By Nicole Superficially and in its weakest and most negative state, surrendering is a pitifully white, ripped flag. It waves in the desperate wind of misfortune after a battle in which no offense could be mustered. The protective gear is thick and encumbering, so as to be completely obstructive. It makes us bulky and blind. We fail to see all we could, and fail to perceive all that we might see. Imagination is nearly impossible, and thus, we dare not imagine all we are missing. We miss all we could experience, all we could be, and all we already are. In this battle, our defenses defeat ourselves. And we are held captive by our own device.
Tears welled in my eyes and I bowed as His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama walked past me at the conclusion of his first teaching. Perhaps I was not bowing for the same reasons that the Tibetan Buddhists to either side of me were. I presume some bowed to him because he is the link of the lives and experiences of the 13 Dalai Lamas who came before him, and in whose spirit he continues to inhabit. Others bowed to him in search of guidance through, and knowledge of, the Dharma, the spiritual teachings which can lead to the path of enlightenment. Perhaps others bowed to him as the political leader of the Tibetan government in exile, struggling for a Tibet independent of China and Chinese autocratic rule. And still others bowed to him because he represents freedom, democracy, an alternative to oppression, and nonviolent resistance in the likes of Mahatma Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
I can’t say exactly why I bowed, except that the Tibetan Buddhists to either side of me did. And anyway, the reason for my tears are perhaps a more interesting consideration.
Occasionally--and particularly stunningly--surrendering occurs even when no battle has taken place, when no one has been conquered. Sometimes surrendering exists in a recognition: that the hierarchy of conqueror and conquered is false. And essentially, that we are too.
“It’s in our hands,” passionately concluded the young Tibetan activist as he ended the discussion. “Be the Dalai Lama’s soldier. Fight for him.” His words have stayed with me just as his conviction has. Most of us can’t know what fighting for a homeland means. Most of us can’t imagine existing in exile, against our will. I’ve heard a lot about these things. The Tibetan refugees that we’ve been volunteering with have been incredibly open about their narrow escapes from Tibet into Nepal and then into India, where they are granted refugee status. They traverse the impossible altitude range of the Himalayas, often in the harshest part of winter, walking only at night and hiding during the day in an effort to evade Chinese soldiers. Many leave their parents and other family members behind, because they are “too old,” “too young,” or simply because they couldn’t fathom leaving Tibet behind with the knowledge that returning is extremely dangerous and in most cases, a near impossibility. Many leave behind a nomadic lifestyle where they herd Yak in the high Himalayas, isolated from most of the world but subject to repression from the Chinese. Most Tibetans have told me that they come to India not for safety, security, or to be freed from religious persecution, but because, “I wanted to see His Holiness,” or “for the Dalai Lama, of course.”
The walls of most of the restaurants and shops owned by Tibetans here in Dharamsala are plastered with “Free Tibet” posters, Tibet flags, messages written in Tibetan, dates and times for activist meetings, urgings to boycott Chinese goods, and posters detailing Chinese oppression and atrocities committed against the Tibetan people. I have yet to meet a Tibetan who has not said that he or she hopes to one day return to Tibet.
Still, the majority of the youngest generation of Tibetans know of Tibet only through their parents’ oral histories and through the story of its struggle as a people trying to unite under one flag and one land. Most of them will likely never set foot in Tibet. These children’s children will be even further removed from Tibet and likely, from its struggle. And soon, the struggle will be less about their land, but about protecting their language and culture--the very fundamental aspects of their identity as a people. But still, today and in this small little northern Indian town, I have found that creativity, inspiration and love are fostered and thrive. They continue on as Tibetans, as Buddhists, and as freedom fighters.
Thus, an explanation of the tears is complicated. It’s incredibly disturbing to realize that the 14th Dalai Lama is likely to be the last Tibetan leader who actually ruled in Tibet, and possibly even one of the last to have vivid memories of Tibet. Similarly, I truly respect and appreciate that no level of political strife is cause for a weakening of Tibetan Buddhist’s convictions to work toward and gain Buddhahood. But I know the tears weren’t for the Dalai Lama and I don’t even think they were for the refugees exactly, despite feeling very connected to them. I think the tears were for something larger, something less physical.
I think I cried for a movement which parallels so many other movements, in so many other places around the world. I cried for the knowledge that we may not be the same, but we are equal. For the perception that though I can’t truly understand their struggles exactly, I embrace the need for the preservation of the very threads of a culture and the seeds of their identity. For the need to be freed from captivity in all senses. The inherent need for freedom and the quest to find that freedom, both internally, externally as well as physically and spiritually. And in this deep sense, we are perhaps not as different as we lead ourselves to believe.
