My guest blog today is to help bring to attention the plight of Tibet, invaded by China in 1949, in trying to free themselves from the repression of Chinese rule.
By Kate Saunders
The Times, UK
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
It is a hot and dusty afternoon, and tempers are frayed at the Foreigners
Booking Office in New Delhi railway station. My travelling companion,
British actress Joanna Lumley, and I have left our passports in the hotel -
a bone-jolting hour's auto-rickshaw ride away - and are told that it is
impossible to buy tickets for our train as a result. The bespectacled
booking clerk, sitting amidst teetering stacks of brown files under a
whirring fan covered in grime, is unmoved until Joanna takes off her
sunglasses, fixes him with a cool gaze, and breathes, 'Sir, we are so
terribly sorry - is there ANYTHING you can do?' The apology is conveyed in a
tone of such rapturous intimacy that the clerk is immediately spell-bound.
He foregoes bureaucratic procedure to sign a chit to the effect that 'Ms
Lumley will be carrying her passport with her on the train' and issues our
tickets.
For Joanna Lumley, former model and Britain's best-loved comedy actress, our
train that night through the Punjab and into the foothills of the Himalayas
is the beginning of a journey to rediscover her Indian roots - 58-year old
Joanna was born in Srinigar, Kashmir. Our trip to Dharamsala in Himachal
Pradesh, a small town nestling amid pine forests in the shadow of the snow
peaks, is also the fulfilment of a long-held dream for Joanna, because she
is meeting the man known as a 'God King' and revered by millions all over
the world - the Tibetan spiritual leader, the Dalai Lama.
Joanna, who is best-known as the outrageous, champagne-quaffing Patsy in the
hit sit-com Absolutely Fabulous as well as numerous film and TV roles in a
career that spans more than 30 years, uses the profile gained through her
fame and fees from her acting to support more than 40 different charities.
But she is particularly passionate about the Tibetan cause. She explains:
'My grandfather, Captain Leslie Weir, worked for the British government at
the time of the Raj in the Kingdom of Sikkim in the Himalayas, and was close
personal friends with the last Dalai Lama, the 13th. He spoke Tibetan and
studied Buddhism.' Joanna's Stockwell home is adorned by water-colour scenes
of Tibet, including the Dalai Lama's former home the Potala Palace, painted
by her grandmother, who accompanied her husband on his many trips to Tibet,
and were among the first Western visitors to the 'Forbidden City' of Lhasa.
Joanna says: 'When I was growing up, our family home was always full of
oriental artefacts from tea-cups to thangkas (Tibetan religious paintings)
and Buddhas of every kind. So Buddhism to me is not exotic, but deeply
familiar. There was always a sense during my childhood that Tibet was a very
special place, and that our family had a very special relationship with the
Tibetan people. This is one of the reasons why I have always dreamed of
meeting the Dalai Lama - and of presenting him with a very special gift from
my family.'
Joanna, whose new autobiography will be published in October, has drawn upon
the spiritual teachings of the Dalai Lama to help her find a balance in her
life amid conflicting demands from her celebrity, acting roles, charity work
and family.
She says: 'I think the Dalai Lama is a hero simply because he emphasises the
most essential teaching of Buddhism, which is to be kind, and that is rather
an unfashionable subject for world leaders or other religious figures to
talk about these days.'
It is a message that Joanna has clearly taken to heart. Ab Fab's Patsy
doesn't care about anything - but the actress Joanna Lumley cares about
everything, from the plight of pack mules in Egypt and the state of the
earth's environment to the anger of a homeless alcoholic in her local
newsagents in south London a few weeks ago ('I told him, I'll buy you a
packet of fags, but you have to stop being so rude! Of course I didn't buy
him Gitanes, just B & H.')
As our taxi rattles up the steep dusty roads, lined with eucalyptus and past
stalls selling water-melons, brown settees, and Ambassador Whisky, Joanna
talks about her childhood in the Far East. Her father, Captain James Lumley,
was born in Lahore and served on the North-Western Frontier as a Gurkha
officer. Soon after Joanna was born in India, the family moved to Malaya,
which was then at the height of a civil war in which communist guerrillas
were attempting to drive out the British. She remembers her father
disappearing for months into the jungle with his Gurkha troops and
returning, much thinner, and with a long beard. Joanna continued her
education at a school in Hong Kong before being transferred to a convent
school in Sussex together with her sister.
She says: 'I don't remember India as I was so small when we left. But
generations of my family have served in the Indian Army - my great great
grandfather joined the regiment here in 1796. So I have a deep connection to
India. Everything seems familiar here; the dogs barking at night, the sound
of crickets in the garden, a cold glass of nimbu pani, the temple bells. I
used to be so uninterested in my family history. But I think as you get
older you begin to care more. These days I find myself looking more and more
through my grandparents' letters and poring over maps, and reading about the
period to see how it was and how it would have been.'
