The flat pasturelands around Lhasa were transformed into training grounds for the troops. New regiments were formed, and the national assembly decided to call on the richer classes to furnish and equip another thousand men. It was left to them to enlist in person or to find substitutes. Courses were organized for the training as officers of monks and civil officials. There was a great deal of patriotic enthusiasm.
In the former days, people had not bothered much about the army. The district communities had had to supply their contingents with provisions and supplementary pay. Now the authorities recognized the importance of regular organization, and established fixed rates of pay for officers and men.
It was not easy, at the outset, to supply the needs of the new army. The whole transport system was overworked. The necessary grain had often to be fetched from far-distant depots. These storehouses, which are to be found in all regions where crops are plentiful, are huge, windowless, stone buildings ventilated by holes in the walls. Here the grain can lie for decades without going bad, owing to the dryness of the air. But now they were quickly emptied, for provisions would have to be stored in the neighborhood of the fighting line if it came to war. Nevertheless, the country was not threatened with a shortage of foodstuffs. If a wall were built around Tibet, no one would suffer from cold or starvation, as everything necessary for the needs of the three million inhabitants is found in the country in one form or another. The military kitchens supplied plentiful meals, and the soldiers’ pay enabled them to buy cigarettes and chang. The troops were contented.
In the Tibetan army it is easy to recognize the difference between officers and men. The higher his rank the more gold decorations an officer wears. There seem to be no proper regulations about dress. I once saw a general who in addition to his gold epaulettes had a collection of glittering objects pinned on his breast. He had probably spent too much time looking at foreign illustrated papers and had devoted himself accordingly, for there are no Tibetan military medals. Instead of mentions and distinctions, the Tibetan soldier receives more tangible rewards. After a victory he has a right to the booty, and so looting is the general rule. He is, however, obliged to deliver the weapons he has captured. A good example of the utility of this system can be found in the battles against the bandits. The local bönpos are entitled to call on the government for aid when they can no longer cope with the robbers. Small military detachments are then sent to help them. In spite of the ruthless manner in which the bandits fight, service in these commandos is very popular. The soldiers have their eye on the plunder and ignore the danger. The soldier’s right to the spoils of war has been the cause of a great deal of trouble. In a case with which I was personally connected, it cost the lives of several persons.
When the Chinese Communists occupied Turkestan, the American Consul, Machierman, with a young American student named Bessac and three White Russians, fled to Tibet, having first requested the U.S. Embassy in India to ask the Tibetan government for travel facilities. Messengers were sent from Lhasa in all directions to instruct the frontier posts and patrols to make no difficulties for the fugitives. The party traveled in a small caravan over the Kuen Lun mountains. Their camels stood the journey well, and they obtained fresh meat by shooting wild asses. By ill luck the government messenger was late in arriving at the spot where the party was to cross the frontier. Without challenging or finding out who was approaching them, the soldiers of the outpost, tempted by the sight of a dozen heavily laden camels, fired on the caravan, killing on the spot the American consul and two of the Russians. The third Russian was wounded, and only Bessac escaped unhurt. He was taken prisoner and brought with the wounded man to the nearest district governor. On the way, the two men were insulted and threatened by the soldiers, who had first shared among the spoils and had been overjoyed to find such valuable objects as field glasses and cameras. Before they reached the next bönpo, the government messenger came up with the escort, with orders to treat the Americans and their party as guests of the government. This caused a change of attitude. The soldiers outdid one another in politeness, but the damage could not be undone. The governor sent a report to Lhasa, and the authorities, horrified by the news, did their utmost to express their regret in every possible way. An Indian-trained hospital orderly was sent with presents to meet Bessac and his wounded companion. They were invited to come to Lhasa and asked to bear witness for the prosecution against the soldiers, who had already been arrested. A high official who spoke a little English rode out to meet the approaching travelers. I attached myself to him thinking that it might be some comfort to the young American to have a white man to talk to. I also hoped to convince him that the government could not be blamed for the incident, which it deeply regretted. We met the young man in pouring rain. He was as tall as a bean pole and completely dwarfed his little Tibetan pony. I could well imagine how he felt. The little caravan had been months on the road, always in flight from enemies and exposed to dangers, and their first meeting with the people of the country in which they sought asylum brought three of their party to their death.
New clothes and shoes were waiting for them in a tent by the wayside, and in Lhasa they were put up in a garden house with a book and a servant to look after them. Fortunately, the Russian, Vassilieff, was not dangerously wounded and was soon able to hobble about the garden on crutches. They remained for a month in Lhasa, during which time I made friends with Bessac. He bore no grudge against the country that had at first received him so ill. He asked only that the soldiers who had ill-treated him on the way to the district governor should be punished. He was requested to be present at the execution of the sentence, so as to make sure there was no deception. When he saw the floggings, he asked that the number of lashes should be reduced. He took photographs of the scene, which later appeared in Life as a testimonial to the correct attitude of the Tibetan government. Everything was done to pay the last honors to the dead according to Western customs. So it is that three wooden crosses stand today over their graves in the Changthang. Bessac was received by the Dalai Lama, and afterward left for Sikkim, where he was met by fellow countrymen.
