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'The World only Reacts to Violence'

A Nerve-Wracking Wait for Exiles in Dharamsala

By Andreas Lorenz and Padma Rao in Dharamsala, India

Dharamsala, India, is the place where Tibetan exiles, the Dalai Lama and journalists from around the world come together. Exiles are watching events in China from over the Himalayan border -- and receiving news by mobile phone.

Nawang Chotton fled Tibet and followed her leader to Dharamsala 41 years ago. She gave birth to her seven children here. Still, when she talks, Chotton, 50, speaks as if she still lived in her homeland.

"We Tibetans can't take it any more," she says. "We don't hate the Chinese, but they don't treat us like humans. We can't show our flag and we are prohibited from keeping pictures of the Dalai Lama."

She's standing in a restaurant called Hotspot at the center of the small Indian city, the place where buses to New Delhi depart. Photos of Lhasa hang on the wall. They show Chinese police and protesters hurling stones at military trucks.

Chotton is wearing traditional Tibetan clothing, a long brown wool skirt with a colorful apron. She's tied her gray hair into two braids. Her son Tenzin Younten, 21, also examines the photos. "I've never been to Tibet," he says. He's wearing a denim jacket and speaks good English. He says he plans to study computer science in Nepal soon.

But the pictures have stirred him up. "The Chinese should speak to the Dalai Lama. We Tibetans won't allow ourselves to be put down with violence."

A few hundred meters away, just down the hill on a narrow road, about 30 monks sit under a canopy. They are conducting a hunger strike to protest China's repression of Tibet. Photos hang behind them on the wall. They show protesters shot to death in Aba, a city in China's Sichuan province. The bodies are covered in blood and many of the faces have been smashed.

The Tibetan exile government has been based in Dharamsala since 1959. It is also the home of the Dalai Lama, who's protected by Tibetan body guards and Indian soldiers. Around 10,000 Tibetans also live here.

The Himalayas tower majestically over the market town, which looks -- with its narrow streets, small businesses and simple apartment houses -- more like a lively mountain spa than the residence of one of the world's most famous and revered religious leaders. It used to be just that: Before the Chinese invaded Tibet, forcing tens of thousands into exile, Dharamsala served as a holiday resort for the British. The city still has its own Anglican church.

Each day the town teems with activity -- with Indian traders, Hindu healers, Tibetan refugees and pious pilgrims all plying the streets. The place also draws Chinese leaders who keep an ear turned to Dharamsala as an early warning for possible unrest in Lhasa, not to mention civilization-weary Europeans and Americans who bum around here looking for deeper meaning in life. Some just seem to be looking for cheap weed.

But ever since violence broke out in Tibet last week, where Tibetans have been protesting Chinese rule, Dharamsala has been the site of considerable commotion. The city is packed with media satellite trucks from around the world. Monks, nuns and students are protesting in support of Tibetans in the small city's narrow alleys.

A Sikh policeman wearing a blue turban tries to direct autos and buses through the crowds, which are shouting, "China, China, China -- out, out, out" and "we want justice." But the calls get lost in the valley.

The scene is both touching and a bit helpless. After all, there's not much these Tibetans in Indian exile can do for their compatriots on the other side of the Himalayas. They can wave the Tibetan flag and shout protest slogans. Many have hectically telephoned their relatives and friends to find out what's happening in Tibet. They've also been busy disseminating reports and photos received by e-mail and text message on mobile phones.

The Tibetan exiles have no doubts about the authenticity of the news they're getting. "Monks don't lie," one official says. "We have two or three extremely reliable sources," says Tenzin Taklha, an advisor to the Dalai Lama, who also manages the Tibetan religious leader's schedule. "His holiness has caught a cold," he says, "and he has already cancelled all his readings."

The End of Non-Violence?

Nevertheless, the Dalai Lama managed to meet a women's organization as well as a youth organization on Wednesday morning. His followers have been nervous since events unfolded in China. Is the non-violent "middle way" preached by the Dalai Lama still the "best solution" after the uprising in Tibet, as a poster on the wall of his residence claims? Or should Tibetans resort to arms?

Many young exiled Tibetans have marched through Dharamsala with placards reading, "We want to go home." But for them, "home," means a land they know only from stories. From the terrace of the Central Committee of Tibetan Youth, Dolma Choephel, 34, looks down into a valley. She's wearing a gray t-shirt with the words "Boycott 2008." Dead human heads appear inside the Olympic rings.

"Tibetan youth are frustrated," the social worker says. She talks about her 21-day hunger strike in front of the United Nations office in New York, meant to raise awareness about the Tibetans' plight. "It didn't help," she says bitterly. The first TV cameras arrived only after 12 days. "But when a bomb explodes or a house goes up in flames," she says, "the UN is right there. The world only reacts to violence. Just like in Kosovo."

Below, Tibetan monks and nuns walk in single file out of the onetime Himalayan kingdoms of Kashmir and Sikkim. They pass a booth where phone calls to China can be made for 3 rupees (four euro cents) per minute.

Across from the committee office lies the Admission Center for Tibetan Refugees. Its 55-year-old manager, Dorje, says, "We take in 2,500 to 3,000 Tibetans per year." Dorje makes sure the monks and nuns can find places in Tibetan monasteries and cloisters in India. He also helps place children in schools, young people in apprenticeships and old people in homes.

The tide of refugees lately has included many children, sent on the arduous path over the mountains by their parents so they can get a good education in Dharamsala -- and live closer to the Dalai Lama. Guides smuggle them in groups over the border, charging 6,000 yuan per person (€540).

The refugee center has been emptier than usual; many beds are free in the mens' dorm. "The Chinese are watching the border more strictly now, before the Olympic Games," says Dorje. He says this border-tightening is the reason why no Tibetans who headed for the Indian border after the unrest started last week have arrived.

Still, on the first floor, there are five nuns crouching in a room who say they made it across. They're between 17 and 28 years old. Their guides smuggled them over in boxes, they say. Their hair is cut short; they wear athletic shoes and red robes.

All five come from the Gansu province. They never went to school; they can't read or write. They came here to see the Dalai Lama. He grants an audience to every Tibetan who reaches Dharamsala.

Afterwards they want to go back, but they'll probably stay in India for a year. "The situation in China is too unstable," they say.

Lohsang Chittim, a 70-year-old monk, walks by on the street. "I won't go home for the rest of my life," he predicts. "We can't solve our problem without the help of America and other Western states." One day, he says, Tibet will be free again, and Dharamsala will be a normal Indian town.

Indications of Chittim's ideal future, though, are slim.