Man in a Box

The poverty of Kolkata seems far from here. Until you look closer. There is a metal box on Jogibara road. It is rusty and has a small opening covered by a dirty yellow tattered plastic sheet. It stands between two Tibetan stalls selling their wares of pearls, turquoise and coral stones, prayer beads and woolly hats. Outside of the box people have stuck their posters to advertise their power of healing - Reiki and Yoga. The posters are written in English and Israeli.

Inside the metal box on Jogibara road there lives a man. When the dirty yellow tattered plastic sheet flaps open it is possible to catch a glimpse of his house. He must sleep in the fetal position as it would be impossible for him to stretch out, or to sit up without banging his head.

For some reason, in the mornings, the Tibetan Welfare truck which attempts to collect the towns rubbish, and sweeps it outside the box of the man in the box. The man in the box sits, dangling his legs out of his door, head to his chest, eyes to the floor, rubbish all around. Sometimes it is possible to see the man in the box outside of the box. Standing on the street. Wrapped in his blanket of a tattered plastic sheet. He is filthy. The brown grey black colour the destitute always are - regardless of the original colour of their clothes - or tattered plastic sheets. The man in the box has a grey dirty beard and a head full of grey white hair, for the man in the box is an old man – an old Indian 'man'. He never begs. He never interacts. He just is. A man in a box.

The strange thing is that it took two days before I noticed the man or his box. And he is not homeless – he has his box.

Freedom for Tibet and Sympathy for Bex

My renewed faith in Western medicine has jumped out of the window and gone to play with my excused faith in alternative medicines. I now have a 'new' infected Lump below the incision which removed the last one, only that this one is solid and very painful. I am no longer upset about missing the yoga course – I am just upset. It hurts and I am feeling incredibly sorry for myself.

Two hours sleep and a painful night of painting a beautiful mandala. Although the beauty of my painting was not equal with the beauty of the mandala. Partly because I couldn't decide whether to paint the outer circles gold or blue – so in my insomnia I painted them both gold and blue. An excessive mistake. I watched the dead moth spin and twirl and wondered what happened to the spider who had spun its deathly web, and how even in the hunt of nature there is waste and the unnecessary ending of life.

I walked down to Delek Hospital as soon as the time was acceptable to morning adventures. A Nepali man I had met yesterday man gave me a lift. This was after he asked my age and after I had told him I had a husband. The hospital was deserted. Not a good start. I wondered around. I read a notice advertising for full time nursing staff, offering a wage of 9000 rupees (about £110) per month. Doctors were on 24000 rupees. I found a nurse. She was a Tibetan, Hindi, English speaking Nepali and so friendly. However, today – once again – is a holiday which means that there are no doctors in Delek hospital. She looked at The new Lump and said I would probably need a new operation. I was to come back tomorrow and not to worry. No worries – no problem but my shoulder and left side feel like they are trying to start their own separatist movement. She cleaned and dressed the first incision, and tried to remove the patchwork of gluey patches which had accumulated around my shoulder.

I snuggled into my kurta and went for a chai at the “Tibet Bakery and Cafe”. A tiny wooden box next to Delek Hospital. With a counter full of freshly baked 'muffins', which were actually warm balls of doughnut dough and incredibly good. I dipped one in my chai, which was actually a cup of hot milk with a floating Teatly Tea bag swimming around inside. I thought of my brother-in -law and how he would be simultaneously exalted to find his favourite band of tea and horrified to see it in a soup of milk. It was great.

Carrying my arm back up the hill, I found a monk appearing from the bushes. In his broken English he managed to reply to my queries by pointing into the bush, and saying 'up' and 'shorter'. A short cut to Dharamasala. It was only a few days ago I had been reading an email from a missed friend. He was talking about 'silence' and how he was surrounded by it. I replied that in India, silence was difficult to find, unless of course you found yourself on the back of a Royal Enflield bike, lost in Kashmir, in thick fog, coming down an impromptu mountain and with no brakes. However, this morning, following the monk of few words short cut, I found silence:

A stone path, slippy with moss and moisture. Lined with wet green grass and bushes pushing out tiny wild flowers which were all the shades between orange and red - or do I mean pink and yellow? Nature's mandalas, constantly changing colours. Water was flowing down into an skinny stream, pulled by gravity and undeterred by the walking rubber dams of the soles of my boots. I tried to listen to the silence. To stop the multitude of different and simultaneous thoughts inside my head. My arm was throbbing and it wasn't long before I realised that in Kolkata my arm would hurt far less. Here in the beauty and silence of nature, the burning of the small hole under my arm seemed greater than I know it would if surrounded by death, destitute and survivors of diseases so massive they would hurt just to see. Here, in the hills of northern India, like in all the other places where it is easier to look inside rather than out, the tiny temporary superficial pain is dominating my day, because relative to the luxury and beauty and self indulgence which I am surrounded by it feels far worse than when compared to gaping holes and deathly disease.