The troubled times brought many fugitives to Tibet, but none were so unlucky as this party. Another camel caravan that came through the Changthang belonged to a Mongolian prince, who brought with him his two wives, one a Pole and the other a Mongol. I was full of admiration for these two women who had performed such a tremendous journey, and my astonishment was not lessened when I saw their two charming children, who had stood the hardships of the road equally well.
It is clear that in these critical times the government desired to mobilize not only the material means of defense but also the spiritual force of the people. For this end, religion, the most powerful element in the life of the country, had to be invoked. New ordinances and new officials were employed in the service of this policy. The officials were given plenty of money and a free hand to organize the campaign. All the monks in Tibet were ordered to attend public services at which the Kangyur, the Tibetan bible, was to be read aloud. New prayer flags and prayer wheels were set up everywhere. Rare and powerful amulets were brought out of old chests. Offerings were doubled, and on all the mountains, incense fires burned, while the winds, turning the prayer wheels, carried supplications to the protecting deities in all the corners of heaven. The people believed with rocklike faith that the power of religion would suffice to protect their independence. In the meantime, Radio Peiping was already sending out messages in Tibetan promising that Tibet would soon be freed.
More people than ever streamed to the religious festivals, which, in the early days of 1950, surpassed in pomp and splendor anything I had ever seen. It seemed as if the whole population of Tibet had gathered, in pious enthusiasm, in the narrow streets of Lhasa. But I could not banish the thought that their touching faith would never move the golden gods. If no help came from outside, Tibet would soon be roughly awakened from its peaceful slumbers.
The Dalai Lama had again charged me
to take pictures of the festivals, so I was able to see everything from a point of vantage. Four weeks after the “Great” New Year Festival, there is a “Small” Prayer Festival, which lasts for only ten days, but perhaps surpasses the “Great” Festival in splendor. At this moment the spring verdure is beginning to show, and the town presents an unforgettable aspect. The festival is the highlight of the year for the inhabitants of Shö. For two hours an immense banner hangs down from the Potala, of the Shö quarter. This banner is certainly the largest in the world. It takes fifty monks to carry it to its place and unfold it. It is made of fine, heavy silk and adorned with figures of the gods in bright colors. When at last it floats over the town from the Potala, a gay procession moves from Tsug Lag Khang to Shö, and there, after solemn ceremonies, breaks up. It is followed by a curious ritual. Groups of monks perform primitive dances, gyrating slowly to the rolling of drums. They wear masks and are hung with rare, carved ornaments of bone. The people stare entranced at the uncanny figures. Sometimes a whisper runs through the crowd. Someone thinks he has seen the Dalai Lama standing on the roof of the Potala three hundred feet above their heads and looking down through his telescope at the performance.
SHÖ, which stands at the foot of the Potala, is the home of the state printing press—a high, dark building from which never a sound issues into the outer world. There is no humming of machines, and only the voices of the monks echo through the halls. Wooden blocks lie piled on long shelves. They are used only when a new book is printed. The preparation of a new book entails endless work. The monks must first cut out small wooden boards by hand, as there are no sawmills here, and then carve the squiggly letters one by one in the birchwood boards. When they are ready, the tablets are carefully placed in order. Instead of printer’s ink they use a mixture of soot, which the monks make by burning yak dung. Most of them get black from head to foot during their work. At last the separate plates are printed off on handmade Tibetan paper. The books are not bound. They consist of loose pages printed on both sides and enclosed by two carved wooden covers. One can either order books in the printing press or buy them from one of the booksellers in the Parkhor. At home they are generally kept in silk wrappers and carefully looked after. As their subject is always religious, they are treated with great respect and usually placed on the house altar. In every better-class house, one finds the complete bible, as well as the two hundred volumes of commentaries. So much reverence is paid to these books that nobody would think of placing one of the volumes on a chair. On the other hand, they think little of the books that interest us. I once found a valuable book on the Tibetan language in a very unsuitable place. The early pages were missing. I took the book away and wrote in the missing pages from another copy, very pleased with my find.
The price of Tibetan books depends on the quality of the paper used. The bible with its commentaries costs as much as a good house or a dozen yaks.
There is another very large printing press at Narthang, in the neighborhood of Shigatse, and almost every monastery has the apparatus for printing books on local saints and the annals of their lamaseries.
The whole culture of Tibet is inspired by religion, as it used to be in early days in Western civilization. The masterpieces of architecture and sculpture, of poetry and painting, glorify the faith and increase the power and reputation of the Church. There is as yet no conflict between religion and science, and consequently the content of most books is a combination of religious law and philosophic knowledge and wisdom gathered from experience. Poems and songs are mainly manuscript, written on loose leaves and not gathered into collections. The poems of the sixth Dalai Lama form an exception to this rule. They are printed as a volume. I bought a copy in the bazaar and have often read them through. They give perfect expression to the poet’s yearning for love. I was not the only person to appreciate the verses of this lonely prisoner: many Tibetans love the poems of their long-dead ruler. He was an original figure in the line of the Dalai Lamas. He loved women and used to disguise himself and slip into the town to meet them. His people did not begrudge him his desire to satisfy the needs of his poetic soul.
