What Tibetans Do In Leh
27 Apr 2008 , 0443 hrs IST
,
Sharmila Ganesan 
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TNN
Besides the magnetic hill that is known to pull idle cars, there are many other things in Leh that exert the force of attraction. In this enchanting land, water is unusually clear, tea smells of butter and kids sport a perpetual rouge as if they had been slapped hard on both cheeks. Fifty years ago, Tsering Palden was one such rosy five-year-old. His mother had slung him on her back, like most Tibetan mothers do, and crossed over to Leh, which is just 60 kms from the Tibetan border. This is a childhood memory that binds Palden and many of the 6,700 Tibetan refugees living here, who have been divided into 12 camps. Near a small temple in the vicinity of a
hotel where Saif and Kareena are rumoured to have fallen in love, the refugees are taking turns to carry forward an unpublicised hunger strike against the Chinese oppression of Tibetans.
On this 22nd day of the strike, it's the turn of camp number eleven to starve. Under the canopy of a huge white tent, about 40 men and women lean against brightly-coloured mattresses and handbags chanting Tibetan prayers. A huge picture of a pensive Dalai Lama stands in the centre, adorned by white khataks (traditional Tibetan scarves used to greet people). The younger protestors sport black bandanas that say 'Free Tibet' while the elderly roll miniature prayer wheels. Not very far away, stands another tent holding about 50 praying monks. Passersby strain their eyes to read news clippings hanging outside that speak of how "violent" Tibetans were actually Chinese soldiers who dressed up as monks and instigated unrest in their country. "Allow free press in Tibet , release all imprisoned Tibetans, send medical help" scream the charts on display.
"We want Dalai Lama to have a peaceful dialogue with the Chinese President, who has been postponing the meeting," says one of the young members, Sonam Gyatso, who was born and brought up in Leh. Some years ago, Gyatso had crossed the frozen Indus river along with his mother, to meet his grandmother in one of the base camps on the Tibetan border. "Communicating with relatives is not easy for us," he says. As most of the members in western Tibet are nomads, it's never easy to catch them on the elusive cell phone network, he says. In the past, many Tibetan refugees would send handwritten letters through soldiers almost a year in advance to fix a meeting on the border. Now, of course, they manage to speak to their kin at least once in three months on BSNL network. And they have come to know that most of the nomads near the border have been shooed away by the Chinese. "Some Chinese men have even forced our monks to marry their relatives so that our population does not flourish," says Gyatso, softly.
Though the Indian government, nervous about its relations with China , has never come out strongly in favour of Tibet , it still commands tremendous faith among these hungry protestors. "We are free to do business here. We feel
India is our guru," says Palden, who discounts the political interests as a separate issue. Palden was surprised that "Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru once called Tibet a part of China ." Tibet , he feels, does not have the infrastructure or the arms and ammunition to take on China , yet it is self-sufficient. "We do not have beggars and do not ask other countries for food," says Palden. Here, one thing that is in abundance is hope. "You never know," says Tsering Palden. "Did you know beforehand that one day, Russia would split or that the Berlin wall would fall?"
Almost every house and Tibetan shop displays this hope in the form of a long, rectangular poster of the picturesque Lhasa that adorns their walls. "We will definitely be free one day," says 54-year-old Jamyang Paljor, teacher of the Tibetan Children's Village (TCV) school, staring at a children's map of Tibet which has drawings of the Buddha, monasteries and yaks to signify certain cities. When his parents fled to India in 1959, he recalls being pushed into a vehicle along with other refugee kids and taken to a Rajasthan boarding school. Here, he spent ten years, after which he was shifted to another school in Madhya Pradesh. In both schools those days, food which was cooked in aluminium vessels, consisted of half a chapati and some dal and no one complained. Today, his school, which is the biggest among the TCV branches that is headquartered in Dharamsala, serves everything from tea to yak meat to students. They have spacious dormitories, innumerable carrom boards and a state-of-the-art kindergarten activity room which gets its specialised button-sewing frames from Bangalore .
Tashi Lhundup, who looks like Dalai Lama from certain angles, says, "We do not have time to sit in protest." Yet, that's all he can do for the moment. A few days ago, he and other staff members decided to wear black. All female teachers have been sporting black chubas (traditional Tibetan dress) and colourful aprons in solidarity. Many of the kids, who are taught the Tibetan alphabet at the nursery level, sport woollen caps that have the word Tibet woven in them. Though the kids have no memories of Tibet , they are regularly updated by teachers on the status of Tibet in their daily morning assembly. This grooming in the Tibetan way of life and culture though is also a form of silent rebellion. "It's our way of protest," says Paljor, who is a distant relative and close friend of the most famous Tibetan activist in India , Tenzin Tsundue.
None of them know how long it would be before they can finally return to a free country. But in their speech, there is a palpable conviction that the current strife, just like their status in their ration cards, is temporary.
sharmila.ganesan@timesgroup.com
