Where Are You Singing: Essays

Author: Sebo
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2002-11-01
Features: The "Mani Stone Tibetan Collection" this time includes four literary works: "Silence of the Wise--Short Story Collection," "Silver Smith in Moonlight--Novel Collection," "Predestined Rosary--Poetry Collection," and "Where Are You Singing--Essays Collection." These works trace the development of contemporary Tibetan literature in Chinese writing and for the first time comprehensively select outstanding works by twenty-one representative middle-aged and young authors from Tibet and other Tibetan regions since the 1980s. The authors are all Tibetan and span the three dialect areas of Weizang, Kang, and Amdo in Tibetan-speaking regions of China. Some of the selected works are the authors' famous works written in their twenties, some are renowned works that have been translated and reprinted domestically and internationally multiple times, and some are promising new works. After dinner, we continued drinking. This time, it was Wei Hong's second daughter who served the wine. The Monba people of Medog served wine one bowl at a time, and the large size of the bowl meant that while I waited for her to finish drinking, she had to change hands several times. I watched anxiously and quickly drank it down, soon losing my sense of direction. I don’t remember how I got from Wei Hong’s house back to the district committee that night until the next day when I set off on the road. I remember Wei Hong and her second daughter took me back. Wei Hong held a torch in front, stopping to show off to every passerby according to Monba customs: she had gotten the guest drunk. The cool and tranquil summer night in Medog, with her hoarse voice sounding out of place, she and her second daughter supported me as we stumbled along, staying close enough to smell the occasional burst of fragrance from her clothes: a strong scent of smoke mixed with a faint scent of soap. Due to the high mountains, Medog only saw the sun late, and it wasn’t until around 10 a.m. that the sun slowly rose from the eastern mountains. According to the platoon leader’s plan, we—him, the soldiers, and me—set off early in the morning to cover half the journey before the sun rose, aiming to reach Medog County around 2 p.m. The platoon leader said this was the only way to avoid the scorching heat of Medog in summer. I wasn’t convinced because everyone said the four-day journey from Beibeng to Medog was long, taking about eight hours. However, most of the were relatively flat and wide, so it didn’t feel as hard. The three of us just kept walking, not speaking to each other. As if it was a habit, the platoon leader always walked at the front, the soldier always at the back, and I was always stuck in the middle. Whenever we reached a clearly marked location, such as a mountain peak, a small stream, or an oddly shaped tree, the platoon leader would glance at his watch, as if it were a military operation. From the dispatch area to Beibeng, we mostly went south. But from Beibeng to Medog, we went upstream along the Yarlung Tsangpo River, turning northeast—a feeling of turning back. At 12:15 p.m., we arrived at the foot of a mountain. The platoon leader in the front checked his watch and said with satisfaction, “The mountain peak is Medog County.” I think that was the first thing he said after setting off. He was very young, but as the leader of dozens of people, he gave an impression of being very composed and experienced. A clear stream flowed between the mountains, with towering trees by the bank, offering shade and coolness. We ate a few pieces of military compressed rations by the water and set off again. I asked the platoon leader how long it would take to climb the mountain. He answered confidently and accurately: “Fifty-five minutes.” But this time, he was wrong. We didn’t reach the summit until 4 p.m. The mountain wasn’t high, but it was the last part of the day and the entire journey to Medog. People were already exhausted when they climbed it, so the Medog cadres always showed fear when talking about it, considering it the hardest part of the journey to Medog. True, for the platoon leader and soldiers coming from Beibeng, fifty-five minutes might have been enough. But for me, coming from the dispatch area and visiting Medog for the first time, it was very different. At first, I was able to keep climbing steadily between the platoon leader and the soldier because of some willpower. In Beibeng, the simple and kind nature of Wei Hong’s family filled me with confidence in everyone in Medog. The towering snow-capped mountains around me seemed to strictly separate human civilization, perhaps even keeping some illusions of the modern world outside. Moreover, as we left Beibeng and the terrain changed, we suddenly found ourselves in lush, crowded subtropical scenery, then in ancient and rugged subtropical mountain scenery—so amazing. I thought that if we continued deeper, the natural environment and even the architecture of Medog County must have many unique features. I thought living here for a few years might be interesting. I became interested in Medog and wanted to get there as soon as possible to verify all this. But later, the platoon leader’s actions destroyed my will. After forty minutes, we reached a hilltop with a small flat area scattered with cigarette butts and packaging paper of military compressed rations. Outside the flat area