Turtle Feet

“In order to understand something clearly, one must first give it up.”

I said something similar to one of my best friends in Dharamsala the week before I left. While I knew I would miss India like crazy – and I was right – I experienced so much that I knew I needed to leave to let it all soak in.

I picked up Turtle Feet at a small bookstore in Majnu ka Tilla, the Tibetan colony in Delhi. It jumped out at me because I had been thinking a lot about my monk friend, his life, and the community’s expectations of monks. The front flap of Turtle Feet included a line about demystifying monks’ lives. Perfect food for thought.

Back in Montreal, when I finally sat down to read it, my first impression was that the author, Nikolai Grozni, was a stupid injie (Westerner) who took his vows to become a monk without fully understanding what it meant. His friends were the epitome of the Western tourists I hated in Dharamsala, oblivious to the culture and community around them and disrespectful without even being aware of it.

But as I read, I discovered that the author was slowly learning lessons that gave him a deeper understanding of the community – many lessons I myself had to learn. In one chapter, Grozni writes about meeting Tsar, a Western monk who smoked and was always hanging out with girls. At first he seemed interested in Tsar because he was a fellow Western monk who wasn’t afraid to still act however he wanted. But by the end of the chapter, Grozni realized that he was being judged by the community for hanging out with someone who had such a bad reputation.

Reading about the difficulties Grozni encountered on his spiritual quest for the truth made me think more about my own struggle to understand the Buddhist ideas of emptiness and impermanence. The more I have read about Buddhism, the more I have felt like a stupid Westerner who has been taught to hang on to people and experiences, be miserable missing them when they were gone, and to deeply fear death. In comparison, my Tibetan friends seem to be able to cope much better with life’s changes. I keep trying to override the worldview that is deeply engrained in me, but the process is making me realize how difficult it is to change my fundamental beliefs when they are the basis of my actions and reactions on a daily basis. I have also realized that until now, I have not chosen those fundamental beliefs, I have merely soaked them in from my surroundings. I took some comfort in knowing that I am not alone in my struggle; even as a monk who was studying Buddhist texts with learned teachers, Grozni also seemed to be grappling to understand Buddhism through the worldview from his childhood.

Grozni’s descriptions of Dharamsala are so vivid. He describes the bustle of the town, the packs of dogs and beggars, and being surrounded by the Himalayas so precisely that I felt again what it was like to be there. It made me miss the fresh air and the night sky and the million sounds I could hear from my bed in the morning, and even the damn monkeys.

At a time when I was painfully missing India, Turtle Feet helped me realize that Dharamsala will never be the same as it was during the year I was there. Many of my friends have left, our lives have changed, and our experiences have changed us. At the same time, I know that Dharamsala will always be there and will probably always evoke a sense of awe in those who visit it.

Life as a Holiday

I’ve been back in India for two and a half months and can’t help but wonder where all the time has gone. I guess the adage “time flies when you’re having fun” is true.

My life has consisted mostly of hanging out in a coffee shop; drinking, smoking and eating too much; trying to avoid fights at Excite, the only “club” in town; learning to appreciate sappy Indian, Tibetan and Western music; embarking on too many bus trips to and from Delhi (some way too much fun and others extremely lonely); crashing an Indian wedding; learning to write in Tibetan; and reading a pile books.

My intention to write more often completely flew out the window. But it is not dead. With the approach of the Special Meeting called by the Dalai Lama to discuss the future of the Tibet movement and my initial research into Masters programs, I have felt stirrings of inspiration again…

Bombs in Delhi

Five bombs exploded in downtown Delhi last night, killing at least 20 people and injuring another 90. More than 400 people have been killed in bombings in Indian cities since October 2005. Many were expecting Delhi to be next target.

I first heard about the news in a text message from a friend in the States. I called a friend here in Dharamsala who filled me in on the details, and another in Delhi who put me at ease.

“Don’t worry,” said my friend in Delhi. “I’m on good terms with God.” I was comforted to hear him chuckle.