Eventually the silence turned into noise, and the nature surrounding my body began to soothe my mind. The same calls of a bird which I remember listening to in the hills in Scotland, the trickle of the water as it a washed the stones slippy and fell down the hill, the rustles of invisible creatures as they jumped through the leaves. The air above was filled with the silent soaring of birds with large extended wings. I tried to remember Bruno's birds of prey identification lesson. I couldn't, so I just watched as they 'floated' rather than 'flew' and circled and then rose with seemingly no effort apart from just 'being'. The views at each corner were stunning, and the valley mist provided an inaccurate 'escape', hiding the shapes of the town of Dharamasala in the distance and replacing them with the depths of my imagination. The damp air felt fresh and cold, and despite the wild life around me, for the first time in a long time I really felt alone. With each step I listened, let the thoughts rise and drift and once again felt the power of life around me and my thanks to be part of it. As I walked further towards the top of the hill the noise of nature was mixed with a regular 'ding' of a prayer wheel from an invisible monastery, identifiable only by the waving colours of the prayer flags hanging camouflaged in distant trees. I climbed up the rocky path, gradually leaving the flowers, grass and tress behind me and joined the pilgrim circuit which leads to Mcleod Ganj. An old couple marched determinedly past me, whispering Om Mani Padme Hum – Love and Compassion for all.

Forgive me for such a self indulgent blog. Free Tibet! And Happy Birthday.

Spiritual Wealth - Practical Health

I woke up early. It was too early to be light. There was a throbbing pain under my arm. Every day the pain had become a little stronger, to the extent that it was partially normalised. My eyes would not close. There was no point in trying. So I began to use then instead. Waiting for them to slowly adjust to the pre-dawn shadows. I eventually picked out a butterfly sitting high on the window ledge. Or perhaps it was a moth? Either way, it was beautiful. It began to turn. Showing me its delicate wings. Backwards and forwards it slowly rotated. The perfection of nature. The ability to fly. Suspended in the air. I felt privileged; as if by waking early I was an uninvited spectator of an unique solo performance.

My mind began to explore parallel thoughts. The thought about how I had wanted to do a Tibetan Massage course. There are enough advertised around here. Alongside Ayurvedic Massage, Crystal Healing and Reiki. And yet at that precise moment I did not want any alternative therapies. I wanted a doctor trained in Western medicine. I thought about the ironies of how amazing the choice of alternative therapies seems – until you actually need one. Four days ago I had began my exploration of local health care. I asked the baker where the doctor was. "Ayurvedic or Tibetan?" was her reply. She was Tibetan so I replied: "Tibetan". Within five minutes I was standing inside Mcleod Ganj's Tibetan Medical Clinic. I was impressed. It seemed clean and efficient. In the waiting 'corridor', there was one elderly lady pinching her prayer beads, mumbling Om Mani Pad he Hum again and again and again, but with different degrees of volume. She was sitting next to a nun. The nun looked very similar to her; but younger, and with no prayer beads, and no long plated hair. The elderly women pointed to a row of wooden numbers hanging from a peg, her working pinching pushing fingers did not pause. I nodded in thanks, took a number and waited my turn.

Quickly I was seated in from of a Tibetan woman doctor. I awkwardly took off my kurta and lifted my arm. She touched the lump and offered her prognosis. "You need to see a Western Doctor. Our Tibetan medicine is too slow for that infection. You need Western medicine." Dishearten I pulled my kurta back on. I was upset because I had magicalised my location. Hearing of other foreign tourists who had visited the clinic and returned 'healed'. And yet the doctor herself had admitted the failings of her professed traditional healing. I was also upset because I had been delaying seeking medical help, trusting in the advice of Vijay who insisted that eventually The Lump would heal itself. Clearly this was not the case. I walked to the local community health care, and spent my lunch break in a queue. The queue never became any shorter so I returned to yoga practice and waited another day...

Another day and the line outside of the Delek Community Health Care Centre was enormous. So enormous that I bypassed it and decided to return later in the day. Later in the day there was torrential rain. I was sodden. I queued. I watched an Israeli mother chastise a Tibetan mother for trying to comfort her screaming baby. I nudged Tibetan fathers out of the way, fighting for a space in front of the nurse. My request to see a doctor was answered with a confused look. "There is no doctor in Mcleod Ganj. We are doing immunisations. You need to go to Delek Hospital." My heart sunk as I had flash backs to Kolkata's horrendous disease filled hospitals. Besides, it was too late to go to Delek Hospital, which was somewhere down the hill towards Dharamasala. I consulted a Tibetan friend. She recommended a local Tibetan doctor and even went so far as to take me to his house. The local Tibetan doctor looked at my arm and recommended a 7 day course of acupuncture costing 250 rupees per day. I asked him if he thought it needed antibiotics and he replied that he had no knowledge of Western medicine. Sceptical and in pain I went home.

Another day and more rain. I had spent a horrendous night filled with fever and delirium, whereby my control over my reactions to pain disintegrated. I was ashamed and decided to Be Stronger. No one seemed to know where the hospital was. The rickshaw driver tried to take me to Dharamasala. The bus driver tried to take me to the bus stop. The taxi was going on "a different road". With the help of an ageing hippy (who also offered her own advice which was to stick half a boiled onion under my arm) I finally arrived. Outside of the hospital was a painted advertising its 'specialities' which didn't seem to include 'Lumps' but did include 'torture victims'. I paid my 10 rupees doctors fee and queued.

