Silent Takeover

When we got back on the bus, Tashi stood and asked for everyone’s attention. “In the bus,” he announced, “you can ask me anything. I will tell you the truth. When we are stopped, though, and when we are in the monasteries, please, you are not to speak of politics. Please.”

For ten full days we drove across the dusty Tibetan plateau, passing only a few small villages. Atop each mountain pass, strings of prayer flags fluttered in the breeze. We saw more ruins on the hillsides. Monasteries, Tashi told us, destroyed during the Cultural Revolution.

At last, our little bus puttered down a cliff-hugging road and into the magical city of Lhasa. But when we approached the fabled Potala Palace, our faces pressed to the windows in anticipation, the grand palace was almost completely obscured by block after block of squat, grey buildings. Tashi, who was born in Lhasa, pointed out the changes. There were department stores and a telecommunications tower on the hill where an ancient medical school used to sit. Red banners were strung across the streets and the military presence was plain to see. You would have thought you were arriving in a thoroughly Chinese city. And sadly, we were.

The Chinese call Tibet Xizang, the Western Treasure House. The region is rich in minerals: gold, copper, diamonds. More worryingly, rumours of vast quantities of high-grade uranium abound. In the rush for resources, much of the old world is being trampled, and, with the railway line nearing completion, Tibet will be forever changed.

After parading us through the barren Potala, Tashi brought us to our last stop, an area in the eastern part of Lhasa called the Barkhor. Across the square from our lodgings was the Jokhang Temple. The Jokhang dates back to the seventh century and is considered to be the holiest place in all of Tibet. For some time, we rested our weary bones on the doorstep of our inn and watched the pilgrims circle the shrine. Most were elderly; some wore rags and animal skins. They limped and hobbled around the ancient building three times, then solemnly entered through its ancient doors.

I stood up. The pilgrims were spinning prayer wheels as they walked, and one of them waved at me to join them. I did. An old woman touched my sleeve as I came up, and they all smiled—great, crack-toothed grins. I found myself shuffling along with them across the cobblestones, whispering prayers for a broken universe. This was the Tibet I had imagined, a place quickly disappearing into history.

One old man was prostrating himself at every step. He buckled down onto his knees, then slid out face first onto the ground only to rise up, take a single step, and repeat the agonizing process again. All around me, the soft murmuring of pilgrims’ chants swelled and echoed off the old walls. Inside, in the candle-dark corridors, long rows of creaking prayer wheels turned. As long as they spun, a spark of Tibet would remain.