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visits heart of Tibetan resistance as showdown looms between Dalai Lama and China
Draped in deep crimson robes, his prayer beads slipping through his fingers with calm deliberation, the monk advances toward us. This is no small risk. With eight unknown men tracking our every move, even a few whispered words in public could spell trouble for him.
Yet he steps forward, undeterred. “Life here is harsh for us,” he murmurs with resolve.
For decades, this monastery—perched in southwestern Sichuan’s rugged terrain—has been a focal point of Tibetan resistance. The world first took notice in the late 2000s, when desperate monks resorted to self-immolation in protest of Chinese rule. Now, almost twenty years later, Kirti Monastery remains a concern for authorities in Beijing.
A police station has been constructed at the temple’s gate, standing guard over a shadowy chamber lined with prayer wheels that squeak as they turn. Surveillance cameras perch on heavy steel poles, their lenses sweeping every corner of the compound.
“They don’t mean well; anyone can see it,” the monk adds, a hush of caution in his tone. “Be careful—people are watching us.”
At that moment, the men tailing us quicken their pace. The monk calmly turns away, merging into the silent sanctuary.
For nearly 75 years, Tibet has been under the rule of the Communist Party of China. Since annexing the region in 1950, Beijing has poured infrastructure investments—roads, railways, and tourist facilities—into the area. Though meant to integrate Tibet economically, these developments brought with them a larger troop presence and a surge of government officials, eroding Tibetan religious traditions and personal freedoms.
Beijing insists on Tibet’s inseparability from China. It branded the Dalai Lama a separatist and has criminalized public displays of loyalty to him.
Yet, in places like Aba (Ngaba in Tibetan), where Kirti Monastery stands, resistance has taken dramatic forms. In 2008, a monk stepped forward during a protest holding a photo of the Dalai Lama—an act that escalated into a violent crackdown. Chinese forces opened fire, leaving at least 18 dead, according to official figures. Exile communities claim the toll may be closer to 200.
The years that followed saw more than 150 self-immolations—most clustered around Aba—each act a desperate plea for the Dalai Lama’s return. The main street was grimly dubbed “Martyr’s Row.”
Since then, Beijing’s grip has tightened. Access to reliable information in Tibet is now nearly impossible. Most accounts emerge from exiles or the Dharamshala-based Tibetan government-in-exile.
We returned before dawn the next morning, slipping past our escorts and hiking to Aba in time for early prayers. Inside the prayer hall, monks in yellow Gelug hats intoned solemn chants amid drifting incense smoke. About thirty local men and women, clad in traditional Tibetan robes, sat cross-legged until the bell announced the end of the service.
“This government has poisoned the air in Tibet,” one monk confided. “They do not serve the people—they oppress us, depriving us of basic human rights.”
Our conversation remained short to avoid drawing attention. Still, it was rare to hear such candid criticism.
This week, the issue of Tibet’s future deepened as the Dalai Lama celebrated his 90th birthday in Dharamshala, India. Among his followers, relief, uncertainty, and concern mingled over his announcement that his successor would only be identified after his death. In Tibet, however, even mentioning his name is taboo.
Beijing has unequivocally stated that the next Dalai Lama must be selected within China and ratified by the Communist Party. Tibetans within the homeland, cut off from external information, have remained silent.
“That’s just how it is,” the monk told us. “That’s the reality.”
Two Worlds Under One Sky 🌄
The road to Aba winds some 500 km (300 mi) from Chengdu, snaking through snow-capped peaks and vast grasslands before reaching the edge of the Himalayan plateau. Buddhist temples, gilded and shining, dot the landscape, their rooftops catching the sun at each bend. Here, motor traffic often yields to yak herders on horseback, guiding stoic cattle as eagles hover overhead.
It’s a place of striking contrasts: ancestral Tibetan culture and religious devotion set against the steady advance of Beijing’s infrastructure and surveillance networks. Officially, Tibetans are allowed to practice Buddhism—but their spirituality also fosters a distinct cultural identity that Beijing views with suspicion.
Human rights groups report that Tibetans are being imprisoned for peaceful demonstration, speaking their language, or simply possessing a portrait of the Dalai Lama. Meanwhile, new educational directives force ethnic children into Mandarin-speaking schools and restrict monastery teachings until age 18—requiring them to “love the country and religion” and adhere to national laws.
A local monk, under an umbrella in the drizzle, recounted the painful loss of a monastery-school demolished months ago. “It was a preaching school,” he said, voice breaking with emotion.
Such policies echo a 2021 decree mandating Mandarin instruction in Tibetan preschools and primary schools. Beijing defends the measure as giving Tibetan youth better employment prospects—but Tibetan scholars like Robert Barnett warn it threatens the survival of Tibetan Buddhism and language. He describes a future where education consists solely of Chinese culture, holidays, and values, while Tibetan thought is tightly controlled.
Despite rapid development—high-speed trains, tourist hotels, cafes—the Tibetan heart remains under pressure. Tourists, clad in branded outdoor gear, take in the spectacle of locals prostrating at temple doors. Prayer wheels turn, rich murals attract awe—but so does the omnipresent surveillance: facial-recognition check-ins at hotels, endless ID requirements captured on hi-def cameras, and tightly controlled media access.
Barnett characterizes the region as sealed off, “locked from the outside world.”
The Question of Succession
News of the Dalai Lama’s succession plan was broadcast globally, but censored locally. Since 2011, the Dalai Lama has relinquished political power to a democratically elected Tibetan leadership. Talks with Beijing regarding a successor have reportedly taken place this year but remain shrouded in secrecy.
The Dalai Lama has previously hinted his next incarnation might be born “in the free world,” outside China’s realm, and emphasized that “no one else has any authority to interfere.”
Beijing, however, insists the selection must follow Chinese religious regulations and national law. Even before confirmation, Chinese officials are preparing the ground—organizing propaganda and indoctrinating communities about new succession policies. According to Barnett, this is a deliberate effort to groom a controlled, loyal candidate.
Public trust hangs in the balance: memories of the Panchen Lama controversy linger. In 1995, the exiled Dalai Lama identified a young Panchen Lama, who then disappeared. Beijing later installed its own Panchen Lama—accepted by state structures but rejected by many Tibetans in exile.
If a dual Dalai Lama emerges—one endorsed by Beijing, the other by the exiled Tibetan community—the world will face its own seminal choice. And for Tibetans within China, many may never even hear whispers of this divergence.
Barnett says the Party’s aim is clear: “They want to turn the lion of Tibetan culture into a poodle,” transforming a vibrant spiritual identity into a domesticated, patriotic version devoid of dissent.
As we departed, a line of local women entered the prayer wheel chamber, their baskets full of tools for building or farming. They spun the wheels, singing softly in Tibetan, their gray-streaked hair visible under sunhats.
For 75 years they have clung to their heritage—holding fast through protest, persecution, and profound loss. And still, they persist.
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