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—just 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 where the boy studies. On Friday, he’s picked up 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’re giving 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 utility poles and gleaming cables. Like monuments, the steel giants stand tall in the idyllic valley, looking down on the babbling mountain stream, the green meadows, and the grazing yaks. The red flag also flutters on the roof of the house. Amid the four Guardian Buddhas and prayer flags. Yun Den must attend elementary school for four years before being sent to a secondary school in Beijing. This is the fate that awaits all Tibetan children. For three years, they are not allowed to return home. By the time they return as teenagers, the little Tibetan boys have become Chinese men.
Journey into contradiction
Today, Yun Den is our tour guide. He learned a little German in Beijing and taught himself a few words of English. A Tibetan man picks us up at the Lhasa airport. As a tourist in Tibet, you’re hardly allowed to get around without a guide and a driver. We landed here a few hours ago, in the capital of Tibet, 3,650 meters above sea level. In this country with such an eventful history, dating back to the 7th century. It was also occupied by the Mongols, became a pawn in the interests of England and Russia, and at times didn’t even have defined national borders. In 1951, the Chinese marched in, and in 1965 they declared the Tibet Autonomous Region an administrative unit of the People’s Republic of China.
To this day, this status remains controversial under international law, and the unrest continues.
Trip to Tibet: Customs and First Impressions
Patience is key at customs. As one of the first foreign groups since Tibet was closed off last year, we’re trying to obtain an entry permit. We’re told there must be at least five of us from the same country. But there are only four of us. The Chinese customs officers shake their heads. Our luggage is searched with meticulous thoroughness; every book is leafed through—a single image of the Dalai Lama, or even just the mention of his name in the table of contents, is enough for the books to be confiscated. But I wanted to go to Tibet—despite all the difficulties and the German Foreign Office’s warnings that it would be nearly impossible.
My first impressions of the highest country on Earth inevitably enchant me. The light that makes all colors appear strikingly vivid. Unfamiliar sounds—from prayer wheels and gongs. Monks in red robes on every street corner and Tibetan pilgrims circling the Jokhang clockwise, prostrating themselves on the ground every two steps as they pray. But Yun Den doesn’t like the Chinese. He makes no secret of it, even though he’s forbidden from making any anti-Chinese statements. “If they catch me, I’ll lose my guide’s license,” 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 driving forward the process of re-education; Chinese characters, buildings, and prohibitions are supplanting the old Tibet.
Most people wouldn’t even notice this, though, says Yun Den. The scene also includes armed guards, whose constant scrutiny even tourists must submit to. When I pull out my camera in Ganden, a Chinese militiaman immediately stands next to me and wants me to show him my most recent photos. If they had been in the pictures, I would have had to hand over my camera. The red state apparatus also fosters a certain paranoia. That, too, is Tibet.
"Om mani padme hum"
The air is thick with smoke from the countless burning butter candles. We are at an altitude of 4,200 meters, which makes breathing difficult. The monks murmur as they read from their prayer books. In one corner, an elderly man dressed in red strikes a gong monotonously. If you linger here, the vibrations and the smoke-filled air quickly cast a spell over you, and an almost trance-like state sets in. “Om mani padme hum”—O jewel in the lotus flower. You encounter these words again and again: on the stacked stones in the mountains, on the prayer flags, and in the prayer wheels. In this way, they are sent up to heaven to support one’s own transformation into a pure body, pure speech, and pure consciousness.
As I step out into the glaring light, it takes me a moment to find my bearings again. A monk is sitting on a wall, a little cat on his lap. He motions for me to sit down next to him. We both stroke the little animal; no words are spoken. Suddenly, he spots 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, sets the kitten on the ground, and disappears. A short time later, he’s back.
With a handful of dried apricots, which he hands to me. That, too, is Tibet.
Journey to Tibet: Farewell to Yun Den
Yun Den then says goodbye to me. Our small tour group has completed a three-week tour. As we march toward the border—he isn’t allowed to accompany us, of course—I look back one last time. But Yun Den has already turned away. He’s on his way back to his country, which isn’t really his anymore.
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