Joanna's interest in her ancestry coincides with a new generation in her
family - she has just become a grandmother to baby Alice, the daughter of
her photographer son James, who she brought up as a single mother, and his
girlfriend Tessa. 'I babysit whenever I can,' she says. 'Being a grand-mum
is an immense privilege.'
On our arrival in Dharamsala, base of the Tibetan government in exile and
home to approximately 20,000 Tibetan refugees, the Dalai Lama gives
permission for us to attend a rare audience with Tibetans who have recently
arrived in India. His private secretary, Tenzin Taklha, takes Joanna and I
to the Dalai Lama's private quarters, where about 60 Tibetans are clustered
at the spiritual leader's feet and on the steps leading to his rooms beyond
a small sunlit courtyard full of orange and yellow flowers. There are
red-cheeked children in torn jeans and tee-shirts, Tibetan grandmothers in
dusty chubas, crouched low to the ground and clutching their rosary beads,
sturdy nomads with braided hair and turquoise necklaces. Approximately
2-3000 Tibetans make the perilous journey across the Himalayas each year to
escape from the repression of Chinese rule in their homeland and to be in
the presence of the Dalai Lama, whom they regard as the reincarnation of the
Buddha of Compassion.
The Dalai Lama tells the Tibetans to make the most of their opportunity in
exile to learn about the Tibetan Buddhist religion they are not allowed to
practise freely in their homeland. When he finishes speaking, there is
silence, but for the muffled sobs of many of the Tibetans, overwhelmed to be
in the presence of the spiritual leader who has become such a potent symbol
of Tibetan identity and hope over despair. 'I hear there is a former
political prisoner among you,' the Dalai Lama says quietly. A slight, slim
young girl with long black hair, dressed in shabby trousers and a blue
hooded top, stands up, sobbing so hard she can barely speak. 'You have done
something for your people, you have been brave,' the Dalai Lama tells her.
They are words that the young girl, a 29-year old nun called Damchoe, who
was sentenced to six years in one of Tibet's most notorious prisons simply
for shouting 'Long live the Dalai Lama!' in Tibet, will never forget.
Later Joanna and I visit a transit centre run by the Tibetan government in
exile to provide temporary shelter and food for Tibetans who arrive in
exile. Joanna is immediately surrounded by small Tibetan children in a
cramped, shabby dormitory, where mattresses are laid out on the floor and
the sole possessions of the refugees are stored in paper bags and plastic
suitcases somehow carried across the most forbidding mountain ranges in the
world. Joanna talks to a young Tibetan boy who is curled up in a corner,
studying English letters in a tattered notebook. Eighteen-year old Gyaltsen
was caught on his first attempt to escape from Tibet and imprisoned. He was
beaten and tortured, and forced to carry out hard labour. After he was
released, he risked further imprisonment by making the long journey into
exile again - determined to join his parents, who had arrived in safety in
India.
Despite his bleak surroundings, Gyaltsen looks immaculate in a smart,
buttoned-up grey waistcoat and pressed trousers. He tells Joanna: 'Living in
Tibet is like being in a very dark room, with just a glimmering of light
that is the possibility of escape to India. I had to walk towards that
light.' Joanna is moved by his maturity and determination to make something
of his life. While meeting the Dalai Lama is a spiritual and personal quest
for Joanna, she is beginning to learn about the political realities of life
in Tibet.
On the day of our meeting with Tibet's revered leader in exile, Joanna is
nervous. She is wearing a patterned blue silk traditional Tibetan chuba,
held together with a safety pin, and with a striped apron meaning she is a
married woman. 'He's a living God and a Buddha and a political leader. There
is no one else of his stature worldwide. I feel very privileged that he's
agreed to meet me, particularly because I'm not a Tibetan, nor a Buddhist,
nor an exile.' She adds: 'I've brought him some socks, for his visit to
Britain at the end of May. He'll be teaching in Scotland and I thought they
would be protection against the midges - they are burgundy, which is a
respectful colour for a monk, isn't it?'
But Joanna has another more significant gift when we are ushered into a
simple reception room adorned with religious paintings and a gold Buddha at
a shrine, and into the presence of the Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, whose name
means 'Ocean of Wisdom' in Mongolian. The Dalai Lama gestures for us to sit
on a comfy settee, and Joanna places a package wrapped in maroon patterned
cloth on the table before him. She explains: 'Your Holiness, this is a gift
given to my grandfather by the 13th Dalai Lama, your last incarnation. The
present was given to thank my grandfather for his advice on how to help
Tibet defend itself against China. My grandfather would have been so so sad
about the Chinese invasion of Tibet in 1949 - and so angry that the British
didn't speak out against it, despite the close relationship between the two
countries.'
