao badge on their flesh.

As I was taught, so were the Tibetans. In the past, they recited mantras, fingered their rosaries, made offerings, and went on pilgrimages to accumulate more and more merit. They set up family altars, built prayer walls, stupas, temples and monasteries to safeguard their homes, villages, and towns. Then monasteries and temples were destroyed; prayer flags were taken from the rooftops. There was no more burning of incense, no votive butter lamps, no praying at all other than to Chairman Mao. Mao's portrait replaced the images of the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas that had once hung in every household. Every family kept Mao's Collected Works on the altar. In the first three years of the Cultural Revolution, 7,344,000 copies of Mao's works were distributed, for a population of over one million. Tens of thousands of training sessions in political studies were organised, attended by over a third of the adult population. In 1968 Chairman Mao sent some mangos to the Tibetan people: the massed crowd at the presentation was like a pilgrimage to see the relics of a great lama.

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Did the Tibetans ever believe Mao was their new god? Possibly many did. In their harsh environment, they needed a faith, a saviour. We were still driving through the valley on our way back to Gyantse when this idea really came home to me. I had asked the driver to stop so we could take a general view of the valley. There were a dozen villagers working in the foreground. Then I moved away to take a wider shot from a distance. Under the immense sky, the villagers were suddenly so tiny, so lonely and small: an insignificant speck in a vast landscape of mountain and plain. The menacing black clouds looked ready to drop their huge weight and crush them. And this valley is one of the most fertile and densely populated in Tibet. Most of Tibet is far wilder, just boundless barren scrub and grasslands stretching in every direction. I try to imagine what it is like for a nomad with his herds out on those huge plateaus wandering for weeks without encountering another soul — one man against the elements, and completely at their mercy. Is it any wonder that they have so many gods? Mao is gone, and the Tibetans have returned happily to their Yul Lhas, and all their ancient traditions and beliefs.

After three weeks of backbreaking work, a race against time, the harvest is finally in. The Rikzin family kept at it day and night, whenever it was not raining. It is not a good year for them. They have only reaped half the usual crop. When I come to film them at the end of their labours, I expect to see disappointment or sadness on their face, but there is none. They seem to have been prepared for much worse.

Do they blame the gods? I would think that they might, that after all the offerings they have made they would need someone or something to blame for the bad year. I ask Tseten whether he feels Yul Lha has let them down. He says blaming is not part of the Tibetan culture. The villagers' response to a bad harvest is to perform a ‘repentance’ ritual, asking for forgiveness. It is they, not Yul Lha, who have not done enough. They promise to do better next year.

I find this hard to take. I know what the Chinese peasant would do: he would shake his fist at the sky and stamp on the ground, railing at the gods for cheating him, complaining about his wasted offerings, and threatening not to pray to them any more. I mention the contrast to Tseten. He smiles gently, ‘Our rituals are really just the way we express our faith. We may or may not get anything in return. But that is not what matters most. Buddhism is about giving; it is a virtue in itself and brings its own reward. That is how we will have a better life, now or in the next world.’

TWO Sky Burial (#u4c1adc6b-5b0a-5abf-b1ea-1800bb73b761)

DU, DU,' A SHARP SOUND. Another. I fumble about, thinking it is the alarm. But it is too early, only 7 a.m. Then I realise it is my mobile ringing. Who could be calling at such an uncivilised hour? Outside my hotel in downtown Lhasa, it is still dark. It is Dorje (#litres_trial_promo), one of our Tibetan cameramen, calling from our house in Gyantse.

‘Tseten has just rung. His mother died early this morning. What should we do?’

The news comes as a shock. We have never met Tseten's mother. Since the filming began, she has been staying with her daughter in Shigatse. I was told she had had tuberculosis for a long time, but that she was recovering. Her husband, Mila, went to see her a few weeks ago, and when he returned to the village reported, ‘I said to her I would be lost without her, so she has promised to get better.’ I was touched by the vulnerability in his eyes. How devastated Mila and the family must be now.

My immediate response is to wonder if we might persuade the family to let us film the funeral rites, especially the sky burial. I know it is the most extraordinary custom, when the dead body is cut up and fed to vultures; I have seen an amateur video of it. To me it seems to embody something at the very heart of life and death as Tibetans see it; capturing it for our film would be incredible.

But I know it is insensitive and crude of me even to think of it, when the family is stricken with grief. How would I react if I were in their position? I would think twice and then probably say no. Grief is so personal, and it is best left in private, with all the love, repentance, regret, or even relief pouring out without being observed or judged. The only reason I have the courage to ask is that we have been following the family for four months and have been treated as part of it.