A young mentally disabled women waved at me. I waved back with my good arm. She smiled and I immediately wanted to go and sit next to her, but her carer apologetically smiled at me and then distracted her. I felt that my attention was unwelcome. One chai later and a doctors note and I was waiting for another doctor. The Lump needed to be removed. The cause was unknown, but it was an infection which would only continue to grow if not treated. So much for Vijay's enlightened advice. I stood outside of the small surgery as a monk had his foot inspected by a smart Tibetan woman. Finally it was my turn and I felt relief just at the thought of eventually having some escape to the growing pain under my arm. I lay down and watched as she injected a needle directly inside The burning Lump. I asked what she was doing – the pressure seemed immense. "Local anesthetic" came the reply. Slightly annoyed at not being consulted I lay and waited. Within seconds it became numb enough to dilute the pain but not destroy it. She took a blade and sliced my arm. She began to dig the infection out. Dig Dig Dig. I winced. Water filled my eyes, and I had images of the many wounds I had cleaned in Kolkata – bleeding scabies infested scalps, infected bones sitting open around dead flesh, worm ridden feet. I felt pathetic. The smart young woman Doctor began to thread a strip of gauze under my skin. Was this common practice? I was beyond caring, or rather knew that any recommendations from myself would be met with recompense.

The entire procedure, including antibiotic topical cream, cost 168 rupees, proving yet again that my inability to buy health insurance was more practical than I had realised. In Kolkata I had an army of professional medical volunteers, and in Mcleod Ganj finally I had found the fully subsidised local health care system, with any private treatment a days travel away and reserved primarily for the rich, famous and fortunate.

I now need to go back to the Community Health Care Centre every day, pay 10 rupees, and have the nurse pull out the green infected gauze and stuff the wound with a new white one. The yoga teacher training course is on hold...for one week or two, although Vijay is still offering daily advice about how the "Mind needs to be stronger to overcome pain" etc etc. Like the array of alternative therapies – they all seem very beautiful until you actually need one, and likewise, I can also offer advice on positive thinking until I have ball of fire under my arm. Apologies for the sarcasm but I guess I am partially enjoying wallowing in self pity for the duration of this blog. But if I am honest I am disappointed at having to prospone the yoga as it takes intensive practice to achieve the results, and with such a massive delay, my progress of the past two weeks (around 72 hours of yoga practise) will quickly be lost. Meanwhile I am finding it difficult to motivate myself to become involved in new activities partly because I am hoping my arm will miraculously heal, and partly because it hurts too much to think clearly about much at all. So meanwhile I have began to paint mandalas – a highly recommended form of artistic meditation. But despite hours of night time painting, I am still waking up incredibly early watching dead moths suspended from spiders webs; twisting and turning in the slight breeze entering from the closed window. Twisting and turning inside a shell of a body, which hangs waiting to be eaten. Dead moths which are being watched and admired by a woman who always sees the reality through a coloured visor of her imagination.

Chanting Tibet

Walking back from yoga yesterday and I walked straight into a procession. I heard it before I saw it. A low rumble. Murmurs of a prayer, sang in unison, which was delayed by intervals of distance as the walking, singing, praying procession stretched out through Mcleod Ganj. First came a large framed photograph of the Dalai Lama leading the chanting with his large peaceful smile. Underneath the large peaceful smile stood a young man – robed in the uniform maroon, with his alliegence to the large peaceful smile visible by a tinge of a yellow shirt. Behind the large peaceful smile marched a maroon line. Maroon robes, maroon bags, maroon socks only to be broken by a multi coloured selection of pink, blue or even orange plastic crocs. The monks, like the rest of the procession, held white wax candles, dripping down onto squares of brown corrugated cardboard. In between the men marched younger boys. Heads also shaved, robes also donned, and words well memorised. The young monks looked to be enjoying their welcomed participation, but they also acted as a reminder of the new generation of exiles: Young boys and girls who are still escaping from Tibet, or who have been born in exile and yet are still showing the ultimate commitment to country, religion and culture by joining a monastery or nunnery at a young age and staying – like all monks and nuns – for the rest of their lives. There was also something powerful about seeing a walking uniform of deep rich maroon. Almost as if I was subconsciously romanticising Buddhism, turning it into a spectacular rather than a philosophy.

