Woeser has been writing with great urgency about the issue on Facebook, on Twitter, and on her blog. In many ways she has been single-handedly fighting to have people understand the larger significance of the self-immolations. When one Chinese friend opined to her that “Tibetans who commit self-immolation are fairly lacking in sense… the authorities couldn’t care less about their cries [so] every life lost is to be deplored,” she immediately wrote “No one regrets the loss of life in self-immolation more than Tibetans,” but expressed strong resentment of the judgmental sense of superiority inherent in what she was being told. Her interlocutor was quick to add that “Woeser’s heart is gentle and merciful,” but Woeser insisted on sticking to the subject:

Whatever my heart is like, that’s not at issue… Your comments here are seemingly reasonable. What I resent is [the] feeling of some sort of superiority and infallibility… How can you know that Tibetans who commit self-immolation have no wisdom, no sense? [This is] something similar to what one gets from the authorities… I’ll thank you not to stand on some high stage and evaluate things without understanding the situation in Tibetan areas.

It is obvious to anyone following her writings that the studied refusal to name or count Tapey, whether by Lobsang Sangay or exile media organs has struck Woeser as wrong on the most basic level. This omission has surfaced in interviews with Lobsang Sangay on the Voice of Tibet and Radio Free Asia, and elsewhere, as in the most recent report on self-immolations carried on Phayul.

Most stunningly, reading the names of those inside Tibet who committed self-immolation Lobsang Sangay left Tapey unmentioned as he stood before the Dalai Lama at the Kalacakra Empowerment in Bodh Gaya, listing only those who had sacrificed themselves in 2011. This was difficult to take:

At this relatively important gathering, the Kalon Tripa again did not mention the first instance of self-immolation in 2009; the list he read did not include the first Tibetan inside Tibet to commit self-immolation: Tapey. I need to ask our Kalon Tripa: at bottom, what is this all about?

Is it that the Kalon Tripa doesn’t know? Last November, reporting on the situation inside Tibet during an official tour of Europe, he was short by one person in his figures for the number of Tibetans inside Tibet who committed self-immolation. At the time I called attention to this on my blog and on Facebook: The first incident of self-immolation inside Tibet took place on February 27, 2009; and the first Tibetan inside Tibet to commit self-immolation was the 20-year-old monk Tapey, from Kirti Monastery in Amdo Ngaba. Please! Don’t treat the sacrifice he made so neglectfully! When he committed self-immolation he was viciously shot by Communist soldiers and police. Up to now his whereabouts are unknown; whether he’s alive or dead is unknown. Please! Don’t forget Tapey!

Is the cleavage between Tibetans in exile and those inside Tibet partly to blame for the different perceptions of Tapey’s place in lists of those who have committed self-immolation ? Many exiles will certainly say there is no cleavage; their leadership may perhaps say so more adamantly. But the differences between exile society and that of communities inside Tibet have long been a subject of discussion and conversation on the part of Tibetans and non-Tibetans. New arrivals from Tibet have even voiced complaints about the way they tend to be regarded by more established exiles.

In this instance, just reading Woeser’s writings on the subject, one can’t help but sense how viscerally the cavalier exclusion of Tapey from the lists of those who have sacrificed themselves is felt by her and, no doubt, by many other Tibetans (a number of whom have made this clear on her Twitter page). For them there is no earthly reason for excluding Tapey—certainly not an insistence on a “start date” of March 2011, in order to be eligible for acknowledgement by the exile authorities. When Lobsang Sangay excluded Tapey from the list of those whose names were read before the Dalai Lama it seemed like more than negligence. Indeed, whatever the actual reason for the omission, it was felt as an insult. There are very urgent reasons for Woeser’s insistence on remembering Tapey whenever those who committed self-immolation are mentioned. It’s not simply that he was the first Tibetan inside Tibet to commit self-immolation, it’s what Woeser said about him, quoted above: “Up to now his whereabouts are unknown; whether he’s alive or dead is unknown. Please! Don’t forget Tapey!”

Woeser is not insisting on simple numerical accuracy. She is, in a sense, pleading for a life. Shot, wounded, carried away, whereabouts unknown… Woeser’s pleas for Tapey’s memory seem like nothing so much as a way of crying out “No, we do not—and will not—leave wounded comrades behind.” Is it because the sense of solidarity among Tibetans inside the PRC differs so drastically from that in exile society, where so many Tibetans now have no direct experience of Tibet, that Woeser’s sentiments seem to make no dent among exile authorities?

The idea that there is a growing understanding of the Tibetan situation among Chinese people living in the PRC has been a cliché for the last decade among certain Tibetan exiles, rooted in part in the reality of the appeal that Tibetan Buddhism has had for a noticeable segment of the Chinese population. But it is difficult to view the state of affairs as optimistically as people in Dharamsala do. For one thing, the number of Chinese who are interested in Tibetan Buddhism is still very, very small within the context of the overall Chinese population. In effect their views don’t make a dent in the more general attitudes about Tibet on the part of most other Chinese. The majority of the population thinks and cares very little, if anything, about Tibet. In normal circumstances the issue does not engage most Chinese. One can certainly not compare the place of the Tibet issue in China to, say, the issue of the Iraq war in U.S. society. People who do think about Tibet in China tend to view it in two general ways: they exoticize it, much in the way Westerners have done, making Tibet a land of (depoliticized) esoteric mystery and peace; or else they view Tibet as a backward land that was liberated from a barbaric feudal regime. This latter view has become visible in times of unrest in Tibet, as in 2008, when more than a few Chinese evinced a resentment of Tibetans, whom they saw at that time as ungrateful for China’s gift of liberation from feudal serfdom. The overwhelming majority of Chinese, however, do not spend time reflecting on the Tibet issue.

Of course there are some Chinese who go beyond the firewall and are aware of repression in Tibet and even of the large loss of life in Tibet in the first several decades of rule by the PRC. But they are an extremely small minority.

The pinning of hopes on an awareness of the Tibet situation on the part of Chinese who are interested in Tibetan Buddhism is somewhat similar to a related phenomenon from earlier years: the view that Tibetan Buddhism was growing in the West and becoming a major cultural factor there, winning supporters and sympathizers for the Tibet issue as it grew. That idea, of course, gave way to the reality that Western tastes for Tibetan Buddhism were ultimately a minority phenomenon and that mass conversion in the West was not going to happen. And actually, many of the Westerners practicing Tibetan Buddhism eschewed political engagement as somehow wrong.

This was my comment for the RFA piece but I should also add that Woeser, whose commentaries on Tibetan matters are required reading, recently put up a new post about the massive brawl that erupted between Chinese and Tibetan students at the Railway Engineering School in Chengdu on December 14 and necessitated the dispatch of riot police to quell the fighting. That post is actually quite germane to the subject at hand. Woeser recalls clashes between students of different nationalities at the Southwest Nationalities College during her student days, but nothing approaching the scale of this clash at the Railway Engineering School. Ironically, she notes that its roots can be found in some of the steps adopted after 2008 to speed the assimilation of Tibetan students. Preferential policies put in place at the time included flexibility in adjusting academic credit for Tibetan students and a three year tuition waiver for them. The result was a simmering sense of resentment that boiled over on December 14 amidst cries from Chinese students to “Beat a Tibetan, Get Extra Credit!”

Growing sympathy for Tibetans among the general Chinese population? Ahem…

Last week I posted an article over at Tibetan Political Review about the Global Buddhist Congregation that was held in New Delhi at the end of November. Since some Rangzen Alliance readers may not have seen it I am reposting it here.

The Global Buddhist Congregation (GBC) that convened in New Delhi from November 27-30 made a bit of news when China reacted harshly to the Dalai Lama’s role in the gathering. Throughout several weeks of buildup to the event (which was designed to bring together Buddhists from all over the world and culminate in the establishment of a new international Buddhist organization) there was no secret that the Dalai Lama was to be the featured guest and that high-ranking Indian figures—Prime Minister Manmohan Singh’s name was mentioned—would likely also attend. China’s protest, however, only came when the GBC was just about to start.

