Riding the Iron Rooster

Tibetan pilgrims thronged the Jokhang Temple, muttering prayers, prostrating themselves and gawking at the monks. They were from distant places, and they were dazzled by this Vatican of Tibetan Buddhism to such an extent that their pilgrims' piety seemed to vanish among the gold statues and lurid murals (of hell and heaven) and incense (sandalwood, cypress leaves) and dull, clopping drums. The pilgrims' eyes glittered in the half-dark of the cloisters, and these people took on the odd curiosity of tourists with their squints and stares, as if, so startled were they by the droning monks and the aromas and the drooping tankas, they had fogotten to pray.

Here, very recently, in the inner sanctum of the Jokhang, under the serene gaze of the holiest figure, Jowo Shakyamuni, the Precious Lord, the Chinese army had kept pigs, and the rest of the Jokhang had been commandeered as a barracks. They had been following the Mao dictum set out in the well-known essay "On Going Too Far": "To right a wrong it is necessary to exceed proper limits, and the wrong cannot be righted without the proper limits being exceeded." That was the Chinese epitaph for Tibet. You didn't close the temples—you kept pigs in them. You did not simply shut the monasteries—you defrocked the monks, put them into factories and forbade them to pray; and you used the monastery timbers for chicken-coops. The Mao policy of systematic humiliation of traditional belief reached its apotheosis in Tibet. Now the Chinese admit to "mistakes ... excessiveness and errors during the ten chaotic years of the Cultural Revolution," as the Chinese diplomat Zheng Wanzhen put it in his defense of Chinese policies in Tibet which he wrote for The Washington Post in 1987. The Chinese reiterate the sums spent on restoration work, but it goes without saying that the Tibetans will never forgive the desecration of their holy places and the impertinence of the Chinese occupation. Buddhism teaches restraint and moderation and propriety. The worst, most anti-Buddhist aspect of Chinese policy was that it stipulated that liberators and revolutionaries must go too far.

Rebuilt and restored buildings in Tibet have the Disneylandish simplicity of fresh paint and characterless frippery—and it is true all over China: the style is pervasive. Only the Potala was spared the philistine fury of the Cultural Revolution, and that was because Zhou Enlai intervened. But it was in the Potala that a monk showed me a series of monasteries depicted on an old mural.

He pointed to one monastery.

"China destroy," he said.

He pointed to another.

"China destroy."

He indicated six more and said the same thing. For this information I rewarded him with a portrait of the Dalai Lama. He clasped his hands and hissed at me.

"Dalai Lama come! China go!"

The Chinese have invited the Dalai Lama back, but he has so far refused to return until his conditions are met. It is unlikely that the Chinese will agree to the conditions, the central one of which is independence. Feeling is so strong in Tibet, and his devotees are so passionate and numerous, that he would not have any difficulty leading a rebellion. He is a peaceful soul, so that is unlikely. But even if any Tibetans attempted an uprising it would fail. The Chinese would crush it without mercy—and not out of revenge, but (as they would explain) for the good of Tibet. Party officials are happy to admit their mistakes in Tibet, but the thing they find hardest to understand is why the Tibetans are not more grateful for roads and buses and schools that were brought at great expense to this plateau. They say: "It's modern! It's progress! It's civilization!"

It seems like proof to the Chinese that they are dealing with sentimental savages when Tibetans say the roads and schools are just another Chinese outrage. But that does not weaken the Chinese resolve—quite the opposite. It just means there is much more work to do in this benighted place, they say, echoing missionaries and colonizers and imperialists and encyclopedia salesmen the world over.

The Chinese have a fatal tendency to take themselves and their projects too seriously. In this they resemble some other evangelizing races, spreading the word and traveling the world to build churches, factories, or fast-food outlets—the intention may be different in each case but they are all impositions. What the evangelizer in his naive seriousness does not understand is that there are some people on earth who do not wish to be saved.