Behind the men came the women. Distinguished primarily by their higher voice, as from their physical appearance their were few differences, with the same maroon robes donned, and the same hairstyles - a shaved skull – also shared. The nuns also varied with age, from the young and smooth faced, to those with more worn expressions and a wise white covering of bristle on the tops of their heads. The candles flickered past, as the words chanted around and through me. Next came another natural social grouping, which although broke the sea of deep maroon created a feeling so powerful within me that my eyes began to glisten. Behind the nuns walked men. Not monks, not boys, but old Tibetan men. They broke the uniform single file, and stood side by side, old friends from many years – the first exiles some of whom would have arrived in Mcleod Ganj with a young Dalia Lama nearly fifty years ago. They walked with uneven steps, revealing limps or aching joints. Wooden strings of prayer beads wrapped around wrists. They held the same white dripping candles and held waving flags, symbolising the rising yellow sun over the white snow of Mount Kalish. Many had adapted their umbrellas (an essential commodity in the foothills of the Himalayas), taping flags to them and resting them on their shoulders. In fact, references to their imagined/real country were reflected in their wrinkles, eyes and voices. They chanted the same prayer, the walked with rugged determination and they wore their own chosen uniform of allegiance. Each old man had one or more articles of Tibetan ware. A 'Free Tibet' bag or a 'I Love Tibet' T-shirt. A knitted woollen hat, stiched in blue, red, yellow and white. Articles which I had mistakenly presumed were reserved for tourists. They wore their shirts and carried their bags with a stubborn pride, which really drummed home the reality of their exile: their continued longing for a country they were forced to leave so many years ago and yet in their new freedom, refuse to let go of.

Behind the old men followed the women. Long black hair, tidied back or wrapped in plaits. Stipped aprons hanging down past the knees, and ontop of smart Tibetan dresses. Red coral, green turquoise and cream pearl necklaces. Those who didn't wear traditional dress wore the new activist attire – 'Bring Tibet to the 2008 Olympic Games' or 'Justice has been raped in Tibet' T-shirts, with Tibetan flags stiched into the bag of denim jeans, or the side of handbags. Finally brining up the rear were the young Tibetan men, long shaggy hair and silver rings looping ear lobes, replacing the more traditional long earrings worn by the nomadic Tibetan men. They appeared more relaxed in their step and more distracted by the tourists, of whom they walked next too. Tourists young and old; an elderly couple I had seen at the vigil, with matching red rain jackets, and hot wax dripping onto their stubborn fingers; a group of young Israeli's, speaking Hebrew and wearing 'Free Palestine' -sorry I mean 'Free Tibet' T-shirts; Spanish, British and some unidentified dreadlocks. The tourists walked with their small flames, small candles and small cameras. Interrupting their march by holding their camera in front or above them, participating but some how isolated. Unable to join the prayer, unable to speak Tibetan, able to return home.

I waited until the stragglers had passed and walked away, listening to the prayer as it faded while growing louder, as a large smiling peaceful face reappeared around the corner, and the monks, the young boys, the nuns, the old men, the women, the young men and the tourists continued to circumnavigate the town. Round and round in an infinite circle, until the candles had transformed into piles of wax, and the wet air turned to drizzle and finally into rain.

A Morning with His Holiness

The Dalai Lama is in town. First there was a rumour. Then A4 print outs in English and Tibetan began to appear on billboards – the Dalai Lama was going to be Teaching for three days – morning and afternoon and registration was required. A few days later there was a big movement of four wheel jeeps, driven by purple robed monks and with Tibetan flags flying from the corner of the bonnet. I took my passport, ridiculous photos taken after a bad day in Siliguri, and ten rupees to the Tibetan Security and Welfare Office. Minutes later I was handed my identity card which was stamped and signed and all I then needed was a hand held radio in order to listen to the English translation of the teachings. This was easy to find, and for 50 rupees I could rent one for the duration of the Teachings. I began to become excited. During my past explorations of Buddhism and time in Tibet I had read many books by the Dalai Lama. I also admire his ability to unite the Tibetan people and his clever public relations skills. And although I also have doubts of whether his politically pacifist stance will benefit his people, surely if all politicians followed his philosophy of showing humanity to all living beings, our world would be a much more peaceful and just place? The life of the Dalai Lama is also fascinating especially considering his background as a young boy chosen to replace his predecessor (as his predecessor), growing up in relative isolation from the world and then resigned to a life of exile outside of the country he was trained to lead.

The first morning of the Teachings arrived. I brought my yoga practice forward three hours – beginning at six rather than nine o'clock, and then I followed the stream of people to the Tsuglagkhang Complex. The security was surprisingly thorough – although friendly staff seemed to be checking more for cameras than for guns. I was frisked by a lovely Tibetan woman.

Spaces on the concrete were found at the back of the courtyard in front of the monastery. I sat close to the path leading to the Dalia Lama's house, after advice from Jake who has listened to his Teachings many times before. Apparently the path side 'seats' provided the closest view of the Dalai Lama as he walked back to his house from the monastery after the morning session. The Dalia Lama himself was already seated inside the monastery which was reserved for monks and nuns. Foreign tourists and lay people remained outside. Rather than having a view of the Dalai Lama, we foreigners had a view of a large television set, and once plugged into our rented radios began to hear the Dalai's words through another's mouth. I sat crossed legged on a yoga mat I had 'borrowed' from the centre, and stared far in front of me. The translation was delayed, and when relayed it seemed to be full of repetitions. However, I diligently listened to the words, following the explanations which I found disappointedly simple although I feared that my interpretations were drastically off the point, and if so then surely the teachings were also too complex for the lay people who surrounded me? After voicing my concerns I was told that the Dalai Lama had been sponsored to teach by a Korean group who had asked for an explanation of a specific Buddhist text. So I sat and persevered with my attention only distracted by a large pot of Tibetan tea, which I should have known better than to accept, but the offer from the monk who was pouring it was too charming to resist. So with my pink nalgene water bottle half full with bitter butter warm chai, I focused my attention on the reality, was that somehow I had ended up in northern India, sitting in front of the Dalai Lama's house, listening to him discuss the nature of the Self – its beginning and end and whether either even exist?

