A Year in Tibet. Sun Shuyun

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СКАЧАТЬ did Tseten or other shamans do a good job protecting the village from hail?’ I press them for a clearer answer.

      ‘The gun is definitely effective. Let's watch the demonstration,’ the first man replies.

      The clouds look heavy and are covering the hills. The gunners turn the wheel to get the right elevation, adjust the direction of the barrel, and fire. The bang is loud, but it is like wailing without tears — no rain comes, and I cannot see that the clouds have noticeably dispersed. Perhaps the aim was faulty, or perhaps we should have waited for the clouds to move closer.

      While they reload, my mind flashes back to Tseten demonstrating the hail ritual in his prayer room. He was doing it for our film, but I could not have told that from his demeanour — he was totally immersed in his communication with the gods, whether or not they were listening. His whole life has been spent working for the villagers as an intermediary between the known and the unknown. Now the unknown is being pushed back even here. Tseten has lost his most important job; I wonder what else will be taken away from him.

      Tseten said his family is keen to pass on the shaman tradition to one of the children, but I suspect we might have seen the hailstone lama's last performance in this valley.

      A second bang interrupts my thoughts. The shell explodes closer to the clouds, but still with no result. Either the gunners need more practice — this is only their first outing this year because the shells are expensive — or the gun is not very effective. ‘If you don't believe us, ask the villagers. A few years ago, the gun drove away the clouds, but other villages got hailed on,’ they hasten to assure me. ‘And the technology will get better. Some countries use planes or missiles now.’

      Before we say goodbye to the gunners, something suddenly occurs to me: how did the villagers cope with hail during the Cultural Revolution, when shamans were forbidden to practise and when there were no guns?

      ‘They put dynamite on the mountain tops and set it off, hoping the explosions would disperse the clouds,’ one of the gunners says with a laugh. ‘Or they relied on Mao's Red Book.’

      ‘What? How could that save them from hail?’ I ask in disbelief. I remembered seeing a photograph from the 1970s: Tibetan peasants from a production brigade carrying portraits of Mao on sticks, and pushing them into the ground on the edge of a field, while they recited passages from Mao's Little Red Book. I had assumed the photo was just propaganda.

      ‘No, that was exactly what they did,’ the gunner says. ‘They took Mao's Red Book, stood around the fields, and read passages aloud; they thought that would stop the hail.’

      Later on I did come across a reference to the 1969 hailstorm in Gyantse and its aftermath. The local Communist Party chief did not move swiftly to help the devastated peasants; instead he began a witch-hunt. He suspected a political reason for the failure of Mao's Red Book against the hail. Maybe it was sabotage by enemies of the people. Or it was the curses of the expelled lamas and nuns, or the debarred shamans. The witch-hunt went on for weeks. Quite a few of the supposed ‘enemies’ were severely punished.⁸

      But that day on the way back from the gunnery demonstration, I could not get that image out of my mind — Tibetan peasants wielding Mao's Red Book against the weather. But perhaps I should not be surprised. When I grew up during the Cultural Revolution, we learned to revere Mao as the great helmsman and saviour; from our earliest years we were taught that we should be ready to follow in the footsteps of our revolutionary forefathers, to lay down our lives for the Communist cause if Mao gave us the order. In the political jargon of the time, Mao's thoughts were carved on our bones and melted into our blood. And many Red Guards really did pin a Mao badge on their flesh.

      As I was taught, so were the Tibetans. In the past, they recited mantras, fingered their rosaries, made offerings, and went on pilgrimages to accumulate more and more merit. They set up family altars, built prayer walls, stupas, temples and monasteries to safeguard their homes, villages, and towns. Then monasteries and temples were destroyed; prayer flags were taken from the rooftops. There was no more burning of incense, no votive butter lamps, no praying at all other than to Chairman Mao. Mao's portrait replaced the images of the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas that had once hung in every household. Every family kept Mao's Collected Works on the altar. In the first three years of the Cultural Revolution, 7,344,000 copies of Mao's works were distributed, for a population of over one million. Tens of thousands of training sessions in political studies were organised, attended by over a third of the adult population. In 1968 Chairman Mao sent some mangos to the Tibetan people: the massed crowd at the presentation was like a pilgrimage to see the relics of a great lama.⁹

      Did the Tibetans ever believe Mao was their new god? Possibly many did. In their harsh environment, they needed a faith, a saviour. We were still driving through the valley on our way back to Gyantse when this idea really came home to me. I had asked the driver to stop so we could take a general view of the valley. There were a dozen villagers working in the foreground. Then I moved away to take a wider shot from a distance. Under the immense sky, the villagers were suddenly so tiny, so lonely and small: an insignificant speck in a vast landscape of mountain and plain. The menacing black clouds looked ready to drop their huge weight and crush them. And this valley is one of the most fertile and densely populated in Tibet. Most of Tibet is far wilder, just boundless barren scrub and grasslands stretching in every direction. I try to imagine what it is like for a nomad with his herds out on those huge plateaus wandering for weeks without encountering another soul — one man against the elements, and completely at their mercy. Is it any wonder that they have so many gods? Mao is gone, and the Tibetans have returned happily to their Yul Lhas, and all their ancient traditions and beliefs.

      After three weeks of backbreaking work, a race against time, the harvest is finally in. The Rikzin family kept at it day and night, whenever it was not raining. It is not a good year for them. They have only reaped half the usual crop. When I come to film them at the end of their labours, I expect to see disappointment or sadness on their face, but there is none. They seem to have been prepared for much worse.

      Do they blame the gods? I would think that they might, that after all the offerings they have made they would need someone or something to blame for the bad year. I ask Tseten whether he feels Yul Lha has let them down. He says blaming is not part of the Tibetan culture. The villagers' response to a bad harvest is to perform a ‘repentance’ ritual, asking for forgiveness. It is they, not Yul Lha, who have not done enough. They promise to do better next year.

      I find this hard to take. I know what the Chinese peasant would do: he would shake his fist at the sky and stamp on the ground, railing at the gods for cheating him, complaining about his wasted offerings, and threatening not to pray to them any more. I mention the contrast to Tseten. He smiles gently, ‘Our rituals are really just the way we express our faith. We may or may not get anything in return. But that is not what matters most. Buddhism is about giving; it is a virtue in itself and brings its own reward. That is how we will have a better life, now or in the next world.’

       TWO Sky Burial

      DU, DU,' A SHARP SOUND. Another. I fumble about, thinking it is the alarm. But it is too early, only 7 a.m. Then I realise it is my mobile ringing. Who could be calling at such an uncivilised hour? Outside my hotel in downtown Lhasa, it is still dark. It is Dorje, one of our Tibetan cameramen, calling from our house in Gyantse.

      ‘Tseten has just rung. His mother died early this morning. What should СКАЧАТЬ