The Dalai Lama carefully unwraps the gift, a set of handwritten scriptures
on fragile parchment encased by two wood-blocks. He calls for one of the
monks, and says something in Tibetan. The monk soon returns with another set
of scriptures, which the Dalai Lama presents to Joanna. 'I will accept your
gift,' he tells her. 'But in return, I want to give you a present. These are
ancient texts on Buddhism that I would like to present to you in honour of
your forefathers and your parents.' He sits back and laughs, a deep,
familiar laugh, bubbling with joy. Joanna clasps her hands in delight, and
tells him: 'My mother will be over-joyed. It was so important to her that I
gave this gift. It is like closing a circle. I'll always remember this
moment.'
The Dalai Lama may be regarded by millions as a divine being, but he is no
ethereal figure. He has the energy and build of a man much younger than his
68 years. As he and Joanna talk, about Joanna's family, the Dalai Lama's
hopes for the future, politics and religion, they laugh uproariously. When
he takes her hand to lead her across the room for a photograph, his grip is
surprisingly strong. When we leave, he clasps his hands together in the
tradition Tibetan greeting before presenting Joanna with a white silk
Tibetan scarf, a gesture of respect. 'See you again,' he says seriously.
As Joanna stands quietly in the courtyard to collect her thoughts, the next
VIP guest arrives - a tiny, white-haired English woman clutching a vase of
yellow flowers, which she gives to the Dalai Lama, telling him that she
picked them this morning. He engulfs her in a bear hug. Later, we see the
old lady, who wears a Tibetan chuba, slowly making her way up the steep path
home, past the jewellery stands run by exiled Tibetan nomads and the Indian
shops selling spices and SevenUp.
Over dahl and rice in a simple local restaurant, Joanna says: 'This was a
momentous meeting for me. I never dreamed that it would happen. The Dalai
Lama has such a weight of responsibility, such dignity, and yet such
lightness and such joy. In the face of this, everything about my life in
London seems unreal. I would give up my job if I could to do something for
Tibet, for the sake of my grand-father's love of the country. This is what
is real. Acting has always been something I do; it's not what I am. So much
of celebrity is about illusion.
'You know, you think that when you get older you will have your life sorted
out, but that's not been my experience. You have commitments - I have Stevie
(her husband, Stephen Barlow, the orchestral conductor and composer), who I
love more than life itself, my mother Beatrice, who is in her eighties, my
son, my grand-daughter. I'm lucky enough to have earned enough money not to
be under financial pressure, and I turn down most roles I am offered -
sometimes I don't even read the scripts. But there never seems to be enough
time to think, to pause, to stand still, because of the life we get caught
up in. Being here, and meeting His Holiness, puts life in perspective.'
Joanna and I decide to find Damchoe, the young nun singled out by the Dalai
Lama for her courage. A Tibetan friend takes us to the small Tibetan-run Gu
Chu Sum organisation that provides welfare for former political prisoners,
where she is staying. We sit in the sunshine with cups of tea and Damchoe
joins us. She tells us that she was imprisoned when she was in her early
twenties for peaceful political protest. At Drapchi prison in Lhasa, as
punishment for refusing to sing Chinese national songs, she and other nuns
were forced to stand underneath the burning summer sun all day, for days.
She tells us: 'We all became very weak but the guards would kick us if we
fell to the ground. I suffered from terrible headaches; it was like someone
pushing needles into my head. After one day of standing motionless I had a
high fever and fell to the ground unconscious. Later I was taken to be
interrogated and tortured with electric batons. A light sparked from the
baton and it felt as if all my inner organs, my heart, lungs and liver, were
being chopped up.' Because she refused to agree that Tibet would never be
free, Damchoe was put in a solitary confinement cell for several months. She
was given one meal of rice with half-cooked vegetables per day, and no
water. The cell was pitch-black, and she was not allowed any visitors. 'My
family thought that I had died and they performed the appropriate rituals
like the offering of butter-lamps for me,' Damchoe tells Joanna.
Joanna asks her, 'In prison, did any of the guards, ever, show you any
kindness or sympathy?' The young nun, who has only just arrived in exile
after leaving her family in Tibet, is shy, overwhelmed with sadness, and can
scarcely meet Joanna's eyes as she suddenly realises the truth of what she
is about to say. 'No,' she tells Joanna. 'Never.' When Joanna suddenly and
impulsively clutches both her hands in hers, Damchoe looks up at her and
beams, with a sudden flicker of joy at such spontaneous and unaccustomed
human warmth.
I tell Damchoe that Joanna is a well-known actress in the UK and that she
has devoted a lot of her time to the Tibetan cause. Joanna's eyes are full
of tears. 'But compared to this woman,' she says quietly, 'I am nothing.'
Damchoe disagrees. Through our translator, she says: 'Please tell her that
even though she has everything and is happy in her life, she has travelled a
long way to listen to our stories and to share her own. That is really
something.'
