Of monks, monasteries, and mantras on the roof of the world. A trip to Tibet is more than just a vacation. It is a journey to an extraordinary people who have retained their authenticity despite officially belonging to China. Tibet unsettles and reconciles, leaving you in awe and contemplative.
"Just a moment," says Yun Den when we Germans move too impatiently in the thin air. Because it's not just the altitude that makes life difficult on the roof of the world. Countless jostling Chinese tourists, the constant feeling of being watched by guards on every corner, and strictly regulated residents—in Tibet, peace and freedom are limited. And yet you can experience both. In a prayer hall full of murmuring monks. At a sacred lake at an altitude of 5,000 meters. Or in the silence on a bench in front of a monastery.
From Tibetan boy to Chinese man
Yun Den wants to be a farmer. Like his father. And his grandfather. They grew barley and herded a few yaks. As a young boy, Yun Den attends elementary school in the nearest large town, about 50 kilometers from his home village. On Sundays, his father takes him by horse-drawn cart to the boarding school he attends. On Fridays, he is picked up again in the same way. But one day, his father is waiting for Yun Den with a small red tractor. The red Chinese flag flutters on the vehicle. "The Chinese government is good," says his father, "they give us money for a new tractor." Ten of these tractors arrived in the village at the same time. "And now we have electricity too." He proudly shows Yun Den the new pylons and shiny cables. Like memorials, the steel giants stand proudly in the idyllic valley, looking down on the babbling mountain stream, the green meadows, and grazing yaks. The red flag also flies on the roof of the house, between the four guardian Buddhas and prayer flags. Yun Den has to attend elementary school for four years before he is sent to a secondary school in Beijing. This is the fate that awaits all Tibetan children. They are not allowed to go home for three years. When they return as teenagers, the little Tibetan boys have become Chinese men.
Journey into contradiction
Today, Yun is our tour guide. He learned a little German in Beijing and taught himself a few words of English. A Tibetan picks us up at the airport in Lhasa. Without a guide and driver, it is almost impossible for tourists to get around in Tibet. A few hours ago, we landed here in the capital of Tibet, 3,650 meters above sea level. This is a country with a turbulent history dating back to the 7th century. It was occupied by the Mongols, became a pawn in the interests of England and Russia, and at times did not even have fixed borders. In 1951, the Chinese marched in and in 1965 declared it an autonomous region of Tibet under the administration of the People's Republic of China. To this day, this status is controversial under international law, and unrest continues. Patience is required at customs. As one of the first foreign groups since Tibet was closed last year, we try to obtain an entry permit. We are told that there must be at least five of us from the same country. There are only four of us. The Chinese customs officers shake their heads. Our luggage is searched with meticulous precision, every book is leafed through – an image of the Dalai Lama, or even just the mention of his name in the table of contents, is enough for the literature to be confiscated. But I wanted to go to Tibet. Despite all the difficulties and the Foreign Office's warnings that it would be almost impossible. My first impressions of the highest country on earth inevitably enchant me. The light that makes all colors appear piercingly sharp. Unfamiliar sounds from prayer wheels and gongs. Red-robed monks on every street corner and Tibetan pilgrims walking clockwise around the Jokhang, falling to the ground every two steps to pray. Yun Den doesn't like the Chinese. He makes no secret of this, even though he is forbidden from making any anti-Chinese statements. "If I get caught, my guide license will be revoked," he grins, "so don't say anything, okay?" A journey through Tibet is a journey of the most contradictory emotions. With subtle precision, the Chinese government is pushing ahead with the process of rethinking, with Chinese characters, buildings, and prohibitions replacing the old Tibet. But most people wouldn't even notice this, says Yun Den. The picture also includes armed guards whose constant control even tourists must submit to. When I pull out my camera in Ganden, Chinese militia immediately stand next to me and want me to show them my last pictures. If they had been in the picture, I would have had to hand over my camera. The red state power creates a certain paranoia. That, too, is Tibet.
"Om mani padme hum"
The air is hazy with smoke from countless burning butter candles. We are at an altitude of 4,200 meters, and breathing is difficult. The monks murmur as they read from their prayer books. In one corner, an old man dressed in red monotonously strikes a gong. If you linger here, the vibrations and the smoke-filled air quickly cast a spell on you and an almost mediumistic state sets in. "Om mani padme hum" – Oh, you jewel in the lotus flower. Again and again, you encounter these words: on the stacked stones in the mountains, on the prayer flags, in the prayer wheels. In this way, they are sent to heaven to support one's own transformation into a pure body, pure speech, and pure consciousness. Stepping out into the bright light, I need a moment to find my way back to the present. A monk sits on a wall, a small cat on his lap. He instructs me to sit down with him. We both stroke the little animal, no words are spoken. Suddenly, he discovers a small wooden cross on my backpack, picks it up, and examines it. I take it off, place it in his hand, nod, and smile at him. He motions for me to wait, puts the kitten on the ground, and disappears. A short time later, he is back with a handful of dried apricots, which he hands to me. That, too, is Tibet. Yun Den says goodbye to me. Our small tour group has completed a three-week tour. As we march toward the border—he is not allowed to accompany us, of course—I look back once more. But Yun Den has already turned away. He is on his way back to his country, which is no longer really his.
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