‘No, that was exactly what they did,’ the gunner says. ‘They took Mao's Red Book, stood around the fields, and read passages aloud; they thought that would stop the hail.’
Later on I did come across a reference to the 1969 hailstorm in Gyantse and its aftermath. The local Communist Party chief did not move swiftly to help the devastated peasants; instead he began a witch-hunt. He suspected a political reason for the failure of Mao's Red Book against the hail. Maybe it was sabotage by enemies of the people. Or it was the curses of the expelled lamas and nuns, or the debarred shamans. The witch-hunt went on for weeks. Quite a few of the supposed ‘enemies’ were severely punished.8
But that day on the way back from the gunnery demonstration, I could not get that image out of my mind — Tibetan peasants wielding Mao's Red Book against the weather. But perhaps I should not be surprised. When I grew up during the Cultural Revolution, we learned to revere Mao as the great helmsman and saviour; from our earliest years we were taught that we should be ready to follow in the footsteps of our revolutionary forefathers, to lay down our lives for the Communist cause if Mao gave us the order. In the political jargon of the time, Mao's thoughts were carved on our bones and melted into our blood. And many Red Guards really did pin a Mao badge on their flesh.
As I was taught, so were the Tibetans. In the past, they recited mantras, fingered their rosaries, made offerings, and went on pilgrimages to accumulate more and more merit. They set up family altars, built prayer walls, stupas, temples and monasteries to safeguard their homes, villages, and towns. Then monasteries and temples were destroyed; prayer flags were taken from the rooftops. There was no more burning of incense, no votive butter lamps, no praying at all other than to Chairman Mao. Mao's portrait replaced the images of the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas that had once hung in every household. Every family kept Mao's Collected Works on the altar. In the first three years of the Cultural Revolution, 7,344,000 copies of Mao's works were distributed, for a population of over one million. Tens of thousands of training sessions in political studies were organised, attended by over a third of the adult population. In 1968 Chairman Mao sent some mangos to the Tibetan people: the massed crowd at the presentation was like a pilgrimage to see the relics of a great lama.9
Did the Tibetans ever believe Mao was their new god? Possibly many did. In their harsh environment, they needed a faith, a saviour. We were still driving through the valley on our way back to Gyantse when this idea really came home to me. I had asked the driver to stop so we could take a general view of the valley. There were a dozen villagers working in the foreground. Then I moved away to take a wider shot from a distance. Under the immense sky, the villagers were suddenly so tiny, so lonely and small: an insignificant speck in a vast landscape of mountain and plain. The menacing black clouds looked ready to drop their huge weight and crush them. And this valley is one of the most fertile and densely populated in Tibet. Most of Tibet is far wilder, just boundless barren scrub and grasslands stretching in every direction. I try to imagine what it is like for a nomad with his herds out on those huge plateaus wandering for weeks without encountering another soul — one man against the elements, and completely at their mercy. Is it any wonder that they have so many gods? Mao is gone, and the Tibetans have returned happily to their Yul Lhas, and all their ancient traditions and beliefs.
After three weeks of backbreaking work, a race against time, the harvest is finally in. The Rikzin family kept at it day and night, whenever it was not raining. It is not a good year for them. They have only reaped half the usual crop. When I come to film them at the end of their labours, I expect to see disappointment or sadness on their face, but there is none. They seem to have been prepared for much worse.
Do they blame the gods? I would think that they might, that after all the offerings they have made they would need someone or something to blame for the bad year. I ask Tseten whether he feels Yul Lha has let them down. He says blaming is not part of the Tibetan culture. The villagers' response to a bad harvest is to perform a ‘repentance’ ritual, asking for forgiveness. It is they, not Yul Lha, who have not done enough. They promise to do better next year.
I find this hard to take. I know what the Chinese peasant would do: he would shake his fist at the sky and stamp on the ground, railing at the gods for cheating him, complaining about his wasted offerings, and threatening not to pray to them any more. I mention the contrast to Tseten. He smiles gently, ‘Our rituals are really just the way we express our faith. We may or may not get anything in return. But that is not what matters most. Buddhism is about giving; it is a virtue in itself and brings its own reward. That is how we will have a better life, now or in the next world.’
DU, DU,' A SHARP SOUND. Another. I fumble about, thinking it is the alarm. But it is too early, only 7 a.m. Then I realise it is my mobile ringing. Who could be calling at such an uncivilised hour? Outside my hotel in downtown Lhasa, it is still dark. It is Dorje, one of our Tibetan cameramen, calling from our house in Gyantse.
‘Tseten has just rung. His mother died early this morning. What should we do?’
The news comes as a shock. We have never met Tseten's mother. Since the filming began, she has been staying with her daughter in Shigatse. I was told she had had tuberculosis for a long time, but that she was recovering. Her husband, Mila, went to see her a few weeks ago, and when he returned to the village reported, ‘I said to her I would be lost without her, so she has promised to get better.’ I was touched by the vulnerability in his eyes. How devastated Mila and the family must be now.
My immediate response is to wonder if we might persuade the family to let us film the funeral rites, especially the sky burial. I know it is the most extraordinary custom, when the dead body is cut up and fed to vultures; I have seen an amateur video of it. To me it seems to embody something at the very heart of life and death as Tibetans see it; capturing it for our film would be incredible.
But I know it is insensitive and crude of me even to think of it, when the family is stricken with grief. How would I react if I were in their position? I would think twice and then probably say no. Grief is so personal, and it is best left in private, with all the love, repentance, regret, or even relief pouring out without being observed or judged. The only reason I have the courage to ask is that we have been following the family for four months and have been treated as part of it.
Of all the people we are filming, the Rikzin family have been the most open with us so far. They have been forgiving both of our intrusions into their lives and our scepticism about what we have seen. Once Tseten allowed us to accompany him on a visit to a pregnant woman, whose body he said had been entered by an evil spirit. He was not offended when we then followed her for a check-up in the hospital, where the doctor told her she was suffering from anaemia. Our doubts did not stop him from offering us treatment either. He tried to cure the spots on our handsome driver's face with saliva. The spots did not go away, and the driver pointed that out, but Tseten was, as usual, unaffected; he was never once defensive.
I discuss the filming idea on the phone with Dorje, who is always thoughtful and sensitive. After much deliberation, it is decided that he should go on behalf of the crew to offer our condolences with a khata, the ceremonial white scarf, and 100 yuan. He can then judge the situation first-hand. Meanwhile I would rush back from Lhasa, leaving the filming there to our other cameraman.
Dorje was turned away. He left the khata and money with a young man who was guarding the door, allowing only close relatives inside. I feel guilty. Am I pushing too hard? Am I as insensitive as the Chinese tourists that I am always complaining about? Just a week before, we were filming an obviously poor pilgrim who was giving money to some monks; they had been praying for his family's health and safety. Behind me, I heard a tourist remark loudly, in Chinese, ‘Look at the rags he's wearing! He could buy himself a new outfit with that money.’ Quite