The Dalai Lama’s Little Book of Inner Peace

Very few people indeed have ever been considered in any way divine. Thanks to my role, I am able to bring a lot of benefit, and for this reason I appreciate it. This role is also very useful for people in general, and I owe it to my karma to have been reborn into it. You could say that my circumstances are extremely fortunate. However, behind the idea of good fortune actually lie real causes and conditions: there is the karmic force of my capacity to take on the role, and there is my wish to do so.

The Indian monk Shantideva wrote:

“As long as space endures,As long as sentient beings remain,Until then, may I too remainAnd dispel the miseries of the world.”

I make this wish in my present life, and I am sure I have made it in past lives too.

My mother

My mother was without doubt one of the kindest people I have ever met. She was really wonderful and full of compassion. One day, when there was terrible famine in the neighboring area of China, and when many poor people would cross the border in the hope of finding something to eat in Tibet, one couple came to our door with a dead child. They pleaded with my mother to give them food, which she did immediately. And then, pointing to their child, she asked them whether they needed help to bury him. Once they had understood her question they shook their heads, and gestured that they intended to eat him. Horrified, my mother asked them to come into the house, and gave them everything she had in the larder. Even at the risk of depriving her own family, never would she let a beggar leave empty-handed.

Loneliness as a small child

Several months after the search party had decided that the child they found in Taktser was the true incarnation of the Dalai Lama, my parents took me to Kumbum Monastery where I was enthroned during a ceremony held at dawn. The period after that was a lonely and rather unhappy phase in my childhood. My parents left, and I was alone in a totally unfamiliar environment. It is very hard for a child to be separated from loved ones. Most of the time, I was unhappy. I did not understand what it meant to be a Dalai Lama, because I felt I was a little boy like any other.

In the winter of 1940, I was taken to the Potala where I was officially enthroned as spiritual leader of the Tibetan people during a ceremony that took place in the largest reception room in the palace. I remember especially the first time I sat on the large wooden “lion” throne, sculpted and encrusted with precious stones. Soon after, I was taken to the Jokhang Temple, where I took the vows of a novice. Reting Rinpoche symbolically shaved off my hair. He was the Regent, acting as the head of State until I came of age.

Apart from Reting Rinpoche, I had two other preceptors and three monks who served me: the master of ceremonies, the master cook, and the master of robes. Wherever I went I was accompanied by a large retinue of ministers and advisors from the most eminent and noble families in the country, all dressed in sumptuous silk gowns. Each time I left the Potala, almost the entire population of Lhasa, the Tibetan capital, would try to catch sight of me. And as my procession went by, everyone would prostrate in respectful silence, frequently in tears.

The master cook

When I was very young, I was very fond of the master cook. I loved him so much I always wanted to be with him, even if this meant just being able to see the hem of his gown below the curtains, which serve as room partitions in Tibetan houses. Luckily, he tolerated my behavior. He was virtually bald, very gentle, and simple. He was not a very good storyteller, and he did not like to play much, but these things did not matter at all.

Since then, I have often wondered about the nature of our relationship. Sometimes I think that food is an essential ingredient in every type of relationship between living beings.

On my studies

My life was strictly regulated. I studied twice a day, for one hour each time, and spent the rest of the day playing. Then, at the age of 13, I was obliged to do the same studies as any monk preparing for a doctorate in Buddhism. There were 10 subject areas, of which the five “higher” subjects are: the art of healing, Sanskrit, dialectics, arts and crafts, and the philosophy of religion. The five secondary subjects are poetry, astrology, dramatic arts, literary style, and language studies.

My studies were not well balanced and did not meet the training needs of anyone who was to become a national leader in the 20th century. They were based on a routine, but I got used to it. Occasionally I would have holidays, and they were happy times. Lobsang Samten, my older brother, would come to visit me. Sometimes my mother would also come and bring me a loaf of the thick and delicious bread that is a specialty of Amdo province. She would bake it herself.

Losar, the New Year festival

The most important festival in the year is Losar, the New Year, celebrated in February or March of the Western calendar. For me, Losar meant my yearly meeting with Nechung, the State oracle, who would offer me, and the government as a whole, the opportunity to consult the Tibetan deity Dorje Drakden about the year to come.

Contrary to what people might imagine, the role of an oracle is not confined to predicting the future. They are approached as protectors and healers, and their primary mission is to help people to practice the Dharma, that is, the Buddha’s teachings. In the past, Tibet had hundreds of oracles. Many have disappeared, but the most important ones, those used by the government, are still there.