The Dalai Lama began by comparing different religious beliefs referring often to ancient Hindu texts as well as the monolithic religions and their reliance on a Creator God from whom the Self is given and to whom the Self (according to belief) will return. In contrast, the Dalai Lama explained that there are two beliefs in Buddhism: one which believes that there is a coming to an end of this Mind, and another which argues that there is no point of seeking Nirvana if the Self will disappear when it is found. He described the Mind as having reached a knowing nature if it has no opposing thoughts, which made me wonder how any thoughts are possible without knowing the opposite? As if knowledge is the absolution of balance? He explained that the true nature of the Mind is not polluted with evil thoughts but is an innate clear light – hence the term 'Enlightenment' - which would therefore mean that there is no end to this Self. Inanimate objects cannot be a counter force to carry the Mind on – only living beings. Therefore after death, the 'Self' continues as the Mind does not disappear into dust but continues the cycle until Enlightenment is achieved. So what about the innate nature of the Self? The Dalai Lama explained that like all living beings, the Self desires happiness rather than suffering. The Self – like all living beings – desire feelings of joy and avert feelings of pain. Ultimately this should mean that all beings have a Right to reach happiness and avert suffering. However, immediately there seems to be the Utilitarian paradox that the happiness of some may mean the pain of others? The Dalai Lama continued to explain that non-believers would be more concerned about immediate Happiness and Suffering rather than looking at ways to ultimately achieve Enlightenment, which suggests that the path to Enlightenment contains many sufferings as well as following only happiness. Likewise, other religions are also more concerned with the bigger questions of the beginning and the end of the Self than non-believers are. This is also the reason for the successes of Religion as it relieves the faithful from the reality of pain and suffering by promising redemption in the after life – or as in Buddhism, in another life (rebirth). This also eases one of the hardest challenges for the non-believer, which is to accept the absolute loss of the Self in death. In contrast Religions make the transition of death more comprehensible to our ego.

In Buddhism, the Dalai Lama explained that the Self must be committed to ending suffering, the root cause of which is ignorance, including our uncontrolled emotions and contaminated Karma. However, our lack of proper knowledge of the causes of suffering mean that we never escape, which is why Buddhism emphasises cultivating the wisdom of Right and Wrong: if we live 'Righteous' lives avoiding causing suffering for others then we increase our karmic wealth and for Buddhists this is the essence of dependent origination, which is that all results have causes and all causes have results. The two are mutually dependent on the other and there can be no result of suffering without a cause.

As I sat and listened and thought about the virtues of having a national leader committed to such a philosophy and then of the ironies that the national leader was unable to lead his nation. The Tsuglagkhang Complex was full of monks and nuns sitting immediately in front of their Teacher – who we foreigners could only watch on a television screen. Meanwhile, Tibetan men and women sat on the grass or concrete, listening, watching and then jumping into action as soon as the teachings finished, and it became clear that for some the purpose of the Teachings was for them to catch a glimpse of their exiled leader/ leader in exile. After two hours the Teachings ended and quickly a surge of monks appeared from down the stairs, while people moved to the side of the path. I also sat up, watching, waiting, until I saw a four wheel drive pull up outside of the monastery, pack inside the Dalai Lama and some monks and then drive the 50 meters to his house. I saw him smile and wave, and felt disappointed for the many Tibetans posed in prostration.

I didn't attend the next two days of Teachings...

Kindness

Some words from a local:

Right from the moment of our birth

we are under the care and kindness of our parents.

Then later on in our life,

when we are oppressed by sickness and become old

we are again dependent on the kindness of others.

Since it is the case that at the beginning and end of our lives

we are so dependent on others kindness,

how can it be that in the middle we neglect kindness towards others?

Dalia Lama XIV

A Celebration of Human Rights Violations

I walked down into Mcleod Ganj yesterday morning to find the streets eerily quiet. Metal shutters had yet to be pulled up, locked doors had still to be opened. Even the Takhyil Peace Cafe – where I usually sit and drink chai while reading 'messages to Tibetans' remained with a large padlock bolted to the front door. The scene reminded me of a similar one nearly four years ago, when I woke up in the Occupied Palestinian Territories to find the day delayed in beginning. The reason then had been that President Arafat had died. The reason yesterday was that the Olympic Games had officially began in Beijing. The people of Mcleod Ganj were not mourning a death, but the loss of their country. For the next five days the shops will remain closed in the morning – not in response to a public strike but because the Tibetan shop keepers are demonstrating. Posters plastered around Mcleod Ganj read “A Celebration of Human Rights Violations, Beijing 2008”. And here this is exactly what the 2008 Olympic Games is viewed as - international support for the Chinese violation of Tibetan Human Rights. Each morning women, men and children of all ages and professions are standing together, arms raised high, Mount Kalish waving to the sun, and marching down to Dharamasala. The demonstrations are their way of expressing their frustration, of showing their solidarity with their families, friends and country and of shouting out to the media “We are here! Do not forget Us! Do not forget Tibet!” And these calls to the international community are coming quick and fast.

