I sensed that he had tremendous magnetism. Not only was he cordial, but remarkably spontaneous.
We met at least a dozen times. I found him very impressive. Just physically, he was extraordinary. He had a dark complexion, but at the same time his skin was shiny. His hands were equally shiny and I immediately noticed how beautiful they were – perfect fingers, and an exquisite thumb. He was slow in his movements, and slower still in speech. He was sparing of words, and spoke in short sentences, each full of meaning and usually clear and precise. The way he was dressed contrasted with his behavior: all his clothes appeared threadbare. His dress differed from that of the common Chinese people only by being of a slightly different shade of blue. His whole bearing breathed a natural authority, and his very presence imposed respect.
Apart from Mao, I would meet regularly with Chou En-lai and Liu Shao-chi. While Liu was calm and serious, Chou was extremely polite, courteous, and suave; so extremely polite, in fact, as to make one wonder whether he could be trusted. I realized he was very clever and shrewd.
Khrushchev, Bulganin, and Pandit Nehru
During the celebrations for the Chinese National Day, I had the privilege to meet Khrushchev and Bulganin. They did not leave much of an impression on me. In any case, much less so than Pandit Nehru who came to Peking while I was there. From a distance he seemed very affable, easily finding something to say to everyone. But when it was my turn to shake his hand, he grew rigid. He was speechless and gazed into the distance. I was very disappointed, because I would have liked to ask him whether there was anything India could do to help Tibet.
Marxism
In another private meeting, Mao said to me, “Tibet is a great country. You have a glorious history. Many years ago, you even conquered a considerable part of China. But now you have fallen behind, and we would like to help you catch up.” I hardly dared believe it, but he really did seem sincere. The idea of real cooperation with China excited me. The more I reflected on Marxism, the more qualities I found in it. It was a system that wanted justice and equality for all, a panacea for the sufferings of our world. The only weakness I could find in it at that time was the way it emphasized only the material side of human existence. In the winter of 1954, I and my entourage began a long journey across China, which was supposed to enable us to admire the wonders of material and industrial progress. I greatly admired what the Communists had achieved, especially in the area of heavy industry. I could not wait to see my own country make similar progress.
When one learns about the life of Karl Marx, and the precise origins of Marxism, one realizes that Marx endured enormous suffering throughout his life, and never gave up his struggle to overthrow the bourgeoisie. His vision of the world was based on confrontation. It is on account of this primary motivation that the entire Communist movement has failed. If the motivating principle had been compassion and altruism, things would have turned out very differently.
Mao’s advice
We met for the last time in the spring of 1955. Mao wanted to offer me his advice on how to govern before I went back to Tibet. He explained how to organize meetings, how to know what other people are thinking, and how to make decisions on difficult issues. And then, moving closer to me, he said, “I understand you very well. But of course, religion is poison. It has two great defects: it undermines the race (since monks and nuns are celibate), and secondly it retards the progress of the country. Tibet and Mongolia have both been poisoned by it.” I felt as though my face was on fire and, all of a sudden, I was very afraid.
Back in Lhasa
When I returned to Lhasa, in June 1955, I was, as always, welcomed by thousands of followers. My return gave renewed courage to everyone, and I too felt a new optimism when I found that the trust that Mao had so publicly placed in me had boosted my status in the eyes of the local Chinese representatives.
I cannot say how thankful I was to be in the Norbulingka again. Close outside its walls, the Chinese military camp still menaced us, but inside, all was still calm and beautiful, and our religious practices continued almost undisturbed.
In early 1956, during the Tibetan New Year celebrations of Losar, I had a very interesting meeting with the Nechung oracle, who announced: “The wish-fulfilling gem (one of the names given to the Dalai Lama by Tibetans) will shine in the West.” At the time, I saw this as an indication that I should go to India that year, but since then I have realized that this prophecy had a much deeper meaning.
The Tibetan resistance
Something happened in the summer of 1956 that made me more unhappy than ever before. The alliance of popular leaders was beginning to have considerable success: several sections of the Chinese military road had been destroyed, along with a number of bridges. And then what I had feared most actually happened: the Chinese responded with violence. But I never imagined that they would send in planes to bomb Lithang Monastery, in the province of Kham. When I heard of this, I broke down in tears. I could not believe that human beings were capable of such cruelty. After the bombing came the torture and merciless execution of the wives and children of the freedom fighters, as well as untold atrocities against monks and nuns.
I experienced all of this during my teenage years and my early adulthood: yes, all the measures of oppression, and all kinds of atrocities – monasteries destroyed, works of art defaced, crucifixions, vivisections, dismembering, disemboweling, and tongues pulled out. All of this made collaboration impossible. We went through all these horrors on our own soil. Finally, I became convinced that Mao was nothing more than a “destroyer of the Dharma.”
The difficulty of being both spiritual and temporal leader in times of war
The situation was desperate. All my attempts to arrive at a peaceful solution had come to nothing. We were trapped in the vicious circle of authoritarian repression and popular anger. I grew discouraged. The institution of the Dalai Lamas, which had happily governed Tibet for centuries, had become untenable. In my dual role as spiritual and temporal leader, I was determined to oppose any violence on the part of the Tibetan people, but the Chinese did everything they could to undermine the people’s confidence in me. And yet, even if Tibetans no longer believed in their political leader, they should not lose faith in their spiritual guide. I could delegate, even abdicate, my political role, but the Dalai Lama can never give up his spiritual authority; indeed, I have never even dreamed of doing so.
It was then, at a time of deep despondency, that I received an invitation to India, to attend the Jayanti Buddha festival celebrating the 2,500th anniversary of the Buddha’s birth.
Journey to India
For every reason, political and religious, I very much wanted to go to India. After all, it is the birthplace of the founder of Buddhism, the very source of the wisdom brought to our mountains hundreds of years ago by Indian saints and seers. The religions and societies of Tibet and India had developed on different lines, but Tibet was still a child of Indian civilization. And from
