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by Wang Lixiong
The recent troubles in Tibet are a replay of events that happened
two decades ago. On 1 October 1987, Buddhist monks were
demonstrating peacefully at the Barkor - the famous market street
around the central cathedral in Lhasa - when police began beating
and arresting them. To ordinary Tibetans, who view monks as
"treasures", the sight was intolerable - not only in itself, but
because it stimulated unpleasant memories that Tibetan Buddhists
had been harbouring for years (see Tubten Khétsun, Memories
of Life in Lhasa Under Chinese Rule [Columbia University Press,
2008]).
A few angry young men then began throwing
stones at the Barkor police station. More and more joined in, and
then they started fires, overturned cars and began shouting
"Independence for Tibet!" This is almost exactly what was witnessed
in Lhasa on 14 March 2008.
The fundamental cause of these recurrent
events is a painful dilemma that lives inside the minds of Tibetan
monks. When the Chinese government demands that they denounce their
spiritual leader, the Dalai Lama, monks are forced to choose
between obeying (which violates their deepest spiritual
convictions) and resisting (which can lead to loss of government
registry and physical expulsion from monasteries).
From time to time monks have used peaceful
demonstrations to express their anguish. When they have done this,
an insecure Chinese government, bent on "annihilating unstable
elements" in the "emergent stage", has reacted with violent
repression. This, in turn, triggers violence from Tibetans (see
Robert Barnett & Shirin Akiner, Resistance and Reform in Tibet
[C Hurst 1994]).
Ivy Wang, "China's netizens and Tibet: a
Guangzhou report" (8 April 2008) In recent decades, the Chinese
government's policy for pacifying Tibet has been to combine the
allure of economic development on the one hand with the threat of
force on the other. Experience has shown that this approach does
not work (see "Skewed gains", Economist, 10 April 2008).
The most efficient route to peace in Tibet
is through the Dalai Lama, whose return to Tibet would immediately
alleviate a number of problems. Much of the current ill-will, after
all, is a direct result of the Chinese government's verbal attacks
on the Dalai Lama, who, for Tibetan monks, has an incomparably
lofty status. To demand that monks denounce him is about as
practical as asking that they vilify their own parents.
It should be no surprise that beatings of
monks and closings of monasteries naturally stimulate civil unrest;
or that civil unrest, spawned in this way, can turn violent.
The solution within
Why aren't these simple truths more
obvious? Phuntsog Wanggyal, a Tibetan now retired in Beijing who
for years was a leading communist official in Tibet, has observed
that a doctrine of "anti-splittism" has taken root among Chinese
government officials who deal with religion and minority affairs,
both in central offices in Beijing and in Tibet. These people,
having invested their careers in anti-splittism, cannot admit that
the idea is mistaken without losing face and, they fear, losing
their own power and position as well (see Isabel Hilton, "Ditch the
tatty flag of nationalism", Guardian, 12 April 2008).
Their ready-made tag for everything that
goes wrong is "hostile foreign forces" - an enemy that justifies
any kind of harsh or unreasoning repression. When repeated
endlessly the originally vacuous term "anti-splittism" does take on
a kind of solidity. Careers are made in it, and challenging it
becomes impossible.
I am a supporter of the Dalai Lama's
"middle way" - meaning autonomy for Tibet in all matters except
foreign affairs and national defence. This arrangement eventually
would have to mean that Tibetan people select their own leaders -
and that would be a major change from the way things are now. Tibet
is called an "autonomous region", but in fact its officials are all
named by Beijing, and are all tightly focused on their own personal
interests and the interests of the Communist Party. Tibetans can
clearly see the difference between this kind of government and
self-rule, and there is no way that they will support bogus
autonomy.
It follows - even if this is a tall order
- that the ultimate solution to the Tibet problem must be
democratisation of the Chinese political system itself. True
autonomy cannot come any other way.
It is time for the Chinese government to
take stock of why its long-term strategy in Tibet has not worked,
and to try something else. The old problems remain, and they are
sure to continue, perhaps in places like the "Uighur Autonomous
Region" of Xinjiang, if a more sensible approach is not
attempted.
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