Yesterday morning, the non-violent Gandhi styled direction action group the Tibetan Peoples Uprising Movement organised a peaceful demonstration of over 2000 people in Dharamsala. World wide Tibetan solidarity groups coordinated a massive public display of international solidarity through the lighting of candles. Countries all over the world participated in the vigil, with protesters in New York even shaving their heads as a symbolic gesture of support for Tibetans. And unlike the passing of the Olympic torch, there were no demonstrations against the lighting of these millions of flames.

Yesterday evening I followed the flags towards the Tsuglagkhang Complex and walked into a court yard full of candles. Nuns, Monks, mothers, fathers, young men and women, Press and tourists stood or sat, together, with one common thought in mind. Yellow t-shirts talking about the 'Rape of Tibet' or with the words “Bring Tibet to the 2008 Olympic Games” stood next to the polyester black jackets with the words 'Team Tibet 08' printed on the back. For others activist fashion was not needed to show their allegiance; old Tibetan women with their hair plated and striped apron wrapped around their padded waists stood next to the maroon colours of the robed monks and the nuns. As posters displayed around the town stated “One World, One Dream, Free Tibet. An Olympic opportunity to Make History for Tibet. ” And some – both Tibetans and tourists have not yet (in this lifetime) been to Tibet, but have either inherited the sense of injustice as second generation refugees or become influenced by emotive stories of injustice. The courtyard was not full, but with several hundred candles being held by several hundred pairs of hands it was an impressive show. The Tibetan flag which is banned in China, but which that same day was hung by Tibetan activists in the Olympic stadium, despite the presence of over 100,000 Chinese police, was everywhere in Mcleod Ganj: waved above heads, hanging off shoulders and wrapped around robed backs. Immediately the strength of the fifty year old exile community made itself clear. The activism here is real. It is not left for the international conflict tourists or protesters for peace.

The majority of activists in Mcleod Ganj are the refugees who want their country back. They want to return 'home' despite being 'free' here, in the Tibetan India which they have 'legally' occupied. And maybe this is why there is a difference between the strength of the peaceful activism in Mcleod Ganj compared to the combination of 'fighting activism' juxtaposed against other refugee communities such as the passive hopelessness felt in the Occupied Palestinian Territory's. Here the Tibetan refugees have the luxury to protest – they have houses, jobs and education. They have a strong communication networks through which to organise and the freedom of expression and movement to then act. In the Occupied Palestinian Territories all to often activism is left to the fighters as the majority of the people try to hold on to a semblance of 'normality' by continuing a 'normal' life within the ever increasing restrictions of the Wall, check posts, prisons and incursions. And it is contrast between the 'Free' and 'Unfree' which was stressed throughout the candlelight vigil.

The vigil began with morale raising speeches in Tibetan to Tibetans. Next came a symbolic speech of thanks to the foreigners in the audience: “You Love Freedom and so do we” spoke the English words from a 'Tibetan' mouth to an international community. This mention of 'Freedom' is one which was repeated in various forms throughout the evening. Freedom is an ideal which is most passionately defended by those who have realised its absence and therefore now realise its importance. The majority of refugees left Tibet precisely because – unlike you and I - they were not 'Free'. They were being persecuted, threatened with imprisonment or torture, prevented from travelling, unable to speak freely about their religion, and in some extreme cases subjected to mass sterilisation. The monks and nuns (who are viewed by the Chinese government as the ring leaders of civil unrest) were prevented from studying the Buddhist philosophy in its traditional form and because of their allegiance to the Dalia Lama, they remain under constant suspicion. The majority of Tibetan Political Prisoners are Buddhist Monks. Ultimately the vigil was “dedicated to the Tibetans still in Tibet”.

The Tibetan voice speaking in English spoke of Our responsibility to “Convince the Global Community that there is No Freedom in Tibet.” Almost as if the inaction of the international community was a result of our lack of knowledge of the situation of Tibet and in Tibet. Which is itself a falsity as Tibet has been on the activist agenda for nearly fifty years. We know of the injustices there. The 'injustices' are - unlike the Occupied Palestinian Territories - not defended by the uninformed. We accept that China is the aggressor, that China invaded Tibet, conducted human and cultural genocide, and took away certain basic freedoms. And yet despite this knowledge, we, the international community actively supported, condoned and made possible the holding of one of the biggest historic international sporting events in China.