While attendees included Indian MP Karan Singh, the anticipated attendance of other important political figures did not materialize. Still, China lodged complaints; these were met with a refusal on the part of the Indian government to intervene or to scrub the gathering altogether. Indeed, in spite of obvious governmental approval and assistance in different ways (e.g., seeing that visas were obtained by participants who came from over 40 countries, including the PRC) the Indian side maintained that the GBC was simply a religious gathering organized by the Asoka Mission, a non-governmental Buddhist organization. Nevertheless, while the GBC went on as planned, the latest round of Sino-Indian border talks, slated for the same period, was postponed as a result of China’s anger over the gathering

It would be easy to see China’s fit of pique as just another manifestation of politically scripted irritation at any government that allows or is party to activities that involve the Dalai Lama or that give him public visibility. In this instance, however, certain elements add to the more obvious factors that provoked Chinese objections. While the Dalai Lama was actually present for the gathering only on its final day, when he attended an interfaith function at Gandhi Smriti in the morning and delivered the gathering’s valedictory address before hundreds of participants at its final session in the afternoon, his presence hovered over the meeting from the very start. Over the course of the four days on which the GBC was held, several sangharaja, along with Buddhist sangha members from a multitude of countries and a variety of Buddhist traditions, were often unstinting in extolling the Dalai Lama. The unavoidable impression was that he now stands as the most visible living symbol of Buddhism in the world today. His spiritual preeminence was cited time and again over the course of the GBC, and not only by followers of Tibetan Buddhism. Many of those who follow the numerous other Buddhist traditions represented at the meeting acknowledged the Dalai Lama’s overarching spiritual position with language that, in one instance, described him as a lineage holder for all Buddhist schools. Obviously the Dalai Lama’s declared withdrawal from Tibetan exile politics has not negated the international prominence he enjoys, a prominence which cannot be depoliticized by a simple act of will. (So too, his withdrawal from politics is tempered by the fact that he retains control of the dialogue process, such as it is, between Tibetan exiles and China, a fact highlighted a few weeks before the meeting when his primary representative in those talks, Lodi Gyari, let it be known that he does not serve the elected Tibetan leadership. While that is another story, Gyari himself was a very visible presence, flitting around at the GBC during its four days.)

The acclaim accorded the Dalai Lama by Buddhists from around the world added a certain significance to the meeting that China may find difficult to ignore and which makes its objections to the Dalai Lama’s participation in the GBC more complex than the sort of objections it visits on governments that choose to receive the Dalai Lama in an official manner. Indeed, its objections to the Dalai Lama’s presence are fundamentally different: after all, the Dalai Lama does reside in India. That aside, however, given persistent Chinese anxieties over the possibility of being surrounded by hostile powers intent on restraining “the peaceful rise of China,” it is hard to avoid the likelihood that a gathering of Buddhists from neighboring countries such as Vietnam, Mongolia, Korea, Japan, etc., all acknowledging—regardless of sect or school—the Dalai Lama’s leading spiritual position among them, will be seen as a provocation or even a threat aimed at Buddhists (and not just Tibetan Buddhists) within China.

This is somewhat ironic, a triumph of form over content perhaps. For the fact is many, if not most, of the talks presented at the GBC were fairly anodyne representations of Buddhism of the sort that one could imagine being given as dharma talks to curious dilettantes with time on their hands on several continents. Lacking much complexity, there was much exposition on themes of realizing universal peace and love through Buddhist practice. In spite of this, however, and in spite of assertions that the GBC was wholly a religious gathering, the meeting may well be perceived by China as constituting an encircling move all by itself, one that presents an internal threat to the loyalties that Buddhists within China are obliged to hold to the state. (Of course, in real terms that threat doesn’t exist in Tibet, where such loyalties on the part of the sangha are feeble at best.)

What then might China do about this? Well, I make no claim to prescience (hence my hedging “may well be perceived”), but it seems naïve to think, given China’s periodic xenophobic anxieties, that the gathering is not seen in Beijing as a hostile act that needs to be countered. The idea of Buddhists in neighboring countries publicly elevating the Dalai Lama to a position of ever higher spiritual or moral authority is difficult to ignore. Even more troubling, one supposes, is the final act of the GBC, the resolution to establish an International Buddhist Confederation based in India. But what can China do? One is inclined to think the obvious step would be for the PRC to fall back on its own “World Buddhist Forum,” which has met twice in China, in 2006 and 2009. But given the wide-reaching display of respect for the Dalai Lama from so many serious sangha members from around the world assembled in New Delhi, one may rightly ask who would attend such a gathering now. One could only assume attendees from outside China would have to be a rather craven lot, given the repressive image that China has when it comes to Buddhism in Tibet. Indeed, a Chinese counter to the Delhi gathering at this point would likely, from a public relations standpoint, have all of the aesthetic grace and authority of the Confucius Peace Prize, an award concocted as a response to the Nobel Peace Prize given to Liu Xiaobo in 2010. Almost immediately after its creation the Confucius Prize came to be regarded as international joke.

But the necessity of countering the display of veneration accorded the Dalai Lama also reveals how China has, in a sense, created its own conundrum. What counterweight does China have to the Dalai Lama? Well, there is one person, someone who has essentially been groomed for the role. But using him opens up a can of worms that one can hardly imagine China would like to see opened, for this person is none other than the Chinese Panchen Lama, so-called because he was chosen under coercion and foisted upon Tibetan Buddhists in opposition to the child recognized by the Dalai Lama as the incarnation of the 10^th Panchen Lama. The problem for China is that their Panchen Lama is not accepted—to say the least—by the large majority of Tibetans who do indeed consider him China’s (not Tibet’s) Panchen Lama. The irony of an officially atheistic state discovering and certifying incarnate lamas has been noted many times but the absurdity of the situation has not lessened. And a state bureaucracy that did not pay heed to popular rejection of a Panchen Lama that it foisted on Tibet over 16 years ago is, in a word, stuck. The situation is so abnormal that the Panchen Lama is not allowed to reside in Tibet, both to keep him tethered to the government and to avoid the unpleasantness that his presence among his ostensible followers might set off.

China has tried to prepare its Panchen Lama for an international role. Indeed, he was reportedly one of the candidates for the 2011 Confucius Peace Prize that ultimately was awarded to Vladimir Putin (see the comments re. “international joke,” above). He has been given English lessons and indeed was able to address the second meeting of China’s World Buddhist Forum in that language in 2009. The most obvious indication of his being groomed for a role as an international guru of some sort is the fact that his name and image have been attached to a book that would not be out of place on the shelves of many bookstores selling tomes of “spiritual advice.” In 2008 Beijing published Teachings of the 11^th Panchen Lama: Peace and Social Harmony, which included chapters entitled “Panchen Lama on Creating a New Society,” “Panchen Lama on Social Harmony,” “Panchen Lama on Peace,” “Panchen Lama on Finding Shambala,” “Panchen Lama on Unlimited Love,” etc., etc.

While those familiar with China’s insistence on “social harmony” trumping concerns about things such as human rights should not be surprised to see quotations from the Chinese Panchen Lama on that topic, or on “creating a new society,” his quotations on other topics, such as “peace,” “Shambala,” or “unlimited love,” could have easily fit in at the New Delhi meeting. As already noted, the GBC had more than a few banal, sermon-like talks on such predictable topics. Clearly Teachings of the 11^th Panchen Lama: Peace and Social Harmony was meant to be one element in an attempt to transform the Chinese Panchen Lama into an international spiritual figure. But now that the very moment has arrived in which China needs just such a figure, his problematic nature is obvious: the Chinese Panchen Lama, someone who was supposed to be the answer to a problem, is a problem in and of himself, residing in Beijing in a state of alienation from the general Tibetan populace. Put bluntly, he is a walking announcement of the lack of religious freedom in Tibet, a living and breathing advertisement for religious repression in the PRC.

Clearly, if the Chinese Panchen Lama is unusable in the situation created by the convening of the GBC and the establishment of an International Buddhist Confederation it is more than a minor embarrassment for China. He has been groomed for just such a task. But simply bringing up his name will bring to mind the Panchen Lama chosen by the Dalai Lama and held incommunicado since 1995. Indeed, from the time China forced its choice for Panchen Lama on an unaccepting Tibetan population it has been boxing itself in, tying the perception of its policy on religion to a rejected figure. It is a problem that China has wholly created for itself.

My comments were subsequently picked up by the editors of Tibetan Political Review and on October 23 they posted them (with my full permission) separately on their site under the title “Extinguishing Rangzen.”

Two days later the International Campaign for Tibet, taking umbrage at my comments, posted a reply at TPR. I followed with a rejoinder on October 27.

Several friends have asked that I post the different parts of this exchange in one place for easy reading and I’m happy to oblige. Thus, here, in order of appearance, are my original remarks, ICT’s response, and my rejoinder.

