The Dalai Lama’s Little Book of Inner Peace. Литагент HarperCollins USD

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 the secular point of view, a visit to India seemed to offer me the very opportunity I wanted to withdraw from my close contact and fruitless arguments with the Chinese, at least for a time. Not only that – I hoped it would also give me a chance to ask the advice of Mr Nehru, other democratic leaders, and followers of Mahatma Gandhi.

      

      For a long time, we had had friendly contacts with the British government of India. In fact, that had been our only contact with the Western world. But since the transfer of power to the Indian government, political contact with India had faded away and I was sure that we must try to renew it and keep it strong, as a lifeline to the world of tolerance and freedom. I cannot emphasize enough how isolated Tibet felt politically. So I left Lhasa at the end of November 1956, looking forward to being able to move around freely without having to worry about the Chinese.

      

      My very first visit on my first morning in New Delhi was to the Rajghat, the place of cremation of Mahatma Gandhi. I was deeply moved as I prayed there on the green lawns which slope down to the Jamuna River. I wished most fervently that I had had the privilege of meeting Gandhi in this world, and, at the same time, felt tremendous joy thinking of the amazing example of his life. I saw in him, and still see in him today, a consummate statesman who believed in altruism over and above all personal considerations. Like him, I am convinced that non-violence is the best political weapon.

      

      On my first meeting with Pandit Nehru, I explained to him in detail how the Chinese had invaded our peaceful country and how I had tried dialogue with them once I realized that no other nation was ready to defend our right to independence. He began by listening very politely, but gradually his gaze became more and more vacant. Finally he said that he understood me perfectly, but was firmly convinced that nothing could be done for Tibet at present. Nevertheless, I confided in him about my idea of going into exile in India. Once again he gave me the brush off, and advised me to go back to my country and try to get on with the Chinese. I said that I had already done all I possibly could to do that, but the Chinese had betrayed my trust.

      

      Before leaving Delhi, I had one last meeting with Nehru. Things had to be clear: India could in no way help Tibet. He entreated me to follow the advice of Chou En-lai and to go back to Lhasa without stopping in Kalimpong, a town in northern India where I had been invited by the Tibetan refugee