It is this contrast between the Tibetans living within the traditional borders and those living in India which has both prompted and allowed the exiles to fight for their brothers and sisters. The exiles are 'free' in that although they have been forced from their country, family and friends, they can live a life like You and I. They can live a life without persecution for being a certain nationality, they can conduct cultural practices, talk about their beliefs and actively learn rather than just inherit their Buddhist religion. The Tibetan exiles in Mcleod Ganj – like You and I - can talk about what they want, travel where they want (within India), work and have minimal interference within their personal sphere and to a certain extent their social sphere. In contrast, the vigil asked us to remember the continuing injustices which we are not experiencing, and therefore which do not immediately effect us and yet that is still within our collective power to do something about. It was the injustices inside Tibet, and Tibetans relative isolation from this 'international community' that the speaker was stressing. Ever since the demonstrations five months ago in March, China has slammed shut it's (and Tibet's) borders. Media coverage has been suppressed even further as have the daily lives of Tibetans and suspected political activists still inside those borders. There is a feeling of comarade and solidarity among the exiles who come from all across Tibet. Such sentiments were vocalised by one of the present Tibetan Youth Congress hunger strikers when he stated “Tibetans in Tibet have to endure much more, so I can also endure much more pain.”

After the speeches came a final call to the individuals competing in the games, which echoed a large banner hung in front of the crowd reading:

“To the Athletes, Speak for the Truth and Justice, Speak for Tibet.”

The words were surrounded by tiny flames growing brighter as the night grew darker and together the appeals really brought to mind the political weight of the decision to hold the Olympic Games in Beijing. Regardless of the athletes own personal motivation to win their medals and represent their country, this politicalisation can not be denied. As the people stood together holding their candles in the Tsuglagkhang Complex and in the hundreds of countries around the world these Olympic Games are clearly not just about sport. China itself used the Olympic torch as a statement of its 'legal' occupation of Tibet by not only passing the flame through Lhasa but also through gaining the passive support of the international community. Tibet is a small country, trying to stand up against a massive nation which seemingly has the backing of all the countries participating in these games. The Tibetan English voice over the microphone remained optimistic: “China is not invincible. It can be beat. The issue of Tibet will not be over.”

The speeches ended with a song. The song was led by a women, and followed by all who understood. I don't know exactly what the song was but I could hear that it was sang in Tibetan, and I could hear that it was sang with passion. Perhaps the ousted national anthem – but I did not need to know the translation to understand the meaning. Standing outside of the Dalia Lama's house and behind a sea of fire, lighting up banners of resistance, the foreign words were incomprehensibly powerful. As I wrote at the time:

“Full of power, filled with sadness. The rhythm changes. Louder. Faster. Energy. Determination. Memories of the Past and dreams of the Future together in this Present limbo of no mans land. Indian Tibet – Tibetan India. Singing together for a remembered Land with different borders – singing together for a different Tibet.”

The united voice ended with a united cheer – fire to the sky. The united voice ended with a cheer of an English English voice, shouting “Free Tibet” and then by the Tibetan English voice shouting, “Let us Unite – the Exiles and the Free.” Finally a message to us all: “Please continue to support Our efforts. Thank you very much”.

Tibetan People's Uprising Movement

Tibetan Youth Congress

The official web tv of the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA)

Phayul

The Official Website of the Central Tibetan Administration

Message for Tibetans

From an individual Tibetan

Without a name I express

Wake up and Stand up for our Rights

What are we waiting for?

No others will get our Rights for us

We have to stand up with Unity to get our Rights

Now the time has come

What are we waiting for?

Get up. Stand up.

Our brothers and sisters are being killed in Tibet

They are dying for our Rights

Let there be Unity

Lets be One.

(China we are coming back to our country. Salute to the Martyrs in Tibet)

A4 print out on the wall of Takhyil Peace Cafe, Mcleod Ganj

Re-Connecting

Walking down Jogibara road today and I was greeted by a smiling face and a large umbrella tent. Jake! Our fellow escapee from Darjeeling! The world is small, and lives continue to connect without plans and without coincidence. We sat in a small hut of a chai shop and swapped stories. Jake and Shreb had spent three days stranded in a local monastery (although stranded definitely implies negative connotations and with the bottle of rum and Tibetan words to be spoken that is clearly misleading) before travelling to Kathmandu. They were welcomed in Kathmandu by another strike. So Jake decided to leave and now he is here. Studying Tibetan and walking and talking. He told me stories of others who had hiked 37 days from Siliguri to Kathmandu and then resumed his role as tour guide and took me on a walking tour of Mcleod Ganj. Within only a matter of hours the town revealed monasteries above shops and behind hotels, we walked between roughly cobbled streets wedged between simple houses packed along the sloping hills. We visited the Dali Lama's official residence, the Tsuglagkhang Complex, where he explained the meanings of certain Buddhist symbolism while apologising for not being an expert in Thanka art. He patiently answered the hundreds of questions which popped into my head at nearly every corner. He explained the local exile dialect – which is incomprehensible to newly arrived refugees but which helps the confusion of tongues from around Tibet to communicate in India. The exile dialect is called ra ma lu which literally translates into goat female goat.

Once again I am amazed at how I continue to feel so at 'home' at places I have never visited before and so far away from my 'origins'. The persistent question asked by nearly every traveller of “where am I from” needs to be re-evaluated for now it holds little relevance to me. At the moment I have come from Kashmir, before then Ladakh, before then Manali, Delhi, Kolkata, Bangkok, Tonsai, Koh Tao and so on. New friends appear as old ones leave, old friends stay waiting to be re discovered. Connections continue – in/visible.