The Original Remarks:

On the morning of the 15th, English-language reports of another self-immolation in Rnga-ba appeared, with one news dispatch on Phayul stating that the monk, Nor-bu dgra-’dul, had died calling for “complete independence.” This raises a question which has unfortunately been well-muddled by the fine folks at ICT and many others in Dharamsala for many, many years. Early on ICT, in support of the Dalai Lama’s policies and under the direction (one has to suppose) of its director, Lodi Gyari, adopted the—how might one put this politely?—less-than-forthright policy of translating calls from inside Tibet for rang-btsan as calls for “freedom” (rang-dbang). As Tibet-watchers know, the terms are not synonyms: when the Dalai Lama says he is against independence he is not, after all, saying he is against freedom. So quite often calls for independence in Tibet surfaced as calls for freedom in the Western media. Clearly some sort of lazy inertia has arisen around this, with some journalists simply putting Dharamsala policies and rhetoric in the mouths of Tibetan protestors. When it comes to those Tibetans who have willingly and tragically given up their lives for Tibet in acts of self-immolation, their loss of voice in this way is particularly devastating. Thus, it’s quite understandable that Christophe would be so profoundly frustrated by The Independent’s assertion that these Tibetans are immolating themselves for “autonomy.”

For this reason it is particularly important that we know as much as we can of what the Tibetans who are sacrificing themselves are saying in Tibetan. What does it mean to read in English that Nor-bu dgra-’dul called out for “complete independence?” The term “complete independence” was generally wielded in Dharamsala throughout the 1990s to mitigate the real significance of the stance that the Tibetan-Government-in-Exile (before it joined the Dodo in blissful extinction) was taking. The tactic was to insist to the general population that the TGIE was simply not for full independence rather than honestly asserting that the TGIE rejected Tibetan independence and accepted that Tibetans are just a minority nationality of China. By ostensibly not being for “full independence” the broad exile population could lull itself with the sense that the TGIE was still supportive of Tibetan independence of some sort, just not independence of the “full” sort. Misleading? Yes, but then again, that was the point, wasn’t it?

So we come to Nor-bu dgra-’dul’s last words as described in English: a call for “complete independence.” Now, one needs to bear in mind that the term “complete independence” (what Dharamsala opposed and opposes) has been used as a rhetorical tool to mark extremists. This, even though demonstrations in Dharamsala and elsewhere in the Tibetan world were in part characterized for decades by the broad mass of participants proclaiming “Bod rang-btsan gtsang-ma yin!” This phrase is essentially an assertion of Tibet’s legitimate identity as a country replete with all the attributes of independence. It differs somewhat from exclaiming “Bod rang-btsan gtsang-ma dgos,” which asserts that Tibet needs to be cleanly or fully independent. One might argue over why such assertions have been demonized in Dharamsala (though the reasons seem quite obvious). But for our purposes the fact that this language has become controversial requires that we ask, specifically, what Nor-bu dgra-’dul cried out before he died.

Well, if the Tibetan website Khabdha and the site for Bod-kyi dus-bab can be relied on, it was not something that contained the term rang-btsan gtsang-ma, in spite of the Phayul report claiming he called for “complete independence.” According to the reports on Khabdha and Bod-kyi dus-bab he went to his death avoiding or—more likely—unaware of the way exile authorities had taken a phrase that most Tibetans used to utter unabashedly and imbued it with the sinister tones of extremism and indeed violence. No, Nor-bu dgra-’dul’s last appeal was simple and direct: “Bod kha-ba-can la rang-dbang rang-btsan dgos!” “Tibet, Land of Snows, must be free and independent!”

ICT’s Response:

To Prof. Sperling,

I have been asked to respond to your article “Extinguishing Rangzen.” I would like to direct you to the ICT report published on October 16 (“Self-immolations continue in Tibet; 8th young Tibetan man sets fire to himself in Ngaba”), in which Norbu Damdrul is quoted as shouting “We need freedom and independence for Tibet” during his protest (see first paragraph, second sentence).

In regards to the validity of your assertion that ICT is involved in a conspiracy to purposefully mistranslate calls for independence, I believe your omission of what was stated in ICT’s report on Norbu Damdrul speaks for itself. ICT stands by the integrity of its reporting, and we appreciate the opportunity to set the record straight.

Chris Ratke
Researcher/Communications Coordinator
International Campaign for Tibet

The Rejoinder:

Dear Chris (if I may),

I’m somewhat amused to find that I’ve touched a nerve over at the ICT office, all the more so since I didn’t say that ICT misquoted Nor-bu dgra-’dul. Rather, I said that ICT contributed significantly to the atmosphere in which distortions of what people such as Nor-bu dgra-’dul have been saying are commonplace. So much so that it is incumbent on everyone now to be as exact as possible with regard to the Tibetan uttered by all protesters within Tibet—lest one do them the profound insult of putting words they did not say into their mouths. These distortions have so debased reporting on Tibet that a reporter can unabashedly write that a Tibetan who committed the absolutely terrifying act of self-immolation did so for “autonomy.”

Here’s what I said with regard to ICT:

This raises a question which has unfortunately been well-muddled by the fine folks at ICT and many others in Dharamsala for many, many years. Early on ICT, in support of the Dalai Lama’s policies and under the direction (one has to suppose) of its director, Lodi Gyari, adopted the—how might one put this politely?—less-than-forthright policy of translating calls from inside Tibet for rang-btsan as calls for “freedom” (rang-dbang).

I made no further mention of ICT in my commentary, but I understand ICT’s consternation at any allusion to its role in creating the ongoing atmosphere of misunderstanding and/or deceptive reporting about statements made in Tibet. If ICT itself is no longer doing this, then bravo! But the damage has been done and the errors continue under the bylines of others.

Since ICT now seems to believe that a Tibetan calling for rang-btsan should not have his or her words distorted, and since ICT is concerned about setting the record straight, I’m happy to provide materials for the task. Here’s an ICT flyer from the mid-1990s purporting to present Tibetan sentiments to both supporters and potential donors (I omit the flap with the donation options):

The significant portion is what is at the bottom:

And what is interesting about this is that it’s one of the few (I believe) ICT documents with a direct quote from a Tibetan political prisoner in Tibetan, followed by an English translation. Specifically, it’s part of an appeal from Ngag-dbang phul-byung, a member of that group of political prisoners then known as the ’Bras-spungs 10. It is altered so that his call for the restoration of Tibetan independence (rang-btsan; here elegantly written as rang-brtsan), becomes a call for the restoration of Tibetan freedom (rang-dbang). For emphasis the distortion is repeated in the description just under the translated quote.

Since, as your letter indicates, ICT is warming to the task of setting the record straight, allow me to help by offering a modest proposal. Perhaps ICT might start with some research into how far this particular misrepresentation has gone: how many of its posters, flyers, statements before governmental bodies, etc.—all dispensing with any Tibetan text—just flat out rendered rang-btsan as freedom over the years. I’m sure ICT must have an archive of such documents. (Anecdotally, I remember very well voicing a complaint about this issue back in the day to a [non-Tibetan] ICT employee and being told that it was a non-issue, that rang-btsan means “freedom.”) More importantly, the appointed researcher might also try to assess what, if any, damage has been done by all this: how has this particular misrepresentation contributed to the demonization of those calling for rang-btsan (a category that would have to include Ngag-dbang phul-byung—at least before ICT got hold of his words) as extremists, something that likely colors Western reports even today. And so the researcher ought also to consider how to rectify the situation.

Such an undertaking would be a lot of work, I well understand. But it would be a major contribution to our understanding of one very important aspect of the rhetorical constructions around the Tibet Issue.

Finally, Chris, you state that I am asserting that ICT is involved in a conspiracy. Now conspiracy can be a scary word and the desire to paint a rhetorical opponent as a conspiracy monger of some sort may be understandable on your part (it is almost Halloween, after all). But I did not use the “c” word. However, if you do insist on insinuating that I did or that I meant to, might I suggest that it’s best not to start your letter by stating that someone else (unnamed, of course!) has asked you to write it? Just a suggestion, but I hope it’s helpful.

Cheers,

Elliot

P.S. I hope this hasn’t quashed my chances for next year’s Light of Truth Award!

I have received several requests over the last few weeks to post the article I wrote for the July issue of Jane’s Intelligence Review on the recent changes in Dharamsala. Since that article was edited down somewhat I decided that it would be more useful for readers of this blog to read the original text. Readers should note that it was written in early June.

In late April, at the start of yet another round of human rights talks between the U.S. and China, accounts surfaced—likely from within State Department circles—that assessed the whole process as little more than a tedious exercise in diplomatic theater, with nothing to show following two decades of meetings and periodic dissimulations about the talks being vaguely “meaningful” or “constructive.” If this is a fair judgment of the U.S. human rights dialogue with China, an objective evaluation of the talks that have taken place periodically between the Chinese Government and the Dalai Lama’s representatives would have to similarly conclude that they have been a mix of charade and dissimulation (the latter mostly from the Tibetan side), only more so.