Of all the people we are filming, the Rikzin family have been the most open with us so far. They have been forgiving both of our intrusions into their lives and our scepticism about what we have seen. Once Tseten allowed us to accompany him on a visit to a pregnant woman, whose body he said had been entered by an evil spirit. He was not offended when we then followed her for a check-up in the hospital, where the doctor told her she was suffering from anaemia. Our doubts did not stop him from offering us treatment either. He tried to cure the spots on our handsome driver's face with saliva. The spots did not go away, and the driver pointed that out, but Tseten was, as usual, unaffected; he was never once defensive.

I discuss the filming idea on the phone with Dorje, who is always thoughtful and sensitive. After much deliberation, it is decided that he should go on behalf of the crew to offer our condolences with a khata (#litres_trial_promo), the ceremonial white scarf, and 100 yuan. He can then judge the situation first-hand. Meanwhile I would rush back from Lhasa, leaving the filming there to our other cameraman.

Dorje was turned away. He left the khata and money with a young man who was guarding the door, allowing only close relatives inside. I feel guilty. Am I pushing too hard? Am I as insensitive as the Chinese tourists that I am always complaining about? Just a week before, we were filming an obviously poor pilgrim who was giving money to some monks; they had been praying for his family's health and safety. Behind me, I heard a tourist remark loudly, in Chinese, ‘Look at the rags he's wearing! He could buy himself a new outfit with that money.’ Quite a few of the monks — who could understand Chinese — stared in disgust.

As soon as I return to Gyantse, I go to see Phuntsog, one of Gyantse's two sky burial masters. I have been introduced to him by the street committee where we rented the house, and found that I already knew him: he comes to our house on a tractor once a week to collect our rubbish. He is a small, hunched man with an extremely dark complexion — possibly a result of the many hours he spends outside. He is friendly, and has a ready smile, but he seldom speaks unless spoken to. His manner is so humble that when I hand him our bin bags, he seems to consider it a favour.

Phuntsog lives just five minutes from us. He has the simplest of mud houses, on the edge of an open space where the neighbourhood's rubbish and waste water seem to have ended up. He is sitting in the small but tidy kitchen, enjoying some chang (#litres_trial_promo) — barley wine — after work while his wife is cooking. My arrival seems to startle him. He stands up, looking at me but not knowing what to say. I explain why I have come: I have told him before that I want to film a sky burial, and all he said was that it would be difficult. Now I really need his advice: how could we persuade the family? Might there be a way round it?

‘The trouble is it's a crucial time,’ he said. ‘The soul of the dead is still in the body. If you come to the house, if strangers come, you will disturb or even frighten the soul. That is why, when someone dies, we put a bunch of juniper twigs on the door to warn people to stay away.’

So when does the family send for him?

‘They would call the shaman or a lama first. He works out the location and the right time for the sky burial. Then they let me know. Usually it is three days after the death. They put butter lamps near the body to guide the soul; it must not wander in the dark. The close relatives have to be told, and neighbours help to get a big feast ready — meat dumplings, boiled mutton, and rice with butter and dried fruit. We think this is the dead person's last meal. All this time, there will be a lama reading out mantras beside the body, praying for the soul.’

So we cannot film during these three days?

‘No, most families won't want you there,’ he said. ‘It's too important. The soul has this one chance of finding its next life. They are not going to let you disturb it.’

What about after the three days?

‘It is still hard. We do the sky burial and then the soul wanders. It is in the bardo (#litres_trial_promo), that is the time between death and the next life. If it is frightened, it might get stuck there. That would be terrible.’

How long will the rebirth take?

‘It depends. It's all to do with your karma (#litres_trial_promo). But normally we think it takes forty-nine days.’

He sees my face fall at that, and goes on: ‘Maybe there's a family who will let you. It costs money. They want to do it properly. If they are really poor and you can help them, they might let you film. Even then you will have to do it from a long way off.’

Now I know I will not have a chance with the Rikzin family.

I leave Phuntsog and walk back to the house, passing clusters of old men and women, silent and purposeful. They are doing their evening circumambulation of the whole town: it is to accumulate merit for a better reincarnation. Outside the No. 1 High School, they mingle with students walking up and down, memorising their lessons — their way of taking care of their future. I see the old people every day, and I always wonder whether this ‘merit’ will really help them; at least they are getting some exercise, I say to myself. But after the big blow I have received, I cannot let go of my disappointment. I find myself, not for the first time, disputing in my head the whole idea of reincarnation, however essential it is for Buddhists.