The manuscripts copied by skilled monks, of which there are very many, cost even more than books. Their subject matter is usually unpretentious and often anecdotal. One of the best known is the collection of anecdotes written by the most famous Tibetan comic writer, Agu Thönpa, who commented in humorous fashion on the political and religious life of his time and is still immensely popular. At every party someone tells one of his stories to entertain the guests. The taste of the Tibetans for humor and comic situations has caused Agu Thönpa to be appreciated as a classic, and when I lived in Lhasa the leading comedian in the city bore his name.
EVERY YEAR in autumn, all private houses and temples in Lhasa (including even the Potala) are painted and tidied up. It is a dangerous job to paint the high perpendicular walls of the Potala, and the same workmen are employed every year. These men hang on yak-hair ropes and pour the color on the walls from small clay vessels. One sees them sitting in breakneck positions astride the ornaments or a cornice, giving them a fresh polish. Many places from which the rain cannot easily wash away the color acquire a thick crust of limewash. It is a dazzling sight to see the blinding white walls of the Potala rising above Lhasa.
I was very pleased when the Dalai Lama instructed me to make a film showing this work in progress. It gave me a chance of recording something certainly unique in the world. In the early morning, I used to climb the high stone stairway in the midst of a swarm of women carrying pails of whitewash up from the village of Shö. It takes a hundred coolies fourteen days to give the walls their new coat of color. That gave me plenty of time for shots and opportunities to experiment from every possible direction so as to get the most effective pictures. I took a special pleasure in filming the workmen swinging on their ropes between heaven and earth. For the purpose of my work, I was allowed to enter any room in the palace. Many of them were pitch-dark with their windows blocked by piles of lumber accumulated during the centuries, through which I had to fight my way to the light. The effort was worthwhile. I found old, forgotten statues of the Buddha before which no butter lamps now burned and, hidden beneath thick layers of dust, numbers of splendid tankas. The museums of the world would account themselves lucky to receive a fraction of the treasures moldering there. In the basement of the palace, my guide showed me still another remarkable feature of this unique building. Wedges had been driven under the pillars that support the roof. The lofty building had sunk in the course of centuries, but the skilled craftsmen of Lhasa had succeeded in restoring it to its original level—a brilliant performance for a people with no modern technique. I succeeded in making a good picture of the painting of the Potala, and sent the film to India to be developed.
LOBSANG SAMTEN SURPRISED ME one day by asking me if I would undertake to build a room for showing films. His brother had expressed the wish that I should do so. Life in Lhasa had taught me that one should not say no even when asked to do things with which one is completely unfamiliar. Aufschnaiter and I were known as “jacks-of-all-trades,” and we had already solved a lot of difficult problems. When I had ascertained what amount of current the Dalai Lama’s projector would need and how far the projector would have to be from the screen, I declared myself ready to undertake the work. I was then officially commissioned to execute it by the Dalai Lama’s abbot guardians. From that time, the gates of the Inner Garden at the Norbulingka were always open to me. I started the job in the winter of 1949-50, after the young king had already returned to the Potala. After looking at all the buildings, I chose an unused house adjacent to the inner side of the garden wall, which I thought I could transform into a motion-picture theater. The best masons in Lhasa and the soldiers of the bodyguard were placed at my disposal. I was not allowed to employ women, whose presence would have profaned the holy place. I used short lengths of iron screwed together into girders to support the ceiling, so as to dispense with the cust
omary pillars. The theater was sixty feet long, and I had to build a platform for the projector. This was accessible both from the inside of the room and from the outside of the building. Some distance away from the theater, I erected a powerhouse for the motor and the generator. I did this at the express wish of the Dalai Lama, who did not want the sound of the motor to be audible in the theater, as he was anxious not to upset the old regent (the installation of a motion picture in the Norbulingka was already revolutionary enough). I built a special room for the exhaust pipes, the noise of which was effectively deadened. As the old gasoline motor was not altogether reliable, I proposed that the engine of the jeep should be made available to propel the generator in case of need. The Dalai Lama approved the suggestion, and as his will was the law, the jeep was adapted to this purpose. We had some trouble at the outset because the garden gate was just too narrow to admit the jeep. However, the young ruler, regardless of tradition, ordered the gateway to be widened. A new gate replaced the old one, and all traces of the operation were removed as soon as possible, so that there should be nothing visible to attract the criticism of reactionary spirits. The strong point about this boy was that he was able to get his ideas put into action without alienating the sympathies of those around him.
So the jeep got its own house and often came to the rescue when the old motor went on strike. The chauffeur of the thirteenth Dalai Lama helped me do the wiring, and soon the whole machine was going like clockwork. I took great pains to remove all traces of our building activities from the garden, and made new flower beds and paths on the ground that had been trampled by the workmen. And, of course, I took this unique opportunity to explore the closed garden thoroughly, little thinking that in the future I should often be in it as a guest.