Escape from Shangri-La: The Tibetan Exodus

By Elsa M. Spencer

Kelsang and Dukar Kaiser, my sister Elsa.

Kel sang, Duwhat and Kaiser, I said, trying to remember the very unusual-sounding name, though the contrast with the obviously German family name had me puzzled, when the attractive young couple left.
Our next-door neighbors are Tibetan by birth, German Swiss through adoption. Their life stories, although short, read like a movie plot, my sister Gloria explained.
I met the beautiful Kelsang and Dukar Kaiser again a few months later when my husband and I visited my sister.
We barely made it to Bhutan in 1959. Eventually my family settled in Dharamsala, India, practically next door to the Dalai Lama, Kelsang offered.
Two years later in 1961, my family was also forced to flee the country, Dukar contributed.
In my ignorance of genetic code, I found Dukar more Tibetan looking. He impressed all of us with his vast knowledge on many subjects, which he expressed with an articulate command of the English language.
Although his persona could have been viewed as reserved, he was both gregarious and sociable.
Why dont you ask them if you could write their life stories, Elsa? I think they would like it, Gloria suggested.
They did, and I spent the next few days interviewing them. The story unfolded slowly, though only partially, due to their tender age: they were five and seven years old when they fled Tibet with their family as political refugees. The moments they never forgot were the fear and the horrors of what they saw, the constant hunger, and the weariness of the long journey.
After many months of research and three moves, military transfer, from the Atlantic to the Pacific coasts and back to the Atlantic, I was able to put together a story based on the personal tragedy and triumph of these two youngsters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483678740

Elsa M. Spencer

Elsa M. Spencer was born in Trieste, Northern Italy. She was educated in Trieste and frequented the Magistrali, a school for teachers. She traveled to Africa with her engineer father and lived almost two years in Tripoli, Libya, where she learned Arabic. With her soldier husband, she traveled a lot over the USA, Hawaii, and Europe. She wrote Good-bye, Trieste, a memoir of a fascist childhood, a warning to socialism, and by herself, she visited China and Brazil. She belongs to Rosemary Daniell’s well-known writers’ workshop, Zona Rosa, of Savannah, Georgia. HER FIRST BOOK, GOOD-BYE-TRIESTE, WAS RECOMMENDED FOR MOTION PICTURE BY THE HOLLYWOOD READERS, AS AN EXCELLENT CONCEPT OF WWII MEMOIRE. IMPRESSIVE MATERIAL AND WONDERFULLY EXPRESSIVE,

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PROTAGONISTS

KELSANG’S FAMILY

DUKAR’S FAMILY

Both families, although they didn’t know each other (different city), were both in the fabric-dyeing business—thus same family name.

DUKAR’S SWISS FAMILY

FRIENDS, LOCATIONS, FOREIGN TERMS

CHAPTER I

1959—The beginning of the end for the country on the highest mountain on earth.

Kelsang-Dolkar walked quietly beside her father who, leading three horses, headed a small caravan wending its way over the rocky terrain. The stillness of the moonless night had a bewitching effect on Kelsang, who, usually spirited, was intimidated to subdued listlessness.

It didn’t seem to have bothered her older sister, Ngawang-Lhamo, judging by her lively performances, as she carved a trail fit for goats. Another time, Kelsang would have followed her, but not this night. This night the little girl felt more than ever the anxiety that danger creates. She looked back at the green fields, now a dark hole edged by patches of light, and her throat tightened. Her deep brown eyes, pools of water in the night, were filled with tears. As she wiped them with the back of her hand, her only concession was a sigh that surged painfully from her heart.

Nostalgia was already painful in remembrance of the pastoral scene: her valley. A valley singing with colors of the green grass, the intense yellow of the daffodils, and where from a secret willow dove spread its wings skyward, and streams chuckled, vanishing in the early morning mist.

The majestic monastery, clean and white in the sun, reflected the green and gold of the countryside with lights that fluttered like spilled paint. Suddenly she was desperately homesick. Timidly, she tugged at her father’s hand but got no response. She pulled back with several short jerks, but he still remained unaware, deep as he was in his own thoughts. She glanced back at her mother, Losang, who appeared equally intent. She was short stepping over the many holes of the crude trail, her head slightly bent as she concentrated on keeping the small load she carried gainfully balanced.