Bombs are scary enough when they are detonated in a city where I don’t know anyone. In 2001, I remember watching the US’s bombing of Baghdad on television, stunned that the government and military (and the news machine reporting it) could be so proud of something that was tearing apart human lives and families. I imagined how horrifying it must have been to live there that night.

When bombings happen in a city where I have friends and acquaintances, I worry. I know that the chances of my friends being in the vicinity of the bombs are slim, but there is a gnawing in the pit of my stomach until I can contact them. I remember how worried I was about my mum and her friend who were living in Bali when the second round of bombs exploded there, how my worries were expounded with every failed phone call. It was two entire days before I reached them, during which I couldn’t shake my fear. When I finally got through, my mum told me all mobile phone towers were shut down because the bombs had been detonated with a mobile phone.

Each time I hear of bombings, I wonder: what drives someone to want to kill others like that?

Pent up anger that festers the longer it’s contained. Political and social ostracization. Feeling unempowered. Religious differences. People all over the world have the same laundry list of grievances, including Tibetans.

However, Tibetans seem to be one case where such injustices have not led them to embrace anything so angry and violent – yet. Even in March, when the National Uprising Day protests turned “violent”, Tibetans’ anger was let loose predominantly on property – stores and goods were burned, cars overturned. The people who were injured were unintended victims – as in the case of the girls who were trapped in a Chinese store that was torched – or were Chinese soldiers. In my mind, violence against these soldiers who personally participate in perpetrating violence against Tibetans is somewhat rationally justified. They are attacking those who they see as guilty of attacking them. This is much more understandable than terrorist bombers targeting civilians who are not directly responsible for the violence or injustices committed against them.

Perhaps Tibetans’ avoidance of widespread violence is due to the pervasiveness of Buddhism and the notion of compassion within their society. Or perhaps it is because of Tibetans’ deep reverence for the Dalai Lama and his path of non-violence. Maybe this will all go out the window when His Holiness passes away. Maybe there will be stories of bomb explosions in Lhasa and key Chinese cities in the years to come. That will be a very sad day. I won’t condone violence then just because I am sympathetic to the Tibetans’ struggle.

I can understand that, strategically, there may be a time and place for some forms of violence – such as bombing important buildings or landmarks. But what is the strategic relevance of detonating bombs in a public place and killing innocent people? I fail to see how instilling fear achieves any goals, other than creating fear itself. This kind of violence only seems to rally people against the perpetrators, bonding them by a common sense of victimhood. Look at all the US has done in the last 7 years in the name of being a victim and protecting itself from further attacks – invading foreign countries, torturing whomever it deems a threat, cracking down on its own citizens’ freedoms.

I would like to believe that the world would be able to function without violence, that we could truly understand the adage, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” But I don’t think it’s possible. Violence and retaliation seem to be ingrained in the human psyche.

Dharamsala

Dharamsala evokes in me the same feelings that the chalet I visited as a kid used to. We used to go up to the cabin in the Rocky Mountains in Canada once a month growing up. It was a German-style A-frame cabin, with no electricity or running water. To get there, we had to drive 12 kilometers up an abandoned logging road, and then hike or ski 2.5 kilometers to the chalet. I always felt a sense of anticipation going up there, looking forward to being reunited with an amazing community of friends and a sense of being at home.

I have the same feelings returning to Dharamsala after being away. And my most recent return was even more powerful since I knew my friends from the March would also be returning.

I was always sad leaving the chalet. Even though I knew those people would always be there for me, and that I would eventually see them again, I hated leaving behind that sense of community. Unfortunately, we don’t visit the chalet anymore and my childhood community is scattered. I haven’t talked to some of my “aunts” and “uncles” in years. But they will always be with me, in my thoughts and in my heart, because they were such an important part of my life.

Just like leaving the chalet, when ever I leave Dharamsala, I’m overcome with an intense longing to go back again soon. Leaving this time was harder than ever before. This will be my longest break from Dharamsala since I first visited. But I have also gradually realized the fluid nature of the town – people will constantly be coming and going. A lot had changed over the course of the March. Some of my friends went home to the west and I made some new friends. Before I return, more friends will be leaving. My group of friends will never be the same as it was when I first arrived. But like the community at the chalet, I know these friends will always be with me.