It all started with my grandmother. Like most Chinese of her generation, she was a Buddhist. Her whole life was one of hardship — seven of her nine children died during a smallpox outbreak in a single year. Her sole consolation was the paradise she believed in. She used to describe it in great detail: the sun forever shining, flowers eternally in bloom, houses made of gold, no sickness, no infirmity — a world where everyone has whatever their heart desires, in which we are all reunited with those we love.

It is the Buddhist ‘Western paradise’. To get there, Grandmother was told to pray and do good and no evil. She was eternally kind to everyone, even during the Cultural Revolution, comforting the so-called ‘enemies of the people’ who no one else dared to go near. When my father, a convinced Communist, told her not to pray or do her superstitious things, she took to saying her prayers wordlessly at night. As a child I always sided with my father, influenced by him, and set against Buddhism by my atheist education. Religion was an opiate; monks and nuns were parasites; the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas were just wooden statues. Mao was the saviour; Communism would bring paradise here on earth. I made fun of her beliefs. As Father said, if her children had been vaccinated, as we were, she would not have lost them. It had nothing to do with her supposed sins.

After her death, I began to find out more about Buddhism. In 2000, I spent a year retracing the footsteps of Xuanzang, a Chinese monk who travelled in the seventh century from China to India and back, searching for the true Buddhism. I learned that Buddhism had little to do with the version I was made to swallow at school. I was appalled that I had been attacking it without really knowing what it was. For two thousand years, it has given generations of Chinese hope and solace; it has enriched every aspect of our life, our philosophy, our art, even our language. We would have little of a cultural heritage without it. I learned in particular to appreciate the centrality of the mind in Buddhism, and how it can be cultivated. This was not superstition. It was a way to transcend the suffering that is part of life. Things happen; what matters is how we react. I always remembered the story of the Chinese monk who was spat on by the Red Guards in a ‘struggle meeting’; he said to himself it was just raining. It might sound extreme, even absurd — but he did not take his life, as many did; he never even hated his tormentors. In the same way Grandmother could rise above her pain and return my ingratitude with love; she took my taunts as just words.

I still have much to learn and understand about Buddhism. But one thing makes it very hard for me to embrace it, and that is reincarnation. I have so many questions about it. What is it that migrates from this life to the next? Phuntsog calls it the soul. But Buddhism denies the existence of a permanent soul because everything is transitory. It says we are merely a heap of five elements: body, feeling, cognition, mental constructions, and consciousness. The five elements are all impermanent; they are constantly in the process of becoming and changing. When questioned by a perplexed young monk, the Buddha said only that ‘karma’ passes from one life to another. He used the light of a candle as an illustration. A flame passes from one candle to another, but they are two separate entities, neither of which is permanent. It is a beautiful image, and yet, even here, there is something that has caused the flame. Something has to reincarnate. When I get back to the house, I look in the Tibetan Book of the Dead for an answer. The book comes down to us from Padam, the Indian master credited with bringing Buddhism from India to Tibet in the eighth century. It has the most vivid, thorough descriptions of the soul's forty-nine-day journey through the bardo, but its main message is how enlightenment can still be attained every step of the way, from the moment of death.

Once enlightened, we are freed from the cycle of suffering: birth, sickness, old age, and death. In Tibetan the book is called Great Liberation by Hearing — it is hearing the book and grasping its teaching that will provide enlightenment after death. Without enlightenment, the only hope is a good rebirth.

The Book of the Dead does say that what reincarnates is the consciousness, which is really light and energy. It acquires a ‘mental body’ that can see, hear, smell, speak, run, comprehend — and all more efficiently than humans can. But I still feel lost. Being told it is light and energy does not help me much, and a mental body with all those properties is even less comprehensible. And if enlightenment is so hard to achieve, how can a ball of light and energy manage it, and just by hearing the Book?

I cannot help think of the titanic struggle by Milarepa after he unleashed the hailstorm and turned to Buddhism. He spent years building a stupa at the request of his master, only to be told to tear it down, return the stones to where they came from — and then start all over again. He was not offered a single word from the sacred teachings, but received plenty of humiliation and beating. In the end, the master relented and passed him the secret of attaining enlightenment in his lifetime. But even then he had to spend decades meditating in caves, with little to eat but nettles, which turned his body green, like a caterpillar. He did find his Way, and left thousands of poems, which are recited to this day. They reflect the mind of a remarkable and enlightened man.

Dwell alone and you shall find a friend.

Take the lowest place and you shall reach the highest.

Hasten slowly and you will soon arrive.

Renounce all worldly goals and you shall reach the highest one.