lay a huge rock, polished shiny by the many climbers who rested there. Because of its prominent position, the cool mountain breeze that swept past was refreshing. The platoon leader ordered, “Rest for five minutes.” I asked, “How much farther?” The platoon leader said, “Almost there.” I felt this answer was too vague, so I asked again, “Almost there” is how far?” I meant, if he gave an exact distance, I could use my remaining energy more reasonably. After all, willpower needs the support of necessary physical strength. But the platoon leader misunderstood and thought I couldn’t walk anymore. Out of kindness, he encouraged me, “Turn the next bend, and you’ll be there.” I looked up, but the branches blocked my view. I climbed up to the rock to see, and the bend wasn’t very deep, and the hill ahead was close. I immediately got excited and said I didn’t need to rest anymore, then quickly climbed up, unbothered by the platoon leader or the soldier. I soon reached another hilltop, where the branches were much sparser, and the signs of being cut down were everywhere. I stretched my neck, eager to see what Medog County looked like, what made it so mysterious and frightening to people outside. But what I saw was almost the same: a shallow bend and a higher hilltop. Faced with my complaining look, the platoon leader, who quickly caught up, didn’t react. He adjusted his gun belt and still said with certainty, “Turn the bend ahead, and you’ll be there.” The result was the same as before. When I climbed up to that hilltop again, I still saw a shallow bend and a higher hilltop. I suddenly collapsed, completely exhausted, emotionally depressed, and sat down on the stone beside the road, my mind blank. I sat there quietly for over two hours, the platoon leader and soldier turning around anxiously behind me, constantly saying, “This time, it’s really just around the bend.” I didn’t hear them because extreme fatigue and the frustration of being deceived made me lose all interest in Medog. Just as five minutes later, when I saw what was supposedly Medog County was just a few old wooden houses with corrugated iron roofs on a sparse hilltop, I also lost interest. I weakly climbed the last steep stone steps, and to the south, there was a wooden arch door, dark and moldy, with two signs hanging on either side: “Medog County Committee of the Communist Party of China” and “Medog County Revolutionary Committee.” This was the place I had gone through all this trouble to report to!
Women from Tibet have left a deep impression on all travelers who have been to Tibet. They are moved by the magnificent and spectacular landscapes of the Roof of the World, attracted by the simple and authentic customs, and puzzled by the charming and alluring aura that emanates from them. I use the word "puzzled" not to be pretentious, because for city dwellers in a noisy, restless, and cramped environment of concrete high-rises, their appreciation for the natural beauty of Tibet is obvious, but to understand how to appreciate women from a different culture requires cultural refinement and an artist’s eye. The severe decline in men’s aesthetic appreciation of women in modern society is a great tragedy. Uniform, artificial, and unindividualized cover models have become the idols of urban men. I have always believed that Lord Byron’s immortal character Don Juan in his poetry is a great and eternal pride of men. He could read the charming beauty in the face of an ordinary woman, and more importantly, he could help the woman discover and elevate her own beauty in his presence. This is a man’s topic, and I won’t elaborate on it here. Tibetan women have the deep brown skin that Western men admire, smooth and delicate; they have the healthy, strong, and elastic bodies that Chinese men respect; and they have the bright, clear, and emerald eyes that all men long for. They rarely wear glasses. Tibetan women are broad-minded and face life’s joys and sorrows with openness. They would never wail loudly if their homes were on fire or stolen, nor would they worry about trivial things like needles and thread. Their laughter is hearty, their smiles radiant, and their faces are full of expressive emotions that I have rarely seen elsewhere. They are naturally optimistic and bold enough to sing freely on bustling city streets, whether they are three-year-old girls or eighty-year-old grandmothers, without exception. They are kind-hearted and deeply compassionate, and sometimes their compassion makes them indecisive. Their principle is to sympathize with the weak. Even if they encounter a fleeing criminal with injuries all over his body, they will sigh in pity, “Ah, ah!” gently clean his wounds, and offer hot tea and food. They are free-spirited and unshackled by love, rarely bound by emotional or spiritual constraints. Yet when they are with their lovers, they often cover their faces and blush, but this is not an inner conflict or psychological barrier. It is the preservation of a charm that modern women have gradually lost. They never read books like “How to Win a Man’s Heart,” which teach petty tricks. Once they have a crush, they attack boldly and directly, like a European army, and their boldness and stubbornness often leave overly intellectual and pedantic scholars stunned and fleeing in defeat. Look back at the enterprising Tibetan women, their eyes flickering with a hint of confusion as they watch their prey flee, and they sigh in pity once more, “Ah, ah!”