For years the Tibetan stance at these talks has been that of a supplicant. The Tibetan side has whittled down its core position slowly but surely while China has held firm. From the Chinese perspective, its policy towards the exiles has been eminently successful: there have been ever greater concessions from the Tibetans, who insist they are trying to be “conciliatory,” with no substantive reciprocity from China. The most recent developments within the Tibetan exile community—following the announced retirement of the Dalai Lama from his political role and the direct election of a new “Kalon Tripa” (the position previously considered the equivalent of “Prime Minister”)—fall into this pattern, save that the Tibetans will henceforth have little left to give away. They have put an end to the “Government-in-Exile.”

The basic Tibetan concession, made in 1988, was the Dalai Lama’s public acceptance of Tibet’s status as a part of China, which undermined the taint of illegitimacy that had always clung to China’s invasion and annexation of Tibet in 1950 and 1951. With no reciprocity from China and a Tibetan establishment incapable of recognizing the failure of the Dalai Lama’s gambit, the Tibetan side proceeded, as if by inertia, down a failed path. What was once a national issue (in 1961 the United Nations passed a resolution that in part recognized the right of the Tibetans to self-determination), was reframed as an issue of internal autonomy, and then reduced to a question of cultural preservation.

China has held its ground for well over fifteen years, waiting for the Dalai Lama’s passing which it believes will remove the biggest element of the Tibet issue. The various steps that the exile establishment has taken as “conciliatory”—changes in the exile political structure, the Dalai Lama’s assertion that he wants to be a Chinese citizen; the focusing of the last bilateral discussions on explaining to the Chinese side that the Chinese Constitution and autonomy laws fully accord with the Dalai Lama’s interpretation of autonomy, etc. — have not altered the Chinese stance. The long view of the issue makes the pattern obvious, in spite of the exiles repeatedly and myopically telling themselves that this or that new concession will make it easier for China to come to an agreement. Indeed, each concession from the Tibetan side is eventually perceived as the basic Tibetan position, its nature as a concession forgotten as international relations “realists” and others put the onus back on the Dalai Lama to meet China halfway. There is no imaginable reason for China to abandon a strategy which, though intransigent, achieves its aims. China fully understands that its rise as a world power has sharply diminished the need to placate international critics on an issue that is not a vital interest to other powers.

Tibetans continue to assume that China actually wants to reach an agreement with Dharamsala. But China knows that the return of the Dalai Lama to the People’s Republic of China, regardless of what he might say to Tibetans, would create a focus for Tibetan identity and loyalty that would subvert the forms of identity and loyalty promulgated by the state.

Over the last year or so preparations were made for the direct, popular election of a new Kalon Tripa. Three candidates emerged, none opposed to the general direction of exile policy. Then, ten days prior to the March 20 election, the Dalai Lama announced that he was now finally going to retire from a political role in the Tibetan Government, an intention he’d expressed before, even stating that he already considered himself semi-retired. The timing of the Dalai Lama’s statement left mere days for Tibetans to discuss the issue prior to the voting. The winning candidate, Lobsang Sangay, a 42-year-old Harvard Law School graduate, campaigned on a platform emphasizing youth and change. But he has always presented himself as a follower of the Dalai Lama’s policies and his pronouncements since the April 27^th announcement of his win have all been in accord with this. He declared the Dalai Lama to be his guide and his leader.

The election results were followed by a Tibetan “National General Meeting” from May 21 to May 24, dominated by the impact of the election and the announced retirement of the Dalai Lama. These precipitated a need for revisions to the governing statutes of exile political society, especially given that the Dalai Lama had earlier called for the end to the “Government-in-Exile.” The revisions were the real focus of attention among Tibetans. The Dalai Lama refused all requests to remain a symbolic head of state. But he agreed to continue to advise the exile authorities and to meet with world leaders. In effect, in spite of his retirement from an active day-to-day role (formalized on May 31), the Dalai Lama’s stature will ensure the continuity of his basic policy that Tibet is a part of China. While the Dalai Lama may have retired, his influence and the authority it projects have not. The disproportionate presence of his family members within the governing structures of exile society remains as well, sending an unspoken message to Tibetan exile society that the birth of the Dalai Lama in one’s family represents a political and financial boon to the whole family. When the next Dalai Lama is to be chosen this precedent may likely prove a disastrous incentive for factional divisions—and a boon to China, which will enthrone a single candidate of its choosing.

Such problems stem from the fact that the Dalai Lama has never seriously educated exile society about his human fallibility and his people’s democratic equality with him. Ironically, only he could have done this. His policies are respected ultimately because of whom they come from, not because of any reasoned, logical debate over their intrinsic merits and defects. The wild card in this consists of those Tibetans inside the People’s Republic of China who live very different lives from Tibetan exiles and in many cases have deep antagonisms with the concrete reality of a Chinese-ruled Tibet.

China appreciates (in two senses of the word) that the exiles have gone from a national movement to a cultural movement and they are now forfeiting anything resembling a Tibetan government. For that is precisely what happened after the National General Meeting between May 21 and May 24, and afterwards when the Tibetan Assembly met to consider what had transpired at the meeting.

The Assembly already had to deal with popular anxiety about changing the role of the Dalai Lama within the wording of the exile “charter” (constitutional aspirations disappeared some time ago). But further worries were attached to the proposal to eliminate language designating the exile governing structures a “government”—in exile or otherwise. Nevertheless, and in spite of widespread public apprehension (if not outright opposition) expressed inside and outside the National General Meeting, the Assembly rushed through this change on May 28. This, of course, accords with the Dalai Lama’s long-held views: i.e., the world is interdependent and independent states are increasingly meaningless. In this light, the change is by no means inexplicable, especially given the Tibetan leader’s explicit call for Tibetan exiles not to have anything called a “government” and for them to stop referring to the Kalon Tripa as a “Prime Minister.” And this has badly undercut the status of the Tibetan side. What was previously the “Tibetan Government-in-Exile” is now a “Tibetan Organization;” the official English translation that has been distributed, “Tibetan Administration,” doesn’t communicate just how unexalted the actual Tibetan term is in this context.

And what will China’s reaction be? This spring the groundwork was laid to bring scholars and ideologues together to construct a new theory of Chinese national identity, one that will serve the purposes of national unity in the manner that an authoritarian state desires. In this environment the Dalai Lama’s “post-nationalism” recalls the disarmament movement of decades ago: directed at only one side, the side that accepted democratic pluralism and dissent, it left the other side quite untouched.

Speculation that the retirement of the Dalai Lama will make it easier for China to deal with a secular leader who does not head an institution with national and governmental aspirations is, as noted, myopic. Chinese pressure will still continue. If the new Kalon Tripa is to meet major world leaders, it will only be in the company of the Dalai Lama, though even that is unlikely. Chinese objections were already part of the reason that the Dalai Lama only met Barack Obama on his second trip to Washington. That there was no meeting during his first trip, as would normally have been the case, did not go unnoticed, nor did the fact that when the Dalai Lama did meet with the U.S. President the visit was marred by a departure through a White House exit strewn with garbage bags, a scene captured in photographs.

Far and away, the advantage is China’s. The self-inflicted setback for Tibetans is striking, given the wide support the Tibetan movement has always received. Other groups with similar issues with China fade into the shadows of international purview by comparison. So it is interesting that in early May, exile Uyghur delegates at a summit meeting agreed to make self-determination the lynchpin of their movement, their spokesperson publicly stating that “Tibetans got absolutely nothing from China by pursuing autonomy.” China has played its cards right and is now simply sitting back and waiting for the credibility of the Tibetan exile establishment to further melt away.

Now comes word, again thanks to Woeser, that the already lamentable roadway being constructed right by the traditional circumambulation route around Mt. Kailash will be widened to allow for use by motor vehicles of all sizes, all as part of a major tourist development of the area. Just thinking about the representation of Buddhism at Chengde, one can imagine the newly hired guides at Kailash explaining that a ride around the sacred mountain is believed by Buddhists to bring one wealth and riches…

The private stock offer plan for 2010 of the Tibet Tourism Company Ltd., which specifically uses the development of the Kailash region for tourism purposes as bait for investors seeking market profits has been posted by Woeser. But the degradation of this religious site for the benefit of Chinese investors is not simply another insult for Tibetans to bear; it is a slap too at Indian pilgrims who also venerate Kailash as the abode of Śiva and visit and circumambulate it.

Woeser draws on Wang Lixiong’s description in Tianzang of Tibet as an immobile body, helplessly picked apart by birds of prey, to represent Tibetan impotence in the face of the blatant milking of Tibetan religious culture for financial gain. Her appeal for a halt to the development of the Kailash region (and the region of Tso Mapham) for monetary profit has received some notice abroad, but in view of the environmental and cultural debacle foreshadowed by these development plans, more concern is urgently needed.