For many centuries, the Dalai Lama and the government have consulted the Nechung oracle. I myself consult it several times a year. And if I continue to consult it, that is because many of the answers it has given me have proved correct. That does not mean that I only follow what the oracle says; far from it. I ask the oracle’s advice just as much as I ask advice from my Cabinet or my own conscience. You could say that the Kashag (the ministerial Cabinet) is my Lower House, and the gods are my Upper House. Whenever I am faced with a question that relates to the country as a whole, it seems quite natural to me that I should put the question to both these houses.

1950: the Chinese invade Tibet

I cannot remember any particular difficulties in childhood, but certainly the hardest thing was to take on full responsibility for my role. In 1950, I was 15 years old. Chinese communists had in some ways already encroached on Tibetan territory before that, but it was in 1950 that they actually invaded. The responsibility of government filled me with anxiety. I had not completed my religious education, I knew nothing about the world, and had no experience of politics.

At that time, the world was focusing on Korea, where an international army was trying to quell the conflict. Similar events in far-off Tibet passed by unnoticed. On 7 November 1950, I sent an Appeal to the UN on behalf of the Tibetan National Assembly. It was never answered.

The situation continued to worsen, so the question arose about my coming of age. Opinions differed, so the authorities decided to consult the oracle. Tension was at its height when the Nechung oracle moved to where I was sitting and placed a kata (a white silk scarf, traditionally given as a greeting) on my knees. The kata was inscribed with the words, “His time has come.” I was only 16, and found myself leading a nation of six million Tibetans faced with imminent war. It was an impossible situation, but I had to do everything in my power to avert disaster.

I decided, with the agreement of the religious authorities and of the Kashag, to send delegations abroad, visiting the United States, Great Britain, Nepal, but also China. Their aim was to negotiate a Chinese withdrawal. The only delegation that actually arrived was the one sent to China. All the others were refused an audience. This was a cruel disappointment. Had the Americans changed their minds about our status? I remember my sadness when I realized what this meant: Tibet would have to face the power of communist China all alone.

On the road from Lhasa to Peking

The Chinese proposed that the Tibetan government should send a number of officials to China so that they could see with their own eyes just how wonderful life was in the glorious motherland. Soon afterwards, in early 1954, I myself was invited to visit China, and to meet President Mao. The people of Lhasa were very unwilling that I should go. They were afraid I might never be allowed to come back, or even that there might be an attempt on my life. But I had no fear. So I left, accompanied by some 500 people including my family, my two preceptors, and the Kashag. The journey to Peking is 3,000 miles.

In 1954, there were no transport links between the two countries. For our first staging post I had chosen Ganden Monastery, about 37 miles outside Lhasa, which I was really keen to visit and where I spent several days. As I was about to leave, I was surprised to notice that, without any possible doubt, a buffalo-headed statue representing a deity that protects Tibet had moved. The first time I had seen it, it was looking quite submissively down at the ground, and now its head was facing east with a very ferocious expression. Similarly, I learned once I was in exile that at the time I left the country, one of the walls in Ganden Monastery turned the color of blood.

The Panchen Lama

Like the Dalai Lamas, the Panchen Lamas are high incarnates. The Panchen Lama is a spiritual leader, second only to the Dalai Lama in religious authority. They never held any secular authority.

The Panchen Lama joined us at Sian. He was 16 years old and had grown up in an almost hopelessly complicated situation. There had been a rift between our two immediate predecessors. The previous panchen lama had spent part of his life in a frontier region under Chinese control and had died there. The Chinese had presented a candidate from the territory they ruled, while two candidates had been discovered in Tibet itself. Negotiations took place, but gradually the Chinese candidate came to be accepted as the true incarnation. He was then 11 or 12 years old.

Of course, the whole of his education and training was subject to Chinese influence, first under Chang Kai-shek and then under the Communists. It has certainly been an advantage to them to have a Tibetan religious leader in whose name they can make their proclamations. If he and his followers had been able to support the Tibetan cause, Tibet’s disaster might have been less complete. But the Panchen Lama cannot be personally blamed. No boy who grew up under such concentrated, constant foreign influence could possibly retain his own free will.

Meeting President Mao

During my first visit to China, we were welcomed by the Prime Minister and the Vice President of the Popular Republic, Chou En-lai and Chu Te. Both were very cordial. Two or three days later, if my memory serves me right, I met President Mao for the first time. It was a public meeting. Our hosts were extremely strict about etiquette. Their anxiety was contagious, and soon we were all panicking. However, President Mao himself seemed relaxed and completely at ease. His appearance gave no sign of his intellectual power. And yet, when we shook hands, I sensed that he had tremendous magnetism. Not only was he cordial, but remarkably spontaneous.

