My time at the camp flew by. Perhaps because every day was
exactly the same. In my dormitory, with 20 other men, we’d be awoken by
airhorns at 5 a.m., tidy up our bunk beds, wash up, stand upright for a roll
call, then go to the canteen, eat, then go to the classroom, study Maoism,
Communism, study Mandarin, study the PRC Constitution, Chinese history, and
watch propaganda videos.
Every lesson would begin and end with us passionately singing
patriotic songs. Our teachers were police officers; all of them old, cagey, and
having serious, sunken, grim facial features, with loads of bluish spots around
their thin, jagged faces.
Then, after classes, we’d have lunch, which was the biggest
meal of the day. It was standard Chinese fare, rice, noodles, meats, fried
everything… I must admit that the food at the camp was surprisingly tasty. This
was undoubtably due to the kitchen staff receiving specialized culinary
training in preparation for posts at 5-star hotels, high-end restaurants, and
military bases throughout China.
Following lunch, afternoons were spent doing light labor
around the camp- cleaning, landscaping, farming. Everyone had an assigned task.
Some were assigned to a factory on the site that produced children’s toys.
After dinner, we’d take evening exercise, usually running,
walking, or marching in place. This was followed by nightly assemblies, where
speakers, generally police or low-ranking party members, would deliver
motivational speeches or we’d be shown propaganda films. Afterward, we’d return
to our bunks and wash up before lights out.
Most there, including myself, followed the program. I told
them what they wanted to hear. I read the propaganda with gusto. There were few
who resisted. I only saw one who talked back to a guard, in the canteen, and he
was beaten severely by that guard and the guard’s guard comrades. The guards
made a point of beating him in front of us, kicking and lashing the man, who’d
crumpled up and sobbed into a defensive ball on the canteen’s white linoleum
floor.
There were “points” we could earn for informing on a fellow
prisoner, points which could help us possibly get released early. But I never
saw or heard of anybody doing anything suspicious or subversive. And I don’t
think I’d tell if I did, although I might have had to, because if I didn’t,
there were also penalties you could receive if you didn’t tell the guards about
suspicious or illegal, immoral behavior.
So I kept quiet and avoided any unnecessary interactions
with my fellow prisoners. I kept my head down. I followed orders.
Now and then, at night, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d lie in my
bunk and would reflect on what my grandfather had said, about this being karma,
Tibet’s punishment for abandoning the dharma. Would this be atonement? Keeping
quiet? Shouting Chinese slogans? I hoped so. But most of the feelings, ideas I
had soon died. My mind went quiet. My soul was numb, like my back and shoulders
had turned when I was beaten. I stopped having feelings and allowed my place,
my spot in the universe to be whatever it would be. I surrendered…
At my release hearing, I was praised as a model prisoner. I
was assigned a job as a tour guide, which shocked me, because it was nothing
I’d ever done before. But I realized that if they feared the foreigners
receiving bad news about Tibet, I would be the perfect person to not spread bad
news, since I was fully aware of bad news’ and rumors’ consequences.
Once I’d returned home, my family, my wife, and young
daughter, were overjoyed to see me. Springing at me with soft puppy dog eyes
when I walked in the door of my home, they hugged me tightly. We cried tears of
joy and anguish. I hadn’t seen them in three years.
We’ve never once discussed why I was gone. There’s no need.
Others in my village have had the same experience. Many remain in the camps. I
know how lucky I am to return. Buddha is merciful…
Tibet is often closed for foreigners, so most of the time,
I’m in my office, which is on the second floor of a government complex, just
outside the city. The complex is enormous. It’s a long horizontal line, a
series of identical square, glassy concrete office buildings. However, most of
the buildings and offices in the complex sit empty, unused...
I’m often sitting alone in my office, watching soccer, or
I’m with a Chinese coworker from down the hall. I don’t know what his job is,
and I’ve never asked. He doesn’t appear to work much or ever be in a hurry.
Many days, he doesn’t show up to work at all.
There’s a Tibetan security guard I play cards with, in my
office. We smoke cigarettes and chat. Our talks are always about European
soccer. He hinted once at gambling on matches, but I pretended to not hear it.
I collect a regular government salary, which is generous,
more than I earned as a teacher. I’ll have a good pension. My family receives
state healthcare. Life’s okay.
The foreigners they assign me are almost always curious to
know about Tibet, its culture, history, but few ask about politics. Many ask me
to help them buy drugs. They think every Tibetan smokes hash. I’ve never smoked
anything but cigarettes.
Occasionally a foreigner will ask about the Dalai Lama or a
sensitive issue; they’ll twist their eyebrows into question marks, speak in
hushed tones, innuendos, expecting me to utter a revelation, picking at me for
something they can post to Facebook. But I don’t answer any of the foreigners’
questions that would have me in trouble. I avoid unnecessary interactions. I
stick to the script. What would it matter anyway? What would it matter if I
spilled my guts to one of these snow-skinned, yellow-haired, blue-eyed men or
women?
My grandfather told me that the world knows of Tibet’s
plight. I read of it online, too. I read of it before, in an internet café,
when we could access foreign media sites. I’d use the BBC, YouTube to study
English, to gather learning materials for my classes. I saw articles about
Tibet. Maybe they still speak of Tibet, I don’t know. I can’t access those
sites anymore. They’ve been shut down.
And these days, I wouldn’t even try to find them. In a
neighboring village, a college student was recently arrested for selling VPN
software that enabled users to bypass China’s internet censorship controls,
allowed access to foreign news. For his crime, he was sentenced to two years of
hard labor…
Not only is foreign media banned, but there are times, too,
around holidays or anniversaries, the entire Internet is shut down for a day or
week…
Does the world know about Tibet? Does the world know of our
plight? Does the UN know? Yes, of course they do! The world knows everything
about us. They know about our leader, His Holiness, The Dalai Lama. They know
that it’s illegal to place a picture of the Dalai Lama anywhere, even in our
private homes. They know it’s illegal to fly the Tibetan national flag, even in
our private homes. They know. They know!
They know what’s happened here and what is happening here.
But, to be frank, they do not care. No one cares about Tibet. Most Tibetans
don’t care anymore. Our youngest children can barely speak Tibetan. Tibetan
language has been banned in schools. There are Tibetan children in Lhasa who
only speak Chinese. There are children in Lhasa who call themselves Chinese.
And no one cares. No one cares. The world has turned its
back on us.
Tibet is a country that doesn’t even exist. We’re just
ghosts.