Update: A translation of Woeser’s latest appeal has been posted at High Peaks, Pure Earth. A new post of hers, mentioning the Guofeng Group (国风集团), the Beijing-based parent company of the Tibet Tourism Company Ltd. is also up on her blog, as well as another post of an essay she wrote in 2002 about her own circuit around Kailash. The post has a good number of Woeser’s photos from that circumambulation. The essay itself was included in a picture book published in 2004 and then banned. As she notes, this was her second banned book.

Further Update: Woeser keeps adding to her posts about the Kailash situation, so those who can read Chinese are advised to check her blog periodically. Even those who cannot might want to take a look at one particular recent post about her 2002 trip. It includes an English-language comment that an Indian reader posted on High Peaks, Pure Earth, as well as a good number of photos of her encounters with Indian pilgrims performing the circuit around the sacred mountain.

Readers might also consider that the name “Xizang” is wholly imbued with a Chinese viewpoint. Indeed, one might say that use of that name subliminally reinforces it: the first syllable means “West;” i.e., it situates Tibet according to the way it’s perceived from China. Taiwan Xuangouzi brings up the principle of the power of naming being the appropriate domain of those at the core of the matter (名從主人; 尊重當事人) , i.e., in this case the people who inhabit the land thus named. She clearly indicates that this is not the case with the name “Xizang.”

Tubote, Tibet, and the Power of Naming

唐曰烏斯國、明曰烏斯藏、 

今曰圖伯特、又曰唐古忒

            –西藏誌

“In the Tang it was called it Wusiguo, in the Ming, Wusi-Zang.

Today it is called Tubote, and also Tangut.”

                                                —Xizang zhi

The above quote, from an anonymous 18^th-century gazetteer (fangzhi 方志) of Tibet,[1] may strike readers as a bit of arcane Tibetology, a peculiar remark about nomenclature in the early-Qing era that, while curious, is of little relevance to present-day understanding of the Tibet Issue. And indeed it is curious: the author states that in his day “Tibet” was known as “Tangut” and as … well, “Tibet,” for that is exactly the name that is transcribed in his work as “Tubote 圖伯特.” But is this irrelevant to the modern reader? To the contrary; the author, by telling us that the name “Tubote” was known in the Qing as a name for Tibet, touches upon one of the fundamental questions that confronts anyone writing in Chinese about Tibet at the beginning of the 21^st century: what should one call this large land when writing about it as an integral cultural and national whole and not simply as a grouping of administrative divisions within the People’s Republic of China?

The immediacy of this question has been obscured in large part because of the rigidity that the terminology for Tibet and Tibetans has attained in the PRC. But that very rigidity should long ago have led us to question the whole terminological edifice. Ideological and post-modern jargon (and gibberish) aside, language, in this instance, is indeed power. China’s ability to command the terminology associated with Tibet has consequently given it the ability to define Tibet and to define Tibetans. It has allowed China the power to determine the most basic terms of debate over Tibet, a debate that readers of this volume will shortly encounter in the chapters that follow.

It is therefore fascinating to see that a growing number of writings and blog posts in the Chinese language—many from Taiwan, some by Tibetan writers, and even a few from the PRC that manage to make it past the Great Firewall of China—pick up where our anonymous 18^th-century author has left off and refer to Tibet as just that: Tubote or, as a variant, Tubo 圖伯. It is for reasons that are spelled out in this introductory note that Tubote is used in this book for the world of Tibetan civilization and of the Tibetan people, a world that stretches far beyond today’s Tibet Autonomous Region.[2]

The official term, the term for Tibet that most people use in Chinese, is Xizang 西藏. Its etymology is well known and transparently obvious from references in the standard dynastic histories and other commonly-used sources. One notion common among Western Tibet supporters, that Xizang means “Treasure House of the West” and is so named because China sees the area as a massive storehouse of mineral wealth to be exploited, is patently erroneous. The “Zang” in Xizang, while it can mean a storehouse, is used in the name simply because it transcribes Gtsang, one part of the region generally referred to as Central Tibet, or Dbus-Gtsang in Tibetan. In the Ming period we find Dbus-Gtsang rendered as Wusi-Zang 烏斯藏.[3] During the Qing this changes to Wei-Zang (again, an easily understood transcription of Dbus-Gtsang)[4] and finally to Xizang. The last denotes the Western location (i.e., “Xi” 西) of the land and the sound of its two syllables finds an echo in the name of the province Republican China created for Khams, the southeastern part of Tibet: Xikang 西康 (a good portion of which actually lay beyond China’s reach).

As a result of all this, however, “Xizang” remains identified only with Central Tibet and a part of Khams. And it is that sense, and that sense alone, that is conveyed by the term. But the greater world of Tibetan Studies, and indeed of Tibetan perceptions, sees Tibet as the land of Tibet’s three principle regions: Central Tibet (Dbus-Gtsang), Khams and A-mdo. And many writers and bloggers from Taiwan, China, and Tibet, increasingly understand this. Thus the growth in the use of Tubote (or Tubo) to denote what Tibetans understand as Tibet. There is obviously something a bit subversive in this: Tibetans using a name of their own choosing in Chinese-language materials are retaking some of what has been lost to them and acting to define themselves.

The entire vocabulary of nationalities and nationality terms in the PRC is imbued with a conscious political element of control by definition. The very designation “minority nationality” reduces all of the peoples so designated to the same uniform level, regardless of whether they number in the millions and have a conscious history of themselves as a political power with their own government and a bureaucracy literate in their own language, or whether they number in the tens of thousands with no national history.

It would be wise to remember too that the meaning of Xizang is essentially determined by politics: during the era of Guomindang rule the territory was considerably smaller than it is presently, since a good portion of Khams (and even a bit of Dbus) was drawn into the map of Guomindang Xikang. It goes without saying that Qinghai and the Tibetan areas of present-day Yunnan and Gansu were not covered by the pre-1949 definition of Xizang, just as they are not covered by it today. And so the traditional and historic realm of Tibet does not have a single officially-sanctioned Chinese term designating it today. It can be described, of course, in phrases like Zangzu juzhu diqu 藏族居住地区 , “the area inhabited by the Tibetan nationality.” But that is a description, not a name. Obviously there are solid fundamental reasons to find writers gravitating to the term “Tubote.”

The language about the area of Tibet has also encumbered the language about Tibetans with a singular inelegance. If only Xizang can be understood to denote Tibet, and Xizang/Tibet is to be limited to the TAR, an artificial stiffness attaches to descriptions of Tibetans as a whole. They can be described as people “of Tibetan nationality,” Zangzu 藏族, but “Tibetans,” Xizang ren 西藏人, are uniquely the residents of the TAR. In Tibetan this divide is manifested in the distinction between the terms Bod-pa (=Tibetan, Xizang ren) and Bod-rigs (=those of Tibetan nationality, Zangzu). That this is a recently created distinction is clear from some of the common accounts of the Red Army’s passage through regions in Khams during the Long March. In these writings one finds a Chinese awareness that prior to 1949 at least, the use of the Tibetan term Bod-pa (i.e., “Xizang ren”) was not restricted to the area under the jurisdiction of the Dalai Lama’s government (i.e. the modern TAR). Thus one can read of the Red Army’s establishment of short-lived, local “Tibetan People’s Governments” which they called “Boba renmin zhengfu” 波巴人民政府, Boba 波巴 transcribing the Tibetan Bod-pa.[5]

Tibetan aside, all modern languages except Chinese refer to the entire cultural and historic realm of the Tibetans with a variant of the name Tibet. And in those other languages the rigid distinctions engendered in modern Chinese that are deployed in support of China’s political definition of Tibet and Tibetans don’t apply. The increasing numbers of writers and bloggers from Taiwan and also from the PRC opting for Tubote shows that their engagement with the question is substantive. In addition to Tubote, many of them have chosen to integrate into their writing transcriptions of Tibetan terms for Tibetans as a people (Bomi 博彌 and Boba 博巴, i.e., Bod-mi and Bod-pa in Tibetan), Tibetan as a language (Boyi 博伊 and Bogai 博蓋 , i.e., Bod-yig and Bod-skad), and so forth, all in order to avoid the limits imposed by the use of the Chinese term Zang 藏, with its connection to “Xizang.”

Ironically, the one place in the Chinese language where “Bod” is decreed to be appropriate in Chinese transcriptions referring to Tibet is actually in the mandated pronunciation of the name for Tibet used during the Tang period: Tufan 吐蕃, now pronounced and rendered everywhere in the PRC in romanized pinyin as Tubo. This pronunciation was rigorously dissected and clearly shown to be erroneous a century ago by Paul Pelliot 伯希和.[6] Indeed, I recall with some humor a conference many years ago at which a Chinese colleague kept referring to “the Tubo Kingdom.” A venerable Tibetologist leaned over to me and whispered “Will nobody have pity on the poor man and tell him that Pelliot showed already in 1915 that the character can’t be read bo?” Of course our Chinese colleague was likely familiar with Pelliot’s comments; but politics is no doubt at play here and the notion that the name Bod was known to the Tang and incorporated into the contemporary Chinese name for the Tibetan state is an element in the Marxist teleology that cannot be trifled with: it ostensibly demonstrates that even at that early stage the Tibetan and Chinese peoples were inexorably growing closer and closer.