Kelsang’s thoughts flowed on like a mountain stream. She relived the scene of a few hours before, the good-byes at the big house in the valley below, and once more was overcome by the loss of her grandparents who had stayed behind. They had clung tenaciously to their decision to remain. They knew that their weakening bodies could not endure the fast pace, the deprivation, and the risks of the long journey to India. If they were to die, let it be in Tibet, where they had lived and raised a family in a bond of harmony with the friendly earth, as their custom demanded, as had those who had come before them. Their flesh and crushed bones would provide meals for the vultures, but they would live again in another time, for in a country dedicated to the belief of reincarnation, there was no need for cemeteries.

Kelsang dropped back until her mother’s steps met hers.

May I help you, Mommy? I am not tired. I really I am not. Give me something to carry.

As Losang-Chodon lowered her gaze to her youngest daughter, a tender smile broke the tight-lipped concentration of her face. Yes, dear, you can carry our morning meal.

Kelsang proudly wrapped her tiny arms around the burlap sack. Frowning to imitate the worried expression of the grown-ups, the little girl walked on.

The horses stumbled on the rocky ground and the clank of their hooves punctured the screaming silence. Kelsang held her breath. Squinting, she peered ahead to see her father’s reaction and drew assurance by his steady gait. But the disturbing memories of the recent past kept dragging her back to the first news that the Chinese had changed their peaceful occupation and had become the cruel invaders of Tibet.

Kelsang didn’t know the meaning of the word invasion. She didn’t even know that there were many different-looking people in the world. In fact, she didn’t know much of anything. She was only five years old and had not yet started her formal education, the private schooling that Tibetan fathers provided female children; boys, meanwhile, were educated in the monasteries.

Her whole world had thus far embraced her family in Dugpont and their cozy, comfortable home in the town of Gongkar, Tibet, situated on the fertile ground where the Tsangpo River meets the fast waters of the Kyichu.

Suppressing her tears, Kelsang scampered up the crooked trail.

Shifting her thoughts to happier times, she brightened as her need to cling to yesterday summoned up special memories. She thought of the yearly celebration of Gadengunn-Cho and the parade of the comely woolen-cloaked women in the procession carrying lanterns around the habitat that lit up the night and made her smile in the dark. She longed to hear again the lampoon women who carried water to the house and sang happy tunes Kelsang danced to. The adults always took intense notice of the songs, grinning and cheering loudly at the lyrics.

(There were no newspapers or radios in the Tibet of the late 1940s to early 1950s; public communication of all kind was limited. The women, the only ones who enjoyed full immunity from their government, found an efficient and pleasant way to voice the people’s malcontent semidisguised in the words of lively songs.)

Kelsang’s mouth watered while thinking of the delicious Momo, a main course of dough-filled ground lamb and vegetable for which Mommy, Ama-Lag, and Mola-Lag, her grandmother, were famous. But the good thoughts kept slipping away from the scene, and the fearful events kept bouncing back. Kelsang had noticed that the lines of worry carved on her parents’ and grandparents’ brows deepened with every bit of disturbing news, which quickly traveled throughout the countryside on a racehorse’s back.

There was news of pilfering and brutal dominance, as the Chinese responded by heightened repression of the Tibetan’s continued uprisings. She overheard whispered talk between her parents and grandparents, which frightened her. She understood that the bad Chinese were ransacking the monasteries and stealing everything made of gold and valuable stones. She had no difficulty imagining the Chinese as monsters who would sooner or later eat everybody.

The gaping holes, from where the precious metal had been torn, even blasted, leaving the ancient structure at the mercy of the weather and decay, were a terrifying sight. Because she was so young, no one had told her of the thousands of executions that had sent a message of despair to the Tibetans, who found themselves trapped in the hopeless violence.

Why, Father, why do we have to leave our home, family, and friends? Who are the Chinese, and why do they want to hurt us? she had asked, tears trembling in the corners of her doe eyes.

Well, daughter, it is a long, complicated story. I don’t think that I could explain it to you in a way you could understand. I am not even sure myself why the Chinese need more land, more people. I am afraid that you will have to wait a while longer.

True, she did not understand. In her short life, she had known only goodness and gentle guidance.