I try to remind myself that impermanence is a part of life. But I still can’t wait to get back to Dharamsala.

Barreling Down an Indian Mountain Road

We spent the day of the 6th set of arrests on the March uploading photos to the website, sending out the press release and making all our calls to the media. Then we set out from Pithoragarh with some of the March communications and logistics team. They had to go to Ponta Sahib, where the other 265 marchers were taken after their release the previous week and where the 50 newly-arrested marchers would be taken. We had some lose ends to tie up at our quiet hill town before returning to Delhi to deliver video footage of the arrests to some media outlets.

Since we were in a border area, we had to cross a checkpoint out of the region before it closed at 8pm. But we were setting out quite late, so we literally raced off towards the checkpoint. The northern Indian roads that I loved speeding along on a bike were not as much fun in a jeep going way too fast that night. My friend and I linked arms and just tried to not think about how close we were to the cliff beside us or how many huge trucks were barreling down the single lane road towards us. Add to that a fuse for the headlights that was loose, so that when the driver switched from high beams to the normal lights, we were often plunged into complete darkness. Every time it happened, I found myself holding my breath. The monsoonal downpour added more stress, making me wonder how good our tires were or if we would just hydroplane right off the road.

Ironically, only a day before we had been laughing about the funny warnings on the roadside:

If you’re married, divorce speed!

Drinking whisky, driving risky.

Better late than never.

We had a few close calls, slamming on the breaks and coming to an abrupt stop inches from a cargo truck or the rock wall above us. The guys who had miraculously fallen asleep in the back would wake with a start, and I could feel my friend beside me tense up. In the particularly close calls, I would start giggling. Friends have told me before that I giggle when I’m uncomfortable, but I never really noticed how true it was until that night.

We eventually made it to the checkpoint, well after it was closed. The Tibetan driver turned to the Indian filmmaker in the car and they agreed that if the driver had problems, our filmmaker friend would go in and work his self-proclaimed “magic”. The driver and my friend disappeared inside. After a couple minutes, which I spent wondering if we would have to drive all the way back to town or if we would just sleep in the truck there, they emerged with smiles on their faces. They jumped into the car very proud of themselves, the checkpoint watchman lifted the barricade and we drove off – without even paying a bribe! They just mentioned that they were on the Tibetan “pilgrimage” walk that passed through the area a week or so before!

This time we were off at a slightly slower pace, but with the driver growing increasingly tired. After all the songs on our mobile phones had been played, my friend had to make conversation with the driver while I kept feeding him candies. We eventually made it, with our fingers crossed that we wouldn’t run out of gas – the 24-hour station attendant refused to wake up to fill the tank. My camping mattress and sleeping bag never felt so comfortable!

A Little Adventure

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve been surrounded by an air of adventure – the freedom fighters’ talk of going home, watching “Into the Wild”, reading “Kim” by Rudyard Kipling, talking about Jack Kerouac, and hanging out with Lex – a support marcher who refused to leave the country after receiving a “Quit India” notice.

The other day, I jumped at the chance to go on a long bike ride to run an errand for the marchers. There’s nothing like riding on the back of a Bullet with the wind in your hair to make you feel alive – except maybe driving one yourself!

The road we took wound northward, up and down hillsides, through tiny villages each different from the last, but all with curious faces watching us speed by. I kept getting lost in my thoughts, only to be pulled back into the world again by the hilariously gross sight of Indians puking out of busses or a beautiful vista revealing itself in front of us. In every new valley there was entirely different vegetation. We left jungle and headed into lush but cacti-ridden forests, which eventually turned into barren hillsides dotted with stick-like trees. We sped past the places where the marchers had camped about a month ago. In an hour we rode what it took them days to walk. I watched the road fly by beneath us and imagined every step the marchers took and how it must have felt under their feet. We also rode past the campsite where one of the marchers, Pema Tashi, passed away. I imagined the tent set up where monks stayed up all night to pray for his soul and the bonfire that was built for his cremation. I thought of my friend who held his body on the way to the hospital, and all those who prayed as watched his body burn. I wished I could have been there with them to share in their grief and their prayers for Pema Tashi.

