May 30, 2010
Prompted by: Dami
Sam sighed to herself. She had come here expecting to save the world, or have a mystical revelation or something. She had been saving for this trip for three years. Every month a small part of the meager paycheck from her part time job during college went to the Tibet fund. Two weeks after graduation, a political science degree fresh in her possession, she boarded the plane with all the pent up ambition of her school years.
It was not to see the region as a tourist. She wanted to see the country as a scientist. She wanted to see it as a local might. It was everything she could hope for. There was a modern day resistance going on. A silent refusal of the rule of the Big Red Government by the pacifistic local peoples. The events of the coming years could determine the future of the world. “Surely, a small part of southwest China couldn’t affect us,” said her friends. She believed there was a deeper, psychological connection with Tibet than most people would realize, and certainly more than they would admit. The people of Tibet offered a last bastion of hope. They refused to give in, and yet they refused to resort to the violence favored by so much of the civilized world. A victory of the people here could return hope to those in the western world, an unstoppable wave. Somewhere in Tibet was hidden Pandora’s fragile butterfly. She just had to find it.
She started at the university, meeting with a fellow American student who had been attending school in Lhasa. After a week of acclimatizing to the local culture, she began her formal interviews. First an overview of their place in the community, socio-economic position, traditions, and religious beliefs. Then gradually she introduced a few more pointed questions regarding Chinese occupation, and the exile of the Dalai Lama. The work was made slow due to the necessity of a translator. The results were often too vague to be immediately useful.
At the end of her month long tenure she had interviewed dozens of people. She had notebooks full of her field scribbles. A pouch bulging with full audio tapes was tucked in her luggage. Despite this she had not found the secret she had been looking for. The people were not hesitant to talk about their desire for the Chinese government to leave them to their own devices. Yet, none of them seemed particularly distraught by this actuality. None of them seemed frustrated by the lack of progress on the liberation front. Couldn’t they see the situation they were in! She was angry for them.
Stolidly, she gazed out the window of the tired taxi she sat in. The lights of the approaching Lhasa Gonggar Airport made neon waves through the cracked, rain-streaked window of the cab. She pulled to a stop next to a large sign written in English, Tibeten, and Chinese. “Namaste.” She bowed to the driver and payed her fare. A monstrous red flag fluttered at the top of a towering flag pole. She couldn’t help but smile. Hidden from view of the road, a small string of colorful prayer flags tied together the sign and pole. Even here, the resistance was on.