Seeking the Sun City: Getting Closer to Tibet

Author: Chen Yun et al
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2003-01-01
Features: Some graduate students from Fudan University traveled long distances during their vacation, as far as Tibet, writing many cultural passion-filled essays along the way. Tibet is a mystery, where the primal driving forces of life intertwine into a primal chaos. Following the footsteps of these students, with their gaze exploring this magical land.
Author's Preface: All are part of the Chinese nation / Zhang Qianrong
First, let me set aside this grand title to express some nostalgia. There were many things I felt quite proud of back then, but looking back after some time, I’d realize how naive they were. Even eight years ago, when I wrote these articles, I had such concerns. But thinking about it, who hasn’t been naive? Write it anyway, leave some traces of youth behind. In a blink of an eye, eight years have passed—how much I’ve grown is uncertain, but it’s clear youth is no longer as it once was. Most of the dreams from Fudan still remain dreams, and the countless books I wanted to read are still far off. I’ve taken many detours, though. Back then, I went to Tibet with a few friends, and somehow ended up writing this book. But in the eight years since, how many days have passed without leaving a trace? Alright, let’s stop this nostalgia. Now that I’m a candidate for a Ph.D., it’s time to get down to business.
In 1994, Tibet seemed very mysterious to me, and I thought the Potala Palace was even more distant than the White House. When I arrived in Lhasa, the excitement I felt due to the novelty of the place was far stronger than the "Makata" (big market) in Addis Ababa six years later. This book is a product of the intertwining of all that fresh excitement. We must admit that western development is now in full swing, the holiday economy is booming, and more and more people are traveling to Tibet for curiosity and scenic beauty. Some issues really need to be thought about carefully. I believe a sense of curiosity is one of the taboos that must be avoided—not saying that everyone in the same country must dress and believe the same way, or that no one should feel strange about each other. That kind of time in China didn’t work out well, as history shows. The problem lies in whether this so-called "mainstream" can tolerate those things that textbooks call "primitive, backward, barbaric, and ignorant," while new-age writers call "mysterious and strange." "Tolerate" doesn’t mean wishing to dip it in sauce—though some people probably do think that way. Unwilling to see themselves as just one of many differences, they insist they are the standard, the correct one, while others are strange and intolerable. In the past, I was the Celestial Empire, and you were a small, insignificant state. I could just laugh at your arrogance and stubbornness, and that was enough. There was already a clear distinction between us, and I had no need to tolerate you. But now, that really shouldn’t be the case.
In this regard, the two people who taught me the most can be counted as two. One is my professor Juan Linz at Yale. His theoretical guidance was of course essential. The other was someone I met during an incident that provided a vivid illustration of this theory. In 1999, I took the opportunity to return to China for field research and further explored the magnificent landscapes of my homeland. I traveled alone to Nujiang in Yunnan, following the Nujiang Valley all the way to the end of the road—Bingzhongluo. This place is administratively part of the Nujiang Lisu Autonomous County in the Nujiang Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture. Just from the name, you can tell it’s a place where different ethnic groups live in harmony. In Bingzhongluo, I met a Tibetan boy named Zheng Yun, whose family lived on a hillside by the Nujiang River, making a living from farming. His ancestors had moved from northern Tibet, but he didn’t know why his family was named Han. His warmth and hospitality are beyond description. His wife is educated and teaches at an elementary school in the town; she is Lisu. The couple has two daughters, and like everyone else who grew up there, they can speak at least three languages: Tibetan, Nujiang, and Lisu. After school, they also learn Chinese, and their linguistic talent makes us, who have spent a decade learning English, envy them greatly. I asked Zheng Yun, "Your wife is Tibetan, and you are Lisu. So, what ethnicity are your children?" My expectations were simple: there are three possibilities: legally, they follow their mother and are Lisu, or each child is counted as one ethnicity, or the father’s influence makes them Tibetan. Zheng Yun smiled and said, "It doesn’t matter. We’re all part of the Chinese nation!" I think I don’t need to delve into theoretical discussions about "single identity" versus "dual identity," or "nation-state" versus "state-nation," for everyone to understand my point. We all know that beyond our specific ethnicities, we belong to a larger Chinese nation. What exactly does the Chinese nation mean? What is the relationship between the Chinese nation and this country? These are questions worth thinking about seriously. I hope that many friends who have been to Tibet before or after us, after experiencing the sky burial and Tibetan Buddhism culture of the snow-covered land, drinking from qingke wine to butter tea, and meeting heroes from Songtsen Gampo to Trisong Detsen, will gain new insights into such questions as what the Chinese nation truly means. Then, this long journey will not have been in vain.
September 2002, Yale University
E-mail: forrest.zhang@163.com
Excerpt: The Eternal Jokhang Temple / Chen Yun (I)
I couldn’t tell what day it was, but compared to the lively market sounds surrounding the Jokhang Temple, the temple itself was eerily quiet, with only a few tourists gathered around a group of monks sitting on the ground. The monks were equipped with all their ritual instruments, blowing horns and chanting scriptures, performing a ceremony—solemn Buddhist music and language contrasted sharply with the chirping of birds on the eaves, sounding playful and mischievous. Under the eaves, thousands of sparkling butter lamps were arranged on stands, forming a vivid depiction of light through both literal and metaphorical means, alongside the vast sunlight in the courtyard. I walked alone into the main hall, having heard that its murals were among the few surviving true works from the Tibetan era. Art can be reborn, but history cannot, so even though I’m not an expert in cultural relics, I love the historical depth they possess, which makes even flat murals appear to have a three-dimensional sense of history. Before I could closely examine the grand murals, which had the style of Tang and Song Dynasty gold-and-vermilion landscape paintings, my attention was drawn to the wooden lintel carvings of a Buddhist cave. Many small Buddha statues, each with a distinct expression, vividly depicted Buddhist stories with hidden meanings. However, the details of many statues near the bottom of the lintel were worn away, leaving only the smooth, shiny outlines of the Buddhas, still maintaining graceful poses. I asked a monk brushing his sleeves as he passed by, and learned that these lintel carvings were also original from the 7th century.
The Jokhang Temple is the most popular temple in all of Tibet. It’s easy to imagine that for centuries, countless pilgrims, dragging their slow steps and murmuring scriptures while spinning prayer beads, have come from all directions, forming long queues outside the temple. Then, one by one, they prostrate before the towering statues. Here, the small Buddha statues on the lintels suddenly seem so delicate and close to them, and they can’t help but reach out their fingers to touch them, even pressing their foreheads against them, hoping the Buddhas will sense their piety and pass on a bit of auspicious energy through unseen channels.
How many centuries. The same play. Endlessly flowing.