And so incredibly rarely, there are those cases when surrendering is achieving a perception where we exist not in the self, but of the universe. And purpose is not sought because it is known, inherent even. Where affection for other shines to light our communal path. And we don’t just love, we are love. It’s here that surrendering is an acknowledgment of something in which we are not central, but yet our central pieces, and our collective peace, exist eternally.
Tears welled in my eyes and I bowed as His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama walked past me at the conclusion of his first teaching. Perhaps I was not bowing for the same reasons that the Tibetan Buddhists to either side of me were. I presume some bowed to him because he is the link of the lives and experiences of the 13 Dalai Lamas who came before him, and in whose spirit he continues to inhabit. Others bowed to him in search of guidance through, and knowledge of, the Dharma, the spiritual teachings which can lead to the path of enlightenment. Perhaps others bowed to him as the political leader of the Tibetan government in exile, struggling for a Tibet independent of China and Chinese autocratic rule. And still others bowed to him because he represents freedom, democracy, an alternative to oppression, and nonviolent resistance in the likes of Mahatma Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
I can’t say exactly why I bowed, except that the Tibetan Buddhists to either side of me did. And anyway, the reason for my tears are perhaps a more interesting consideration.
Occasionally--and particularly stunningly--surrendering occurs even when no battle has taken place, when no one has been conquered. Sometimes surrendering exists in a recognition: that the hierarchy of conqueror and conquered is false. And essentially, that we are too.
“It’s in our hands,” passionately concluded the young Tibetan activist as he ended the discussion. “Be the Dalai Lama’s soldier. Fight for him.” His words have stayed with me just as his conviction has. Most of us can’t know what fighting for a homeland means. Most of us can’t imagine existing in exile, against our will. I’ve heard a lot about these things. The Tibetan refugees that we’ve been volunteering with have been incredibly open about their narrow escapes from Tibet into Nepal and then into India, where they are granted refugee status. They traverse the impossible altitude range of the Himalayas, often in the harshest part of winter, walking only at night and hiding during the day in an effort to evade Chinese soldiers. Many leave their parents and other family members behind, because they are “too old,” “too young,” or simply because they couldn’t fathom leaving Tibet behind with the knowledge that returning is extremely dangerous and in most cases, a near impossibility. Many leave behind a nomadic lifestyle where they herd Yak in the high Himalayas, isolated from most of the world but subject to repression from the Chinese. Most Tibetans have told me that they come to India not for safety, security, or to be freed from religious persecution, but because, “I wanted to see His Holiness,” or “for the Dalai Lama, of course.”
The walls of most of the restaurants and shops owned by Tibetans here in Dharamsala are plastered with “Free Tibet” posters, Tibet flags, messages written in Tibetan, dates and times for activist meetings, urgings to boycott Chinese goods, and posters detailing Chinese oppression and atrocities committed against the Tibetan people. I have yet to meet a Tibetan who has not said that he or she hopes to one day return to Tibet.
Still, the majority of the youngest generation of Tibetans know of Tibet only through their parents’ oral histories and through the story of its struggle as a people trying to unite under one flag and one land. Most of them will likely never set foot in Tibet. These children’s children will be even further removed from Tibet and likely, from its struggle. And soon, the struggle will be less about their land, but about protecting their language and culture--the very fundamental aspects of their identity as a people. But still, today and in this small little northern Indian town, I have found that creativity, inspiration and love are fostered and thrive. They continue on as Tibetans, as Buddhists, and as freedom fighters.
Thus, an explanation of the tears is complicated. It’s incredibly disturbing to realize that the 14th Dalai Lama is likely to be the last Tibetan leader who actually ruled in Tibet, and possibly even one of the last to have vivid memories of Tibet. Similarly, I truly respect and appreciate that no level of political strife is cause for a weakening of Tibetan Buddhist’s convictions to work toward and gain Buddhahood. But I know the tears weren’t for the Dalai Lama and I don’t even think they were for the refugees exactly, despite feeling very connected to them. I think the tears were for something larger, something less physical.
I think I cried for a movement which parallels so many other movements, in so many other places around the world. I cried for the knowledge that we may not be the same, but we are equal. For the perception that though I can’t truly understand their struggles exactly, I embrace the need for the preservation of the very threads of a culture and the seeds of their identity. For the need to be freed from captivity in all senses. The inherent need for freedom and the quest to find that freedom, both internally, externally as well as physically and spiritually. And in this deep sense, we are perhaps not as different as we lead ourselves to believe.
And so incredibly rarely, there are those cases when surrendering is achieving a perception where we exist not in the self, but of the universe. And purpose is not sought because it is known, inherent even. Where affection for other shines to light our communal path. And we don’t just love, we are love. It’s here that surrendering is an acknowledgment of something in which we are not central, but yet our central pieces, and our collective peace, exist eternally.
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