Indian Tibet - Tibetan India

Feeling incredibly happy. Really loving McLeod Ganj, which is once again warning me of the transience of my first impressions. Cool Rider and I arrived at midnight after sixteen hours of intense riding. We wound our way up a dark hill, through several police check points and into the centre of the town. The light of our old Enfield bike shined on sign after sign: Tourist Central. Billboards advertising hotels, cafes, yoga classes, meditation, Indian cooking classes, Tibetan cooking classes, caperioa, Hindi lessons, ayruvedic massage etc etc etc. This was not the place I wanted to be. I had arrived at the centre of the exiled Tibetan government and the main destination for Tibetan Refugees and I felt as if I was at a ski resort out of season, and not only that but a ski resort in Israel. Even the shop keepers spoke Hebrew as packs of Israelis straight out of their en/forced military service monopolised the restaurents and guest houses. We drove up to the small town above McLeod Ganj – Bhagsu. My 2000 edition of the Lonely Planet had described Bhagsu as a much quieter place, with a bubbling stream and a cold water spring. We came face to face with a river filled with rubbish and a car park filled with auto-rickshaws.

The next morning I woke early, apprehensive. I walked the 20 minutes back down the hill which only a few hours before we had stuttered our way up. The walk was quiet. No cars. Only a view of rolling green hills, muffled by the falling mist. Lord Elgin – one of the British viceroys to India requested to be buried in McLeod Ganj because it reminded him so much of Scotland – I guess that is a Scotland with hills half the size and without 200,000 thousand Tibetan refugees. As the road from Bhagsu fell down into McLeod Ganj I realised that the busy market streets were filled with 'local' people – and by local I mean Tibetan as the 'local' Indian population is scarcely visible. There were no other tourists in sight. In fact compared to Leh, this place is a virtual tourist desert. Even the number of volunteers is not comparable to the massive influx of religious, poverty and good will Volunteer Tourists of Kolkata. And this is not a party place either. Apparently there is only one restaurant which sells alcohol, and from the quantity of locally produced apples, I am guessing it is mainly fermented cider. The tourists here seem to stay for a while – they come to catch a glimpse of the Dalai Lama, to learn about Buddhism or just out of curiosity and once they are here they learn about something partly related or totally obscure – macraem for example is a popular 'ropes course' teaching tourists the ancient Arabian art of knotting after which they will be able to purchase crystals and precious stones from the rock piles outside of every shop and transform them into 'ethnic jewellery'. The place seems like a magnet for anything 'alternative' or as my Irish Priest friend would say 'Hippy'. And perhaps this is why I now don't mind the 'tourists' here – because they are quiet, and humble and ok probably totally stoned on locally produced, wildly growing Indian hashish but if it wasn't for the tourists, then the local Tibetan refugee community would certainly be struggling.

What confused me when I first arrived was the absence of an Indian population: Where were the inhabitants who lived here before 1959? Even the Indian waiters are here looking for seasonal employment – and like the Nepali's in Leh they are also visters: working in northern India in the monsoon and Goa in the summer. The other Indians are either pilgrims coming to visit Bhagsu's Shiva Temple built by the raja of Kangra in the 16^th century or tourists. They walk down the hill barefoot and 'bindied', or spin down on motorbikes, three to a seat, shouting nothing and red flags flying. All the begging children are Indian – working - as they follow the tourists with eyes open wide and hands extended, only to then turn around to an Indian gang leader and non nonchalantly hand over their palm of coins. In contrast the Tibetan community here appears to be very strong. They have welfare committees, government offices and official and unofficial social networks of old family friends who support new arrivals. Those who are less wealthy are probably already connected to a nunnery or a monastery – which provides food, shelter and education.

After a few persistent questions I have found out that indeed tension does exist between the old and the new – the Indian and the Tibetan – but that relations are better than before. In 1994 after continuous fighting between the two groups of young men, the Dalai Lama actually agreed to move the exiled community. While looking for a new area he spoke at a conference in the south. The meeting was attended by Tibetans from all over India, as well as tourists. McLeod Ganj emptied and for one week the local Indian population realised their symbiotic relationship with the Tibetans – without them there would be no tourists and with no tourists there would be no business. So apparently now relations are better.

As for me? As I have said: I am incredible happy. I am finally going to pursue one of my long time dreams, and I have began to practice Ashtanga Yoga with a teacher called Vijay. The classes are between six and seven hours a day, the teaching fantastic and ultimately I will be certified as a Ashtanga teacher after fifty days. This also leaves a few hours in the day for me to learn more about the local refugee community, and in the evenings I have began to volunteer for an organisations called Gu Chu Sum.

Life is about balance, and luckily I have the means to realise that balance. After over two months in the madness of Kolkata – in a dirty city full of poverty and inhumanity I am now in the foothills of the Himalayas – totally focused on my physical and mental energies. The persistent guilt which I feel for not being proactive is still simmering, but it is being dampened by the opportunities to continue to learn and for new forms of social work. Time has taught me that for continuity I need inner strength, which is fragile but accumulative. I still miss Gita, but that can only be a good thing – for otherwise our relationship would have been too superficial. Now I have the space and the peace to reflect on what Kolkata has taught me, and to decide how best to use my freedoms to continue to learn about our World.