Brutality and violence were as strange to her as these foreign soldiers she had heard her father and grandfather speak of but whom she had never seen until one recent morning. Upon rising, she had opened the window of her upstairs bedroom, as she always did to welcome the glorious sunrise that brought the new day, and saw the far fields peppered yellow. She rubbed her eyes to clear away the night sleep, but the yellow speckles didn’t disappear. They were not daffodils; they were soldiers carrying rifles. Even from that distance, she could see the Chinese roughly shoving the farmers who were plowing the fields. Though she did not know what they meant, her father’s words echoed in her mind. Yellowish uniforms, red star on the cap, and slanted eyes, but the marauding spirit is Attila the Hun. He must have been talking about one of these men.

Still shaken, Kelsang’s delicate hands came up to her chest in an effort to calm her thumping heart. She didn’t like the strange feeling that was sending chills down her spine.

Sister, oh… sister, wake up, look!

Ngawang opened her eyes, then turned away, muttering mildly.

Come on, sister, you must wake up. I think I see Chinese soldiers in the fields.

Ngawang sprang out of bed and flew to the window. She gasped at the sight. The two frightened little girls looked at each other and hand in hand ran downstairs. Panting, they burst into the room where their parents were hastily removing the yetan, their father’s paintings from the walls, carefully rolling the canvasses and storing them in separate packs. Stammering in broken sentences, the girls tried to tell what they had seen, but their language was too scrambled for Yeshe to make any sense.

Calm down, daughters, you are both too excited… and quit shouting. Now, what were you saying? Finally Kelsang was the one who was able to speak. The Chinese are here!

She was crying loudly now. Great sobs shook her slender body and sopped her face in many streaks. Her mother took her in her arms, and stroking Kelsang’s long dark hair, she managed to soothe the little girl. I saw them. I did! Don’t you believe me? asked Kelsang, catching a wizened breath.

Yes, dear, we saw them too, admitted Yeshe.

But, Father, they are almost at our front door! Ngawang cried in panic.

Yes, Ngawang, I hear you. The soldiers are encamped north of us. You girls saw a handful of stragglers. If we all cooperate, we will have plenty of time. Now you two go upstairs and start your packing. Do it quickly and in silence.

Girls, only clothing, admonished Losang, adding, No toys of any kind. Kelsang was crushed. How could she leave her dolls behind? Perhaps she could hide one, only one.

Yeshe was troubled. Had he waited too long? He had hoped that his postponement of the inevitable had not endangered the lives of his family. It was obvious that their options were about to expire. If they were to make good their escape, he knew that they would have to leave that very night. His position as a government faithful and a landlord left no doubt as to what the Communists would do to them.

Yeshe was a tall man by Tibetan standards, brown faced and almond eyed, with his hair bound in a halo of red tassels. He was a conservative man who shunned jewelry-studded loops in his ears. He wore the chuba, made of several thick layers of sheepskin, sewn together with hand-spun wool.

He was a highly respected and well-known artist and landowner. He had spent his life in the service of beauty. He had immortalized by the colorful stroke of his brush the present Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, who received the fourteenth spirit of reincarnation and became His Holiness the Dalai Lama back in 1935 when the weird, enthralling culture of Tibet—writing, medicine, art, and monastic studies—was flourishing. Yeshe had also put on canvas the thirteen Dalai Lamas who preceded him, including the almost-forgotten Tibetan kings of before the sixth century.

Yeshe was a well-read man who had also traveled to neighboring Bhutan across the Himalayan chain and had seen India on more than one occasion.

He had a broad knowledge of Communism and realized that the Chinese would have to redefine new thinking according to their doctrine. The younger Tibetans would have to be remolded, reeducated. The older, more mature Tibetans, well, they were probably too set in their ways.

With a twinge of uneasiness, Yeshe recalled the stories he had heard in his travels outside Tibet: stories of brainwashing which had served the purpose of the Nazis and fascists in recent past. Although Tibet had been isolated from the Western world, news of the World War II holocaust had seeped in, and he now understood the evil behind the Iron and Bamboo Curtains. As then, it was now an outrage without parallel in Tibet.

But the sparrow could not down the hawk. He would have to exile himself and his family or forfeit all their lives. He tried to analyze the situation dispassionately, but he could think of little besides his family’s safety and the parents he knew he would have to leave, perhaps never to see again. The future was now one of great perplexities.

The plans had been made. There was nothing else he could do but wait for darkness, and while waiting for the moment, he allowed his mind to wander in nostalgic remembrance.