The last 20-odd kilometers we had to bump down a shortcut that was little more than a gravel path strewn with dry pine needles from the tall skinny trees with disproportionately giant pine cones. If we hadn’t been in a rush and my brain hadn’t been shaken around inside my skull to the point of feeling bruised, it would have been a beautiful ride. In 40 minutes we saw only two cars, which felt impressive for India. It wasn’t just me being roughed up, the bike lost half of its muffler along the way. And neither me nor my friend heard it fall off or noticed that the bike was suddenly a lot louder!

We ate a late lunch in a tiny town called Daul Chinna where we passed off work stuff and treats of Maggi noodles, Real juice and spread cheese to our marcher friends – strange what people miss when they are away from the comforts of their everyday life! Despite our sore asses, we booked it back to town so that we would get there before dark. As we sped around corners, I could feel our weight sink into the bike to be lifted again as we came out of the bend. I love the exhilaration I feel on a bike.

We left the warm sunny day behind as we came into the valley where we’re staying, which seems to be perpetually blanketed in mist and rain. I was giddy with tiredness, but was glad for the day’s break from the computer. It wasn’t much, but enough of an adventure to relieve the urge – for now.

An Experiment in this “Man’s World”

I love India, but one thing I cannot get used to is being gawked at endlessly by Indian men. My female Tibetan friends who have grown up here tell me that it is the same for them. India really is a male-centric society. Sitting on the subway or walking down the road, it doesn’t take much to notice that it is predominantly men. (Whenever I notice it, I hear James Brown singing “it’s a man’s world” in my head!) Women are usually accompanied by a man (husband, brother, son, etc.) or at the very least by other women. It seems like it is a social abnormality for a woman to be walking around on her own. Add to that the Indian fascination with white women. I read an article in the local newspaper written by a man who was arguing that the Indian conception of white women is based entirely on Bollywood films. In these films, white women are portrayed as being promiscuous – which isn’t hard when romantic scenes involve coy Indian women hiding behind trees and playfully running away from their (assumed) lovers. Kissing is rare, and love scenes are innocently depicted with bees pollinating flowers. All of this leads to a society that treats women, and especially white women, as objects to be gawked at and grabbed whenever the chance arises.

My all time favorite is when Indian men actually stop in their tracks and turn around to watch me walk past. The only time the special attention is remotely flattering is when school children come up to say hello and shake my hand.

I’ve spent the last two weeks in a small Indian town closer to the March to Tibet, where there are very few foreign tourists and the gawking has been especially obnoxious and annoying. So the other day I decided to dye my hair brown to see if it would change how Indians react to me.

My first day out as a brunette was a small success. While my new hair colour didn’t stop the men from staring, it at least delayed their reaction. A blonde head can be seen a mile away in a sea of people with black hair. Now with brown hair, I seem to blend in a bit more. It was a refreshing experience. Unfortunately, my pasty white skin still gives me away – I’ll keep working on that one.

The March to Tibet

My first few days back in India were spent on the March to Tibet. The day before I flew into Delhi, 250 marchers set out on their way north towards the India-Tibet border after having spent 10 days in the capital praying for those Tibetans who died protesting for independence and participating in protests against China’s brutal crackdown and the Olympic torch relay.

I have been posting updates about the March from Dharamsala and Bangkok for the last 2 months that my colleagues on the March e-mail or call me with. Friends on the March have been calling me to tell me about how hot it was that day or how much they missed the iced coffee or their favorite breakfast spot back in Dharamsala. I’ve posted the photos they send and I have watched all the live streaming videos. But being there in person was entirely different.

Getting from Delhi to the where the marchers were camped – two days’ walk – took 8 hours. One person would point us in one direction, and then the next person would point us in an entirely different direction. Entire groups of people would surround me and my Tibetan friend as he explained in Hindi where we were trying to go, staring at us like they had never seen something so odd. We were crammed into an extremely noisy shared taxi with a dude who kept rubbing my knee and the other people staring at me. We were lost for hours with a driver who we ended up befriending because both he and my friend grew up in Nepal. We shared a dinner with him at McDonalds’ and in the end, he refused to let us pay once he learned that we were joining the March to Tibet. Eventually the driver left us at a hideous Western-style cinema hall that stood out like a sore thumb in the dingy dusty outskirts of Delhi, and we were finally rescued by two drivers from the March.