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It is Sogyal Rinpoche, the great Tibetan commentator on the Book, who helps me make some sense of it. I have also brought with me his Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, and am reading it in bed. I find a good metaphor in it. When you go to meet a stranger off a plane, if you have a picture, you can recognise him. Without it you do not know who you are looking for. The Book of the Dead is for the living as well as for the dead. Enlightenment comes with preparedness: you have to rid yourself of ignorance, anger, and hatred, the mind's poisons. Then you have a chance of recognising it when you encounter it in the bardo. I do not need to believe in the bardo or in reincarnation. I can take his words as advice for this world, even though that is not what he intends. For him, reincarnation is the fact of life, and death.

Dreaming is as near as I can come to understanding the bardo. Dreams seem so clear, so vivid, so real, even if we only find them so while we are dreaming. Sogyal Rinpoche in fact compares the ‘mental body’ in the bardo with the dream body we have when we dream. But then, when we wake up, we know we have been dreaming. And we have a mind when we dream. What is it that directs the mental body in the intermediate state? He says it is the consciousness — but is there any consciousness after we die? I am slowly falling asleep; the last thing I read is Sogyal Rinpoche's remark,‘Going to sleep is similar to the bardo of dying, where the elements and thought process dissolve, opening into …’

We get a call from Tseten two days later. He sounds calm, and not as sad as I would have imagined. He thanks us for the khata, and the money, and then apologises for turning us away. I tell him I understand. I do not even mention filming. The whole thing barely makes sense to me, but I would hate them to think I was getting in the way of their mother's reincarnation. They could not even be at the sky burial themselves. No close member of the family is allowed there; it is said that their sadness would hold back the soul and slow down its journey into the next life.

I am not sure when we can resume our filming with Tseten. Will we have to wait out the forty-nine days, till his mother finds a new life? I am prepared to wait. I should try to think that it is nothing if there is another life to come.

But I am not ready to give up. Phuntsog is now my hope. He knows how keen we are to film a sky burial. Whenever he is going to perform one, he lets us know, and we then visit the family and ask if we can film it. We have three straight rejections. While we are waiting for our chance, I invite Phuntsog, his wife and children to our house to get to know them better. He does not mind talking about his work. ‘It has been decided by the Buddha a long, long time ago that this is the occupation of our family. We have been doing it for many generations. Whoever needs my help, I will go and take care of their dead to the best of my ability,’ he says with a kind smile, while emptying the chang in his cup. He took the job over from his father eight years ago, and says if his sons do not get a place in college, he will pass his skills to them.

Phuntsog enjoys the company of the living, although he has few friends. In Tibetan society, he is regarded as the lowest of the low, along with butchers and blacksmiths. I did not believe it until I was confronted with it myself. We were having some of our film characters over for a meal and I suggested we invite Phuntsog. To my surprise all the Tibetan members of the crew said it was out of the question. ‘No one will touch the food from any dish he helps himself from,’ Penpa warned me. ‘And I think he will be as embarrassed as us. Why don't we give him something instead? Like rice and butter and fruit — something he and his family can enjoy at home.’ I tried to plead with them and for the first time almost caused a revolt among my team. I had to give up. Fortunately, though, Phuntsog did not give up on us.

Finally, three months after Tseten's mother passed away, Phuntsog came to us with news of the death of one of the local blacksmiths. He had drunk himself to death and brought ruin on his family. Some years back, he had sold his son for adoption and had promptly got drunk on the proceeds (just £30, Phuntsog told us). His wife had left him and the woman he married later was forced to beg at the entrance to the monastery. He would spend the money she received on chang. Phuntsog thought the blacksmith's wife would probably let me watch his sky burial, at least from a distance.

I go to visit the blacksmith's wife with Pantog, our housekeeper, to offer my condolences and to seek her permission. She lives in one of the old parts of Gyantse at the foot of the fort; I like walking there, through its well laid-out lanes lined with traditional houses. But the blacksmith and his wife did not live in one of those. Their dwelling is at the back, where the road stops. It is barely a house, just three mud walls stuck on the side of a stone ruin — there is no door. When I enter I see she has a tiny kitchen area, and a single main room, which is empty except for a small table. On it a few butter lamps flicker wildly. Her husband's body lies on the floor in a corner wrapped in a white cloth. I can hardly believe what I see; I would not have thought anyone in modern Tibet lived this desperately. Pantog hands her a khata and a 50 yuan note. ‘He drank everything away,’ she wails through her tears. ‘Now he's gone, the easy way. But what am I going to do? How am I going to live?’