Interestingly, as Pelliot showed, the desire to see Tufan as Tubo, and to see the name Bod within the Chinese transcription is not rooted in Chinese historiographical traditions but derives from the 19^th century work of Western Orientalists, stretching from Jean-Pierre Abel Rémusat to William Woodville Rockhill and beyond. We might note that even if one were to accept that fan 蕃 should be read as bo, that still leaves us with the problem of explaining the first character, Tu 吐, and here imaginations have run riot, with some of the Orientalists mentioned by Pelliot fantasizing about “Mtho-Bod” or “Stod-Bod” as names used in ancient Tibet. Both names render something akin to “High Tibet” or “Upper Tibet.” These names, however, are unattested in old Tibetan materials. Most importantly they do not appear in bilingual materials from Tibet’s imperial period in which Tufan is simply rendered as Bod. Without such attestations “Stod-Bod” and “Mtho-Bod” appear like nothing more than the result of a 19^th-century hunt through dictionaries and word lists aimed at concocting a name that didn’t exist.

Actually, the Tibetan Plateau didn’t constitute one realm to its pre-Tang inhabitants. Everything we know about the Tibetan Plateau before and during the early period of the empire speaks of a divided realm with no visible cohesion—ethnically, linguistically, and religiously—and no evidence whatsoever of a larger sense of “Bod” until the Tibetan emperors and their armies rolled through the lands of the ’A-zha 吐谷渾, the Sum-pa 松巴, Zhang-zhung 祥雄, the Khyung-po 瓊波, and others, and created it. Nevertheless, we do have evidence of the early use of the name Bod, but this only comes from the south-central area of the Plateau and our awareness of this is due to the Indian references to “Bhoṭa” in Vedic literature: it was not a name used across the Plateau before imperial times. How, indeed, could it have been otherwise, given the disunity among the plateau’s inhabitants in pre- and early imperial times? The idea that all people living on the Tibetan Plateau during that period saw themselves as holders of a common name, or that they were all aware of the topography of the world beyond the Plateau and thus commonly considered their realm to be “Upper” or “High Tibet” is utterly unsustainable.

The fact is, as Pelliot showed in 1915, there is a fine and reasonable explanation for the name Tufan in the official Tang histories. Indeed, we find at the beginning of the Jiu Tangshu 舊唐書, a description of its derivation from  the Xianbei 鮮卑 clan name Tufa 禿髮, carried by the descendants of a Southern Liang 涼 family: 以禿髮為國號，語訛謂之吐蕃. In other words, Tufan became the name for Tibet as the result of an error in rendering Tufa, the correct Chinese name. And it was this clan name Tufa that was originally applied to Tibet; only later was it corrupted into Tufan. Tufa, in fact, actually would have been pronounced in a manner akin to “Tupat,” which can be easily linked to the forms for “Tibet” subsequently found in Turkic, Arabic, and a number of other languages, and which eventually surfaced in European languages. Indeed, we find the term adopted by the 8^th-century Turks as Tüpüt; from there it passed on to the Arabs and the Persians in the form of Tubbat and similar variants. In the later Middle Ages the name is recorded by Marco Polo as Tebet; the narrative accounts of other medieval European travelers use related spellings.

The long journey of this clan name and its transformation into a geographical name may seem convoluted, but it is hardly unusual. This is, after all, the case with “America.” Moreover, the transformation of the name for a small region (i.e., Tufa/Tufan, which appears at first only on the northeast edge of the Tibetan Plateau) into the name for a much larger area is also not rare, as the examples of “Asia” and “Africa” illustrate. The field of meaning for both terms expanded well beyond their original senses in the languages of the Classical Mediterranean world. Thus, this somewhat localized pre-Tang name, Tufa/Tufan came to denote in Chinese the larger Tibetan realm that emerged to the west of its original location. This name was quite unrelated to the names that the actual inhabitants used on the plateau itself, much as the name “America” is similarly unrelated to any indigenous names used in the Western Hemisphere.

It is interesting to note that when the scholars Don-grub rgyal 端智嘉 and Chen Qingying 陈庆英 made their Tibetan translation of the Jiu Tangshu and Xin Tangshu 新唐書 chapters on Tibet,[7] they assuredly knew of the old Stod-Bod idea, but they appear to have rejected it, rendering Tufan instead as Thu-Bhod. One imagines that they couldn’t wholly reject the politicized Tubo, which is essentially dogma in the PRC, but they could finesse it, perhaps, by rendering it as something closer to “Tibet” and not outrightly equating fan/bo with Bod.

In brief, then, the original Chinese name for Tibet noted at the beginning of the Jiu Tangshu can now be seen as an early form of the name that is used universally outside Tibet and modern China: Tibet. And Tibet, as universally understood as a cultural and historical realm, is not the modern “Xizang.” But it is the Tubote that a new generation that writes and blogs in Chinese has rediscovered and adopted as a clear and unambiguous marker of the land with which they are so intensely engaged.

[2] While there is a modern precedent for using the variant “Tubo,” the fact that Tubote is already found in the Qing (often with the variant forms 土伯忒 or 土白特, etc.) and that it more clearly reflects the name by which Tibet is known in almost all the world’s languages recommends it as the form to be used throughout this book. In addition, the present-day Tubo 圖伯 is vulnerable to being confused with the erroneous Pinyin rendering of Tufan 吐蕃 as “Tubo,” a problem discussed below.

[3] Zhang Tingyu 張廷玉, Mingshi 明史 (Bejing, 1974), 331:8571-8585.

[4] See Songyun 松荺, Wei-Zang tongzhi 衛藏通志 (Taipei, 1965).

[5] Hongjun changzheng zai Sichuan 红军长征在四川,  (Chengdu, 1986), p. 355 ff.

[6] Paul Pelliot, “Quelques transcriptions chinoises de noms tibétains,” T’oung Pao 通報 16.1 (March, 1915), pp. 18-20.

[7] Don-grub rgyal and Khrin Chin-dbyin, Thang-yig gsar-rnying-las byung-ba’i Bod chen-po’i srid-lugs = Duanzhi jia端智嘉 and Chen Qingying Qingying 陈庆英, Tufan zhuan 吐蕃傳 (Xining, 1983).

And for those of you in Dharamsala, there will be a small exhibition of photographs taken by me in and around McLeod Ganj in the 1970s opening in just a few days over at Moonpeak Espresso on Temple Road. Stop in to take a look and to have an excellent cup of espresso. Or have a great meal at Moonpeak Espresso’s cousin, Moonpeak Thali, further on down the road!

 Authenticating Tibet, which has been quite successful in French and English as a guide to understanding the myriad elements that make up the Tibet Question, will soon be available to those who read Chinese in an edition published this spring by Avant-garde Publishers in Taipei under the title 遮蔽的圖伯特：國際藏學家解讀西藏百題問答. It should be available in bookstores and for purchase online shortly.

My deep thanks to 謝惟敏 for her impeccable translation of this introduction.

唐曰烏斯國、明曰烏斯藏

今曰圖伯特、又曰唐古忒

－《西藏誌》

上述文字是清初一個關於地名沿革的有趣評語，徵引自一部十八世紀佚名作者的 Tibet 方志[1]，也許會讓讀者感覺是瑣碎而玄秘的藏學知識，雖然令人感到好奇，卻似乎與今日理解Tibet議題沒有什麼相干。而它也確實相當奇怪：作者說在他的時代，這個地方稱為「唐古忒」（”Tangut”），又稱為「圖伯特」（Tibet）。這一點真的與現代讀者無關嗎？正好相反，作者藉由告訴我們「圖伯特」這個名字在清朝就是Tibet的名字之一，碰觸到一個二十一世紀初嘗試以中文寫作 Tibet 的人都必須面對的問題：若要以完整而不可分割的文化與民族整體來稱呼那一塊廣袤的土地，而不只是中華人民共和國內部數個行政區之堆砌時，究竟該怎麼辦？

這個問題的急迫性之所以未引起重視，很大的程度正是因為中華人民共和國內指稱 Tibet 與 Tibetans 的名詞已經非常僵化。然而那樣的拘泥與束縛早該讓我們質疑建構在這些名詞之上的人為結構。即使我們不談意識形態或後現代的術語（以及囈語），然而在這個例子裏，語言就是力量。因為中國能夠安排、限定關於 Tibet 詞彙的意義與範疇，因此有了界定 Tibet、定義 Tibetans的本事。它允許中國在討論Tibet議題時，可以單方面決定其最基本的條件。這些議題將在本文之後的章節陸續提到。