We met at least a dozen times. I found him very impressive. Just physically, he was extraordinary. He had a dark complexion, but at the same time his skin was shiny. His hands were equally shiny and I immediately noticed how beautiful they were – perfect fingers, and an exquisite thumb. He was slow in his movements, and slower still in speech. He was sparing of words, and spoke in short sentences, each full of meaning and usually clear and precise. The way he was dressed contrasted with his behavior: all his clothes appeared threadbare. His dress differed from that of the common Chinese people only by being of a slightly different shade of blue. His whole bearing breathed a natural authority, and his very presence imposed respect.

Apart from Mao, I would meet regularly with Chou En-lai and Liu Shao-chi. While Liu was calm and serious, Chou was extremely polite, courteous, and suave; so extremely polite, in fact, as to make one wonder whether he could be trusted. I realized he was very clever and shrewd.

Khrushchev, Bulganin, and Pandit Nehru

During the celebrations for the Chinese National Day, I had the privilege to meet Khrushchev and Bulganin. They did not leave much of an impression on me. In any case, much less so than Pandit Nehru who came to Peking while I was there. From a distance he seemed very affable, easily finding something to say to everyone. But when it was my turn to shake his hand, he grew rigid. He was speechless and gazed into the distance. I was very disappointed, because I would have liked to ask him whether there was anything India could do to help Tibet.

Marxism

In another private meeting, Mao said to me, “Tibet is a great country. You have a glorious history. Many years ago, you even conquered a considerable part of China. But now you have fallen behind, and we would like to help you catch up.” I hardly dared believe it, but he really did seem sincere. The idea of real cooperation with China excited me. The more I reflected on Marxism, the more qualities I found in it. It was a system that wanted justice and equality for all, a panacea for the sufferings of our world. The only weakness I could find in it at that time was the way it emphasized only the material side of human existence. In the winter of 1954, I and my entourage began a long journey across China, which was supposed to enable us to admire the wonders of material and industrial progress. I greatly admired what the Communists had achieved, especially in the area of heavy industry. I could not wait to see my own country make similar progress.

When one learns about the life of Karl Marx, and the precise origins of Marxism, one realizes that Marx endured enormous suffering throughout his life, and never gave up his struggle to overthrow the bourgeoisie. His vision of the world was based on confrontation. It is on account of this primary motivation that the entire Communist movement has failed. If the motivating principle had been compassion and altruism, things would have turned out very differently.

Mao’s advice

We met for the last time in the spring of 1955. Mao wanted to offer me his advice on how to govern before I went back to Tibet. He explained how to organize meetings, how to know what other people are thinking, and how to make decisions on difficult issues. And then, moving closer to me, he said, “I understand you very well. But of course, religion is poison. It has two great defects: it undermines the race (since monks and nuns are celibate), and secondly it retards the progress of the country. Tibet and Mongolia have both been poisoned by it.” I felt as though my face was on fire and, all of a sudden, I was very afraid.

Back in Lhasa

When I returned to Lhasa, in June 1955, I was, as always, welcomed by thousands of followers. My return gave renewed courage to everyone, and I too felt a new optimism when I found that the trust that Mao had so publicly placed in me had boosted my status in the eyes of the local Chinese representatives.

I cannot say how thankful I was to be in the Norbulingka again. Close outside its walls, the Chinese military camp still menaced us, but inside, all was still calm and beautiful, and our religious practices continued almost undisturbed.

In early 1956, during the Tibetan New Year celebrations of Losar, I had a very interesting meeting with the Nechung oracle, who announced: “The wish-fulfilling gem (one of the names given to the Dalai Lama by Tibetans) will shine in the West.” At the time, I saw this as an indication that I should go to India that year, but since then I have realized that this prophecy had a much deeper meaning.

The Tibetan resistance

Something happened in the summer of 1956 that made me more unhappy than ever before. The alliance of popular leaders was beginning to have considerable success: several sections of the Chinese military road had been destroyed, along with a number of bridges. And then what I had feared most actually happened: the Chinese responded with violence. But I never imagined that they would send in planes to bomb Lithang Monastery, in the province of Kham. When I heard of this, I broke down in tears. I could not believe that human beings were capable of such cruelty. After the bombing came the torture and merciless execution of the wives and children of the freedom fighters, as well as untold atrocities against monks and nuns.

I experienced all of this during my teenage years and my early adulthood: yes, all the measures of oppression, and all kinds of atrocities – monasteries destroyed, works of art defaced, crucifixions, vivisections, dismembering, disemboweling, and tongues pulled out. All of this made collaboration impossible. We went through all these horrors on our own soil. Finally, I became convinced that Mao was nothing more than a “destroyer of the Dharma.”