I spent the next 4 days as one of the marchers. I walked with them, sweated under the hot sun with them, splashed in the cool water at rest stops with them, ate with them, talked with them, was eaten alive by mosquitoes with them, and hummed along with their prayers and singing of the national anthem. I was reunited with the monks that I made practice media soundbites despite their broken English at the non-violent training before the March started. I made friends with the Western support marchers whose presence I had previously been very judgmental about. I overcame my own insecurities about bathing and squatting in the bushes surrounded by 250 monks and nuns. I had some Tibetan lessons. I got a tan. And I picked up an amoeba! It was 4 of the most fulfilling days I’ve had since I’ve been here. The dedication of the marchers and the volunteers who are making the march possible was so inspiring. They have given up the commitments and responsibilities of their daily lives to stand up for their country-men and -women, and for their country. It made me feel spoiled that being here and fighting for their freedom is my job, that I get paid to do this while they are sacrificing their livelihoods to do the same thing.

When it came time for me to leave, one monk friend came to give me a khata – the white Tibetan scarf given as a blessing for a safe journey. Even though I had only been with them for 4 days, I was given khata after khata, until they were falling off my shoulders. Normally when Tibetans thank me, I feel really awkward. But this time I was really touched. The marchers held my hand and we yelled “Bho Gyalo” – which has come to mean more to me each time I yell it.

As we drove away, I couldn’t help but wonder if there were some of them we would never see again. This thought has followed me back to Dharamsala and has left me an emotional blob, overflowing with a muddle of love, longing, frustration, anger, discouragement, and sadness. I’ve been running through scenarios in my head of what could be lying ahead for my friends. They could be arrested by Indian police and allowed no where near the border, which could frustrate them to the point where they do something drastic like self-immolation. They could hand in their registration certificates (their only identification as “foreigners” in India), plunging them into a legal quagmire. They could be ignored by Indian officials and allowed to approach the Tibet border. As they cross into their homeland, they could be shot by Chinese soldiers like those who were shot trying to escape over the Nangpa-la pass two years ago. Or they could be carted away to be tortured in Chinese jails. These thoughts have been overwhelming at times, making me alternately want to run away from it all and join them again. But in my stronger moments, I am committed to staying here so that when something happens to the marchers, we can make sure that the world knows. And when they reach Lhasa (or are forced to return to Dharamsala), I will be there to welcome them.

The view from my balcony…

More photos of Dharamsala.

Life in Dharamsala

I wake up wrapped in my sleeping bag with cold fresh air on my face, and sun shining on my curtains. After a while, I muster up enough willpower to get out of my warm cocoon, and rush through the cold to get dressed, muttering “achoo” (Tibetan for “it’s cold”) under my breath. Stepping out onto my balcony, the valley of Himachal Pradesh spreads out below me, littered with clusters of houses and villages. To my left and behind me is the first range of the Himalayas. Every morning I have the same thought and smile to myself: “I live in the Himalayas.” I stop on my way to work to indulge in a gluten-free buckwheat pancake and savour my first cup of milk tea, holding it in both hands to warm my fingers.

On days off, I sit in a café for hours on end, reading, doing Sudoku puzzles, talking with friends, staring off into the valley. The pace of life here is beautiful. I am blessed with the chance to slow down and enjoy every moment. I still have to stop and take a breath when the work-a-holic Westerner in me freaks out because the internet is down or there is no electricity. But a cup of tea at a friend’s café normally does the trick and restores the calmness in me that is pervasive here.

I think of how much I’ve always wanted to live in the mountains, not sure that my interests would ever allow it. But here I am, with a job I love and getting to live in the mountains. As my mum and Claire like to say, I am so lucky!

However, the more I settle in here, the more I wonder how it will feel to be in Montreal again.