現在我們看到有愈來愈多以中文寫作的文章、部落格的貼文──有些來自圖伯特的作家、許多來自台灣的網友、甚至還有想辦法突破中國網路防火牆的人──正在接續上述這位十八世紀的不知名中文作者所未完成的，就是使用「圖伯特」，或者它的一個變化形式，「圖博」，來稱呼 Tibet，是一件令人欣喜和期待的事。而就是為了本文即將闡明的理由，本書將使用「圖伯特」來指稱 Tibet 文明所在的世界和博巴（譯按：亦即中文習稱的「藏族」）所生活的地方，一個疆界遠比今日西藏自治區更加悠遠遼闊的國度。[2]

大部份使用中文的人所習用的 Tibet 正式名稱，是西藏。這個名詞的來源廣為人知，從官方修訂的歷代正史與其他常見的文獻所紀錄的用法，亦一目瞭然，容易理解。西方的圖伯特支持者有一種普遍的錯誤觀念，那就是西藏意謂著「西方的藏寶屋」，而會如此命名是因為中國視此區為一礦藏極為豐富、有待開採開發的寶地，這當然是大錯特錯。西藏一詞的「藏」字，雖然可以意謂「儲存」，但在這裏只是因為它音譯了Gtsang，指的是組成此區的一部份，一般稱為圖伯特中部地區，也就是博伊（譯按：即中文習稱的「藏文」）裏的 Dbus-Gtsang。在明代，Dbus-Gtsang 被翻譯成「烏斯藏」。[3]　清朝時，這個名詞則變成了「衛藏」（也是 Dbus-Gtsang 之音譯）[4]，最後再演變為「西藏」，以表示其方位在西邊，而其兩個音節的聲音，又與之後中華民國政府為圖伯特東南部的康區（Khams）創建之行省「西康」相類似。

這一切所造成的結果是，「西藏」至今指稱的，依舊只有圖伯特中部以及一小部份的康區，而這個名詞所傳達的，就是上述的定義，也唯有那層意義而已。然而藏學研究的更廣闊世界，也是博巴所思維感知的世界，係將Tibet看成是三個主要地區所組成的地方：圖伯特中部（衛藏）、康與安多。目前有許多來自圖伯特、台灣、中國的作者與部落格作家，愈來愈體會到這一點，因此，也愈來愈多人使用圖伯特（或圖博）來指稱博巴所理解的Tibet。這當然具有顛覆的意義：博巴在中文的書寫裏，使用一個他們自己選擇的名字，是為了重新掌握他們被剥奪的，並且採取行動來定義他們自己。

今日的中華人民共和國，有一整套少數民族和各種與民族相關的語彚，充滿了藉由定義以遂控制目的的政治操作。「少數民族」這個名稱本身，就已將所有如此被稱呼的民族貶降為同一層次，不論他們是人口數百萬、曾是一個政治強權、不但有自己的政府、還有嫻熟自己語言的官僚系統、擁有一部充滿自覺的歷史；或者人口不過數萬、沒有國族史的族群。

我們如果聰明的話，就應該記取「西藏」的意義先天即由政治所定義的事實：在國民黨統治時期，其定義的範圍甚至比現今更小得多，因為康區的絕大部份（甚至一部份的「衛」，Dbus），都被畫進國民政府的西康省地圖裏，雖然國民政府對此區鞭長莫及，只有在名義上統治而已。更不要說，今日位於青海、雲南、甘肅境內的圖伯特區域，都不包括在一九四九年以前所定義的「西藏」之內，一如它們今天也都不被涵括在其中。因此，傳統與歷史的Tibet，至今都沒有一個單一的、中國官方所承認的中文名詞來指稱。當然，我們可以使用說明性的文字來描寫它，如「藏族居住地區」。然而，那是個描述，而不是個稱呼。這麼多作者漸漸偏好使用圖伯特一詞，顯然其來有自。

描述圖伯特地區的詞彚，以其特殊的拘泥和僵化，拖累了描述博巴作為一個民族的詞彚，使之蹇滯難通。如果 Tibet 只能等同於西藏，而西藏／Tibet 僅只能指西藏自治區，描述博巴整體的名稱也被附加人為的僵硬規矩。他們可以被描述為「藏族」，然而「西藏人」只能單指西藏自治區內的居民。中國官方甚至指定，博伊也必須依樣畫葫蘆，分別使用 Bod-rigs（藏族） 與 Bod-pa（西藏人）來顯示這兩者之間的區別。這是一個相當晚近才創造出來的區分，而這一點，由紅軍回憶長征時經過康區的一些地方所做的紀錄可以清楚地看出來，在這些作品裏，我們發現中國人是有意識到，至少在一九四九年以前，博伊的名詞 Bod-pa（亦即中國官方指定翻譯中的「西藏人」）並不限定於達賴喇嘛政府轄下（也就是現今的西藏自治區）的居民而已。因此我們讀到了紅軍建立一個壽命很短、只在康區一些地方運作的「圖伯特人民的政府」，他們稱為「波巴人民政府」，「波巴」就是音譯博伊的 Bod-pa。[5]

除了博伊以外，目前世界上所有的現代語言之中，在談到博巴所屬的整體文化與歷史世界時，都使用 Tibet 一字的各種變化形式來表示。在那些語言裏，現代中文所產生的束縛限制、種種用來支持中國對 Tibet 與 Tibetans 作政治定義的設限與規矩，都不適用。愈來愈多圖伯特、台灣與中國的作者與網路作家選擇使用「圖伯特」一詞，顯示了他們對這個問題的瞭解，不但深刻，而且是嚴肅懇切的。除了圖伯特以外，許多人在他們的作品中紀錄了Tibetans 作為一個民族的名稱（「博彌」、「博巴」，亦即博伊中的 Bod-mi、Bod-pa），Tibetan作為一種語言（「博伊」、「博蓋」，Bod-yig、Bod-skad）等等，都是為了避免使用中文名詞「藏」，特別是它與「西藏」有關時，所影射的限制。

諷刺的是，中文裏唯一一個 “Bod” （譯按：博伊中的 Tibet）被正式規定為可以名正言順地指稱Tibet的地方，是唐朝稱呼 Tibet 的名字吐蕃（音：Tufan），這個名詞的發音受到官方的指定，現在在中華人民共和國的各處，都已經被讀作 Tubo、也依此音譯為羅馬化的漢語拼音字母。然而，這個唸法早在一百年前已被法國語言學家也是漢學家的伯希和（Paul Pelliot）[6] 徹底地剖析、清楚地顯示為謬誤了。我回想起許多年前參加一個研討會，會中一位中國同行不斷地提起 “the Tubo Kingdom”（吐蕃王朝）。一位藏學界的泰斗傾身對我低語：「難道沒有人要同情一下這個可憐的人，告訴他伯希和早在一九一五年即已說明了那個字不能念成 bo?」當然，我們的中國同行有可能早就知道伯希和對此問題的評析；然而，政治無疑在這裏扮演了重要的角色。對中國學者而言，去想像 Bod 這個名字，唐代人早有所悉，並揉和於當時指稱圖伯特國家的中文名字裏，顯然是馬克思主義歷史目的論裏一個不容造次的成分：它似乎在表面上顯示，即使是在那麼古老的時代裏，博巴與漢族已經愈來愈接近，勢不可擋了。

有趣的是，如同伯希和所顯示的，希望把吐蕃唸成 Tubo，想見到 Bod 這個名字出現於中文書寫之中，其濫觴並不來自於中國官修正史的傳統，而是來自西方十九世紀的東方學專家（Orientalists）的作品，從雷慕沙（Jean-Pierre Abel-Rémusat, 1788年-1832年）到柔克義（William Woodville Rockhill, 1854年-1914年）與其他人等等，此一傾向殊為明顯。我們可能會注意到，就算我們接受了蕃（fan）應該念成 bo，我們還是得解釋第一個字，吐（Tu）的問題，而關於這個問題，他們的想像簡直到了天馬行空的地步。伯希和文中所提到的一些東方學者，幻想著古代的圖伯特使用 “Mtho-Bod” 或者  “Stod-Bod” 這樣的名字。這兩個名字皆翻譯成類似於「高博」（High Tibet）或「上博」（Upper Tibet）的說法。然而，這樣的名字，在古代的博伊文獻裏並沒有證據可以支持。更重要的是，它們也不曾出現於圖伯特帝國時期的雙語史料中，其中Tufan只是翻譯成Bod而已。未得到這些史料的佐證， “Stod-Bod” 與 “Mtho-Bod” 看起來只不過是十九世紀為了炮製一個並不存在的名字，而在字典裏、辭表裏搜求尋覓，所牽強附會的結果而已。