He thought of his country, Tibet: the world’s Shangri-La; a land of silence and scattered nomadic people, a land where solitary meditation was a way of life. It was a land of high plateaus and cheerful, spontaneous people, a little too proud and perhaps too devout, seeing as how they were forever prostrate in prayers before statues of Buddha.

He recalled the time not too long past when the Dalai Lama had waited hopefully in the monastery of Dunkhar in the southern town of Latung for the outcome of negotiations with the Chinese. He recalled how, after eight months, optimism had turned to anger, followed by black despair as the relationship worsened.

He remembered the streets lined with Tibetans of all ages, spitting and clapping at the passing Chinese troops in an age-old practice of driving out evil; he remembered the children who threw stones at the enemies of their faith, as the red Chinese walked on, seemingly untouched by the offense. But then they had set up camp in Lhasa by the Kyichu River, desecrating their cherished picnic ground.

He remembered the fear and premonition of the horrors that came to be when the enemy soldiers forcibly took over the nobles’ larger homes and began killing Tibetans. He could still see the roofs that soon sprouted bright red signboards decorated with huge black slogans proclaiming the Unity of All Races in the Motherland. The sight of soldiers in their drab yellowish uniforms strutting arrogantly through the streets in ever-increasing numbers still offended him.

When the gate on the flood of terror, which at first had been perceived as excessive alarms, could not be closed and repeated bombing by the Chinese nearly destroyed the Potala, the Dalai Lama had fled the capital. Yeshe-Tenzin Tsazur knew that hope was dead and that they too would have to flee, for the Chinese were establishing themselves in the land where they were totally out of harmony with the souls of the captives.

As the day dawned to the blunt commands of the Chinese parade-ground maneuvers, Yeshe joined the family in meditation. The time was at hand, and together the little family worked out their final scheme of escape.

What will happen to us, my husband? How are we going to live in India? Timidly Losang asked.

I don’t know, dear, but please do not fret now. We shall be right with Buddha’s help. The Dalai Lama is already in India. He will advise us, he will know. One way or another, we shall survive, I promise you. Now be sure to pack as much food as possible. The journey will be long, especially if the Chinese close the borders. We might have to hide out for a long time or go around the mountains, which will make the journey much, much longer.

Losang’s delicate but dexterous hands worked quickly. She was a handsome woman, lean and gracefully built; she wore her hair twisted with colored cotton thread and looped like a crown atop her head. Her clothes were tailored garments: a black cotton wraparound and, of course, a colorful striped apron because she was a married woman.

She was comforted by her husband’s strength and confidence. But hope dies slowly, and once more she dared to ask.

Perhaps things might not be as we have been given to believe, my husband. Nothing really bad has happened yet—maybe it never will. Could our fears have clouded our perception of the Chinese intentions?

Yeshe turned abruptly and placed himself squarely before his wife. With a gravity that bordered on harshness, he dispelled her last hope.

Locho, he said, using the diminutive name he had given her when they were very young and had first met, now aimed at mitigating the blow of his words.

I didn’t tell you before because I am the head of this family and thought it unnecessary to frighten you, but things have already happened, bad things. Hell has truly come to Tibet. Our people have been killed by the hundreds of thousands, and young girls have been raped.

Whipped by the wind of hate, his whole being shivered; he trembled while the graphic account of the Chinese saga of evil deeds tumbled from his tongue.

The destruction of villages, compounded by public executions, is carried out continually to intimidate our countrymen: mass crucifixions, dismemberment, beheading, burning, and scalding alive. Yeshe had to stop, trying unsuccessfully to regain his composure.

I saw them drag people to death behind galloping horses. Lowering the rising pitch of his voice to a whisper, he bent toward Losang. I even saw children forced to shoot their own parents. He nervously checked the far wings of the huge room and was relieved that his daughters were not around to learn of the horrendous truth.

If we stay, chances are that they will kill me. You and the girls, I don’t even want to think of what they would do to you.

At that moment, Mola (grandmother) and Pola (grandfather) entered the room carrying armfuls of winter clothing. Losang had little time to compose herself, but the grandparents, too busy gathering needed items for the travelers, did not look at her.

March is mild in Gongkar, but in the higher elevations, it is frigid winter. You are going to need these. They spoke in the rapid staccato that became more pronounced when they were upset; they were urging haste, giving advice, while helping divide the dry food in portions and meals.