May 18  , 1998

Thupten Ngodups death is churning a community in which many are tired of waiting ineffectually for freedom. These days in exile, peace doesn' t mean passive.

By Sudeep Chakravarti

The cremation site of Thupten Ngodup, the man best known across the world as a screaming streak of fire, is quiet. A curve on a hill away from St. John's Church in the Wilderness near McLeod Ganj, upper Dharamshala, the Tibetan capital-in-exile, three thangka prints flutter in the breeze, which hasn't been able to waft away the stench of death. And there's this improbable, perfectly aligned pair of blue sneakers on a rock next to the pyre, overlooking a stream choked with plastic bags. Warrior, the brand name announces. Made in Shanghai, China.

They aren't Ngodup's shoes, probably a mourner's. And in these days of boycotting Chinese goods among the Tibetan community, there are enough ready to wear shoes that spell Warrior, Made in Lhasa, Tibet. Anyway, the quiet monk's would be difficult to fill; he has become an instant icon of Tibetan protest in-exile, the act of setting himself on fire cannily bringing to the surface a sense of discontent, tension and frustration in a way no other demonstration by the exiled community has.

This new militancy signals a struggle as much for an occupied homeland where six million Tibetans still live, as trying to figure out a way to develop, yet keep intact, a distinctly Tibetan identity in exile for as long as it takes to win it back. And a substantial part of that lakh and a half-strong community -- a year short of marking the 40th anniversary of the Dalai Lama and his court escaping to exile -- don't want to wait forever.

The Dalai Lama had mentioned in a previously unpublished interview to India Today that the problem isn't so much with highly educated Tibetans or those comfortably settled in Europe or North America. "The problem is those who have little or some knowledge and want to remain in our settlements." Outside the community, he said, they cannot get proper jobs because they have low education, and remain isolated. On the other hand, if they live in Tibetan settlements, the earnings aren't much, an average of Rs 2,000-Rs 3,000 a month for a family. "And that is impossible to live with these days."

Even those who complete their education find little private employment in a world that is already competing for every available job. Unemployment, according to the administration-in-exile's own figures, is running high at 18 per cent, and a demographic survey that begins June 12 among Tibetan communities in South Asia -- the first of its kind -- is expected to record a higher figure. The leadership in Dharamshala despairs about this, and all are agreed that the community has to be pushed to perform better and employment schemes are critical. Some already, optimistically, talk about preparing a masterplan for a future, free Tibet.

Meanwhile, the present is getting desperate. Behind the genuine smiles, words of Tashi Delek, or welcome, at restaurants that serve momo and noodle soup, shops that sell incense sticks and rugs and countless spiritual rackets that sell instant nirvana, the angry underbelly of Tibetan aspiration is beginning to show.

It showed in the way thousands wept, screamed and chanted during the funeral march on May 1 in McLeod Ganj. It shows when soft-spoken Dhungdop Chomphel, head of the Majnu-ka-Tila camp in Delhi, mutters, "The movement is gathering momentum all over the country, we are willing to die for the sake of a free Tibet." Sixty-two, and like Ngodup, genial till galvanised. Pre-schoolers are taught to chant jangchup chok ki sem ni kaygy nay, semchen tamche dhagi dondu nyer (like the Buddha, he has developed compassion in his heart, and he keeps all sentient beings near him and in his heart). Across the playfield, classes III to VI pack an assembly hall at a Tibetan school in Dal in Dharamshala's cantonment area to hear older students discuss hunger strikers, the UN's weak response and Ngodup's sacrifice.

In Bylakuppe, the oldest and largest settlement in Mysore district's Hunsur taluk, two teams of teenagers play basketball -- they call themselves Bulls and Sonics, named after two hugely popular professional teams in Chicago and Seattle. Nearby, 16-year-old Tsering Namgyal, studying to become an engineer, and his 80-year-old grandfather Norbu talk about the two things that bridge the generation gap: their common hatred for the Chinese and their willingness to die for Tibet. Here, as in every Tibetan settlement, the young and old are fed a steady hate-China diet. Stories are told about the persecution of Tibetans in Tibet, about the Chinese beating up and sometimes boiling Tibetans in oil, how some Buddhist nuns are raped and sometimes dragged along by a hook pierced into their vagina, how their eyes are carved out. In the shadow of the monastery -- which has a huge Pepsi ad at the entrance and a homily below it that sounds more Confucian than Buddhist: "Money is always there but the pockets change" -- Tsering is livid. "I hate the Chinese. I don't mind being a martyr for Tibet."

There are those like Yangchen Dolkar, a 29-year-old spitfire of an activist-politician, ready and waiting to capitalise on that. "We deeply respect His Holiness (the Dalai Lama), but the Middle Path approach he preaches may not be the only way," she says. Dolkar is general secretary of the Tibetan Youth Congress, a no-age-limit organisation that is turning increasingly militant and counts an increasing number of members in almost all of the 100-plus Tibetan settlements and scattered communities -- Ngodup was a member. "He believes in autonomy for Tibet. We have a very firm stand of complete independence from China." In her community's strict code of polite obedience to the spiritual leader, who has repeatedly, and so far unsuccessfully, preached non-violent negotiation as the only way with China, it comes the closest to saying the time for talk is over. Lead, or please don't stand in our way.

And there are those who are there to fan the militant feeling. After classes at the Yongling Primary School in McLeod Ganj, Jamyang Norbu, in cut-off T-shirt, jeans and boots, talks to a room full of Tibetan youngsters and foreigners about armed resistance in Tibet. "Whether we like it or not, Tibet was not founded on Buddhism but on militarism," he thunders, peppering his talk with details of the days in the '70s when he spent time with a band of armed men in Mustang, near the border of Nepal with Tibet. "Before you get peaceful and loving, you have to face the truth." He gets a round of applause as he cleverly takes the lot through a discourse bordering on propaganda, as Tibetans present nod, laugh and drink up his macho but reasoned exhortation.

In the 1950s and '60s, the refugees, mostly monks, nuns, farmers and nomads, came into Nepal, India, and Bhutan, and were mostly dispatched to faraway rural settlements, like Bylakuppe, to scratch existence from jungle or arid land. Many have prospered, like Pema Tsewang, the richest man in Bylakuppe, owner of a maize godown, a sweater business, a two-storied house, a Tata Estate, Mahindra jeep and a Maruti van. He is content. Indian officials of two banks' branches in the settlement say that for every rupee that the industrious Tibetans borrow, they give back two as interest or deposit. But there's also Tsering, who conspires with his grandfather about a way to fight back, much like many children and grandchildren of early refugees who've grown up in more liberal, modern times, and now strain at the leash their refugee status collars them with.

Many Tibetans just arrived -- as many as 60 a month, men women and children, cross over the Nepal border with Tibet -- add to that spirit. A recently arrived nun in Dharamshala (she won't give her name, saying her parents back in Lhasa could be harassed) was expelled from a nunnery by the Chinese for refusing to attend political re-education classes. The 25-year-old says she couldn't be happier now, for two reasons. One because she had an audience with the Dalai Lama. The other because there are those like Ngodup. "I am proud," she says, "that Tibetan people in Tibet are not the only ones anymore making sacrifices. His sacrifice will give everyone renewed courage and spirit."

On the matter of Ngodup's spirit. According to Tibetan tradition, his spirit will roam, restless, for 49 days after his death before finding peace. That is good for him. He leaves behind a community that isn't sure it knows what peace means anymore.

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