The Autobiography of a Tibetan Monk by Palden Gyatso

Author:Palden Gyatso
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic

Chapter Seven

The Master Weaver

IN EARLY 1965 THE campaign against the Panchen Rinpoche intensified and rumours about his fate swept through the prison. Our brigade was taken to see an exhibition which, supposedly, contained the evidence that incriminated the Panchen Rinpoche and his accomplices. It was meant to show how he had organised a private army and amassed a personal fortune. I remember a black and white photograph accompanied by a caption that read, “Imperialist spy sent from India to establish secret contact with Panchen clique”. I recognised the “spy” in the photograph. It was Tsewang Namgyal, a lean young man who had escaped to India with his mother in 1959 but had later been in Gyantse prison with me. Tsewang had returned to Shigatse the following year, after his mother's death, because it had been her last wish that he should visit Tashilhunpo to make an offering at the monastery where she used to pray. This was the only reason Tsewang had come back to Tibet. He'd been arrested and accused of spying. The photograph made me realise that the charges against the Panchen Rinpoche were pure fiction.

So now another of our leaders was being vilified. I was developing a sense of how the Chinese worked, the way they used people to serve their purposes. The Panchen Rinpoche had outlived his usefulness and had to be destroyed. It was no different in prison: prisoners were praised and rewarded for just as long as they served the authorities. And during struggle and study sessions, the Chinese pressed us to denounce one another so that we could be blamed if anything went wrong.

Prison life was becoming more organised and routine. Our rations were slightly improved: vegetables were added to our daily diet. And this period seemed to be more lenient and relaxed, with fewer denunciations and thamzings. Perhaps we were just getting used to it all. Perhaps we were now reconciled to our fate.

I had originally been sent to Drapchi as a master weaver. The authorities had piled up a huge quantity of wool. I'd given the carpenter designs for looms and people had been brought in from all parts of Tibet to set up a factory. Then the Party changed its mind. I was told that there was to be no carpet factory. When I asked friendly guards for an explanation, their reply was always, “It's the Party's policy.” When you had been in prison for this long, you got used to performing meaningless tasks in a state of complete ignorance.

My own condition, however, had improved immensely. I was no longer shackled and had a great sense of movement. I was able to walk and run as freely as anyone else. Now that I no longer had chains around my ankles, I was able to sleep at night. I had never grown used to sleeping in chains. Every moment of the night was a search for comfort; each twist or turn of the body meant a stab of pain. Now the chains had gone.

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