Lives in Exile by Honey Oberoi Vahali

Author:Honey Oberoi Vahali [Vahali, Honey Oberoi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: History, Asia, General, Social Science, Human Geography
ISBN: 9781000164695
Google: LoXxDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Taylor & Francis
Published: 2020-08-09T16:00:35+00:00

In verse and prose: the lyrics of a young writer

My meeting with Pema was coincidental. On that particular day I had gone to the Tibetan International Relations Office to interview the editor of Tibetan Freedom, who in his youth had studied as a ‘minority student’ in China and whose family had been deeply affected by the Chinese takeover of Tibet. Working as the subeditor of the newsletter and sitting in the same room at the opposite desk, Pema listened to our conversation very keenly. At one point he eagerly mentioned that he too would like to talk about issues that were of interest to me. The next day onwards, as we began talking, I was struck by the intensity of his narration, particularly the first sentence that he uttered. ‘For a long time,’ said Pema, ‘when I came to India, I couldn’t bear to see even a photograph of a Chinese person … I hated them so much.’

The rest of his narration was in fact an unfolding of what this statement meant in the context both of his past and present situation. A writer by inclination, Pema’s narrative was interspersed by many poems and prose pieces written by him. While each contained significant metaphorical connotations, three amongst them particularly distinguished themselves. Reading in each of these a stage-wise progression that traces his quest for identity, I shall try to recount his ‘self-search’ primarily with the aid of these three creative pieces.

Born in 1969, Pema grew up in a family which, like most others of his region, underwent displacements and major shifts because their province Amdo was soon to be converted into the mainland’s highly populous, modernised and developed Chinese province of Qinghai:

But in the days of my childhood, despite their obviousness, no one spoke of our problems and no questions were ever raised. At home my grandparents kept a prayer book safely hidden among the ashes in the fireplace… . In the evening when they took out the sacred scriptures to pray, I was often stationed outside, close to the boundary wall of the house. My job was to warn them if the Chinese policeman patrolling our area was anywhere near our vicinity. This much-dreaded Chinese policeman could at any time search and ransack our homes, beat up the people and confiscate whatever he wanted… . If I signalled his approaching presence to my grandparents, the scripture book and the rosary beads would at once be hidden inside the fireplace and its opening covered by a huge portrait of Mao… . I remember an old former monk (no longer robed as one though) being badly beaten up by the policeman one day because his rosary had been discovered under his long sleeves. The Chinese policeman wanted to confiscate it and the monk’s resistance enraged him further… . I distinctly remember feeling angry at the old man’s plight and asking my grandfather about what was happening, but no one answered my questions… . In those days, even in the privacy of homes, religion, Tibetan freedom and the past were never mentioned… .

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