SUNDAY IS FUN DAY (Special)
I’m in Bodh Gaya, India to attend His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama’s Kalachakra (Wheel of Time) teachings and to take the Bodhisattwa vows. It’s January and it’s so cold my face is stinging. I wonder why I’m here. In the guise pilgrim, I am actually a seeker of Truth. I have little interest in obligatory rituals and less in organized religions. But I do believe in simple faith—most of all faith in oneself.
What’s more, I love people and oppressed peoples always catch me by the heartstrings. It makes me so very sad that the Tibetans have lost their exotic Snow-land Nation to the mundane Chinese administration. Like countless others, I too long for a Free Tibet.
In the pre-dawn morning I walk from my tent over to the Stupa, a dome shaped sacred monument originally designed to hold relics and remains of the sixth century Shakyamuni Buddha, the historic Prince Siddhartha of India whose teachings have traveled the world.
The Stupa is not far from the Bodhi Tree, a fig tree, where he sat meditating and eventually attained Enlightenment. This is holy, I think, walking in the footsteps of a Buddha who left the wealth of his kingdom, turned his back on fame and glory and found his way to this relatively barren place to discover who he really was—not a prince at all, but a servant of mankind. I feel at one with this paradox of Emptiness. Alone, I belong to everything.
I meet Tzu Tzen, tall and rugged and 21 years old. I can’t make out his features, though, because he is wearing a mask. His dark eyes flash when I ask if he speaks English. “I do now,” he begins. “I was born in Tibet, but I speak three languages. Mostly I talk in Hindi to everyone.”
He tells me he has come to Bodh Gaya from a place in India he prefers not to name. “I might get my parents in trouble,” he admits. “There are Chinese spies at most of His Holiness’s events. If they find out where my family is, something bad could happen. My father is an activist in the Free Tibet movement.
Tzu Tzen says he has come here for blessings from His Holiness. But his unique mask makes me wonder if his primary purpose might be more political than spiritual.
Many people here wear a mask for protection from pollution and the freezing air. But his is different. The majority of thermal white cotton masks which loop over the ears and cover the mouth and the nose are sold for 20 rupees in the streets. On the other hand, Tzu Tzen’s mask is self-designed. Made of thin green cotton—like those worn by hospital staff—his mask ties behind the head and neck. In bright, blood-red letters it announces, “China, go to hell.”
I stifle my laughter, because to me it’s such a wild idea he has, that he can alert all of China with just four words. What is this message about? I ask seriously.
Tzu Tzen says he is angry at what happened to his country. “The Chinese just stole it right out from under us. Mao Zedong had more than a million of our people slaughtered. They are still killing us, shoving us in prisons, not letting us practice our religion. They are even dressing up their military as monks—spies in robes—who pretend they are part of the monastery life that tourists get to see. The Chinese only let the tourists see what they want them to see. It’s not Tibet anymore. It’s a fake, for show, tourist trap.”
He is shouting at me as if I’m Mao Zedong himself. “I just want to go home. That’s all. Can you understand? I want to go home to my country.
“I’m fed up with India too because the people here take advantage of Tibetans. They can’t even pronounce the word Tibetan. They call us Tibetians, as if we are half alike. I am not an Indian!
“The tent city I’m staying in is like a refugee camp. My sector has no proper floor. It’s just dirt with some straw thrown about. It’s not even made of real tent material. It could go up in flames with the drop of an incense stick. And it costs 2,500 rupees per month for a space in the tent.”
My tent area is exactly as he describes his, two broken toilets for several hundred people, limited water, and no heat. Nevertheless, I ask: Are you sure Indians are running these places?
“Of course I’m sure. They are taking the money. His Holiness gives the teachings free, but we have to pay too much for our lousy accommodations. They charge us outrageous rates because they know how much we love His Holiness. They pretend they know about Buddha. But right here in Bodh Gaya, they don’t ever remember him. Money, money, money, that’s what Indians want nowadays. Tibetans want freedom.
But wouldn’t life in Tibet—even if the Chinese welcomed you—be worse? What would you do to survive? Do you know how to be a nomad? How would you earn a living? You might not even find a tent waiting for you there.
“I have saved money doing kitchen work, doing modeling. I could find something—anything. I will figure it out when I get there.”
As the sun begins to brighten the sky, Tzu Tzen makes the rounds of the Stupa with the thousands of other pilgrims who have now arrived. I walk with the crowd. He holds his mala in his right hand chanting, “Om Mani Padme Hum.” He walks the approximately one eighth of a kilometer distance about 25 times. He trudges determinedly, the white puffs of his breath escaping from his mask.
Isn’t it weird to be a follower of His Holiness who stresses compassion, forgiveness, and non-violence and be wearing a mask you painted with bright red letters that are definitely anti-Chinese?
“To you it might be weird. Have you ever had your culture killed? Have you ever lost your freedom? To me it’s necessary. Somebody has to do something. I’m doing something! Fifty years of peaceful negotiations haven’t produced anything,” he rages.
So the mask is your way of speaking out against tyranny?
“Yeah.”
What would your parents say if they knew you were wearing it?
Unexpectedly, Tzu Tzen bursts out laughing. He removes the mask revealing his handsome, young face. He holds onto his stomach as his laughter increases. Then he stops. “They’d say, Tzu Tzen, go to hell!”
Attending the teachings of the Dalai Lama, walking around the Stupa, squeezing the beads of the mala, empathizing with the classic angry young man…it doesn’t have to be that serious, I realize. It can be a lot of fun.
“Mostly they like vegetarian, California fruit plate,” Mohammed says.
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