事實上，圖伯特高原對於唐代以前的此地居民而言，並非統一的畛域。我們所知的圖伯特帝國早期、或帝國尚未建立時期的每一件事，皆告訴我們這是一個四分五裂、沒有明顯齊一現象的地方──族群、語言、與宗教上皆如此──也一直沒有任何 “Bod” 作為一個大地理區域之意識的文獻證據，一直到圖伯特皇帝與他們的軍隊遠征吐谷渾（’A-zha）、蘇毗（Sum-pa）、象雄（Zhang-zhung）、瓊波（Khyung-po）及其他族群的地區，並且創造出 Bod的意識為止。雖然如此，我們確實擁有Bod這個名字在更早期就被使用的證據，然而其來源僅囿限於高原的中南部地區，而我們知道這件事，是因為成書年代大約在公元前一千五百年至公元前九百年之間的印度文學《吠陀經》裏曾談到 “Bhoṭa”（波札） ，然而它並不是一個在帝國之前遍及圖伯特高原的名詞。而確實，鑑於帝國建立之前與帝國建立初期，高原上的居民所處的分裂狀態，它又豈能不是如此？去假設那個時期住在圖伯特高原上的人都視自己統一在一個旗號之下，或者他們全都瞭解高原以外地方的地形，因此普遍地認為他們所住的地方是「上」、「高」圖伯特，這是完全經不起檢驗的看法。

事實是，如同伯希和在一九一五年時所解釋的，在唐朝的正史中，對吐蕃這個名字之起源有一個合理而令人滿意的解釋。我們在《舊唐書》〈吐蕃傳〉的開頭找到一段文字描述它起源，據說它是來自一個鮮卑的族名「秃髮」（Tufa），並由後來建立南涼國（397年-414年）的後人繼承此名：「以秃髮為國號，語訛謂之吐蕃」。換言之，吐蕃之所以變成Tibet的名字，就是因為其正確的名字「秃髮」在發音時以訛傳訛所導致的結果。而一開始用來指稱Tibet這個地方的，就是秃髮（Tufa）的族名；直到後來它才音訛地變成吐蕃（Tufan）。「秃髮」的古代發音實際上更加接近 “Tupat”，並早在公元八世紀，即由中亞的突厥人所紀錄，寫為突厥語的 Tüpüt。從這裏，它再輾轉西傳，進入阿拉伯語及波斯語，寫成Tubbat與其他類似的拼法。稍後，在中世紀末期的歐洲，馬可波羅（1254年-1324年）的遊記將它拼寫為Tebet，另外類似的寫法也出現在中古時期不同歐洲旅行者的紀錄中。 “Tibet”與其他類似的稱呼就此陸續進入歐洲各國的語言之中。

一個部族的名字歷經長途的旅程，最後轉變成為一個地理的名字，也許看起來十分迂迴曲折，然而這並非鮮見的例子，畢竟，「亞美利加」（ “America”）也有類似的經歷。更重要的，一個小地方的名字（秃髮／吐蕃，似乎一開始只局限於圖伯特高原的東北部邊緣一帶），漸漸轉變成為指涉一個大地區的名字，並非罕見， 另外類似的例子有「亞細亞」（ “Asia”，亞洲）與 「阿非利加」（”Africa”，非洲），這兩個名詞的指涉範圍，後來備受擴張，遠超過它們在古希臘羅馬時代地中海諸古典語言裡的原始意義。因此，這個帶點地方性質的、在唐代以前出現的名字，「秃髮／吐蕃」，後來在中文裏已經澈底改頭換面，指稱的是它原來的地點以西的廣大圖伯特地區。這個名字，與實際居住在此高原上的原住民所使用的各種名字（如蘇毗、象雄等），並無關連，就如同「亞美利加」與西半球上任何本土名字（如馬雅、阿茲特克等）皆不相關一樣。

值得一提的是，當學者端智嘉與陳慶英把《舊唐書》與《新唐書》中的〈吐蕃傳〉翻譯成博伊時[7]，他們肯定知道舊有的 Stod-Bod（上博）概念，然而他們似乎拒斥了它，把 Tufan 翻譯成 Thu-Bhod。我們可以想像他們不能全然拒斥已經政治化、作為中華人民共和國根本教條的 Tubo，然而他們可以很有技巧地處理它，或許將它翻譯成近似 “Tibet”的名詞，而不是直接了當地將 fan/bo 與 Bod 等同劃一。

簡言之，《舊唐書》〈吐蕃傳〉開頭所提到的中文名字，可以被視為在圖伯特之外、也是現代中國以外的世界各地，所普遍所使用的名字──Tibet──的一個雛型。而 Tibet，作為普世所接受的一個文化與歷史的畛域，並不是現代的「西藏」。令人欣悅的是，新一代以中文書寫或發表網路文章的作者們已經重新發現、並採納了「圖伯特」，作為這塊他們深深關懷的土地一個清晰明朗、無法混淆的稱呼。

[2] 晚近雖然有一些使用「圖博」的例子，然而「圖伯特」一詞早已記載於清朝文獻的事實（往往和另外的變化形式如「土伯忒」、「土白特」等寫法一起出現），以及這個詞更能清楚明確地反映世界各國語言中對於Tibet幾乎一致的稱呼，是本書從頭到尾採用它的理由。除此之外，現存的「圖博」很容易與「吐蕃」（Tufan）之錯誤漢語拼音讀法Tubo 混淆，此問題將在下文討論。

[3] 張廷玉，《明史》，（北京，1974），331:8571-8585。

[4] 見松荺，《衛藏通志》，（台北，1965）。

[5] 《紅軍長征在四川》，（成都，1986），第355頁以後的內容。

[6] Paul Pelliot, “Quelques transcriptions chinoises de noms tibétains,” T’oung Pao 《通報》16. 1 (March, 1915),  第18-20頁。

[7] Don-grub rgyal and Khrin Chin-dbyin, Thang-yig gsar-rnying-las byung-ba’i Bod chen-po’i srid-lugs.  （端智嘉、陳慶英，《吐蕃傳》，（西寧，1983年。））

It is over 15 years since Lhasang Tsering and Pema Bhum translated Thomas Paine’s Common Sense and then brought it out in a good, accessible edition published by the Amnye Machen Institute. One would think that the level of engagement with democratic theory signaled by such a publication would have marked the beginning of a broad understanding in Tibetan exile society of basic democratic principles, among them the right to democratic government. But no, here it is, 15 years on, and it’s as if few have ever bothered to read Paine—and this in spite of a cogent discussion of the Tibetan translation by Mila Rangzen on these very pages in May of this year. It would appear now that Tibetans are being urged to continue adhering to the notion that it is a supreme leader who will determine policy while they “democratically” follow and refrain from criticism; indeed, they are told that the democracy that does exist in exile society isn’t to be considered the basic right of the people… no, it’s the supreme leader’s gift.

Sigh. Well, there’s always art and literature to turn to for some solace, and for signs of independent thinking. And on that note, I should point out that the Amnye Machen Institute, in addition to publishing Thomas Paine, has a worthy history of support for modern Tibetan artists. The institute has, in years past, sponsored exhibits and published small catalogues of works that go beyond traditional norms of what constitutes Tibetan painting. Its work here has been truly laudable.

Over the last ten days a series of posts on Woeser’s invaluable blog (here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here) has been allowing readers a new glimpse at the work of a healthy cross-section of modern Tibetan artists; some well known, others less so. Of course the development of modern Tibetan art, especially via the Gedun Choephel Gallery and the “Sweet Tea House” artists, is not an unknown story. But Woeser describes in detail a fresh chapter: the first large-scale exhibition in Beijing of works by modern artists who are Tibetan or are seriously engaged with Tibet. The exhibit presents the work of 50 artists, 80% of whom are Tibetan.

One does not need to understand Chinese to access and appreciate the works that she showcases. Woeser provides a good sample of the work of these (mostly) young artists. And it’s clear that while the free atmosphere of India is paradoxically witnessing a numbing miasma of reaction in Tibetan political society, the pressures and repression that are visited on Tibetan cultural expression in the PRC appear, ironically, to be imbuing the Tibetan artistic scene there with real vibrancy and awareness—with a willingness to find subtle ways around imposed limits and to flout expected cultural norms. Perhaps this typifies the strength borne of such circumstances. In any event, it’s worth clicking over to Woeser’s blog for a look. For those too lazy or exhausted to click, here are a few of the works from the exhibit: