Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

Quite a lot has happened since I last posted here. For starters: no more snow. Lawns everywhere in Toronto are now slowly showing signs of awaking from their repose — a tint of green that’s barely a murmur now, but lest we get too excited, overzealous revelers were reminded of winter’s still fleeting grip with a chilly thunderstorm yesterday. Hold off on those sandals and shorts for now. I learned it the hard way myself.

The atmosphere in Tibet is still very tense. And it looks like it won’t let up any time soon. The members of the IOC met in Beijing a couple of days ago, and despite the all-around criticisms that it endured at the Olympic torch procession in London, Paris and San Francisco, they decided to stick with their plan of parading the jaundiced torch through Tibet. Any talk of increased violence and bloodshed due to its presence in Lhasa and Mt. Everest were immediately chided by the Chinese government. You can almost picture the embarrassed face of Jacques Rogge on the dinner table, as if sternly admonished by the Chinese patriarch for reaching across the table without any sign of modesty. Like a little schoolboy. Leave the stuff about human rights and “politics” to us, the Chinese officials seem to have said. You worry about people doing laps and things like that, okay? That’s a good boy. Now finish your bowl of wonton soup and bid everyone goodnight.

Hundreds of Tibetans have now been killed as a direct result of the violent crackdowns since the unrest first began in Tibet a month ago. Pictures are floating in almost everyday. The deaths seem to be indiscriminate in its blinding cloak: young and old, monks and nuns, schoolchildren and old peasants. Two state orchestrated media “tours” in Tibet to show the world that it’s all stable and normal, and both of them valiantly disrupted by monks who were gut wrenchingly earnest in their pleas and astonishingly articulate in their demands and objections. The forcibly devoid and make-believe image of Tibet that Beijing keeps presenting to the rest of the country and the world has been tarnished by the crimson robes and blood of monks who continue to defy the iron-fisted authority of a long-outmoded giant. A hungry, unfeeling and insecure party stricken with an authoritarian compulsion that threatens to burn a whole garden of unique cultures and identities to the ground.

I have been very occupied since I last reported about the pro-China demo in Toronto. Ever since that day, there has been this unsettling knot in my stomach, a faintly bothersome perturbation in the back of my mind that insists that this issue will not be resolved as clearly or as cleanly as I’d hoped. Call me naive, and I rightly was, but I’ve always thought that our fight against the Chinese government was something that was markedly straightforward. Our grievances and anger were directed towards a brutal dictatorship that has the blood of millions in its hands. This still active and strong party of Mao Zedong is responsible, by some accounts, for more deaths than Hitler, Stalin and Pol Pot combined.

We have nothing against the Chinese people, culture, or even the country (in its rough description).

What I’ve been shocked with lately, is this insistent and troubling vibe that I’ve been getting from Chinese people. Young Chinese men and women, in Canada, the States and everywhere else outside of China. This almost childish stubbornness that flows out from the mouth and keyboards of ill-informed high school and university students. I’m trying to picture things from their POVs, but it doesn’t add up. Some have called it patriotism, a call to defend your country from any criticism regardless of what the actual issue may be. I’ve been told that the hate-filled slander and vile racism that I come across on internet message boards and blogs are the vocal fringes — a misrepresentation of the majority of Chinese people (ethnic Hans) who have suffered as much as the Tibetans, Uighers and many others.

And then you get this:

For anyone at work or with a shoddy internet connection, this is the full transcript of the short video:

I wish the people to know that China and Chinese people have helped the Tibetan people and improved their human rights.

…how can somebody who cannot even read and write understand anything about human rights?

If they cannot read and write … how can they realize what is being lost?

… in the past in Tibet … the people were just blind faith to believe in their religions. They were controlled … if people think China has mind-controlled them, then they were mind-controlled for thousands of years by their religion.

On the stage you have a round-faced, mousse-haired gentleman who looks like he’s not a year over twenty five. A title states that he is the event organizer. No name is mentioned. A quick pan of the crowd that has gathered, waving the Chinese and Canadian flags. And then he speaks — in a halting, and obviously strained English. Not exactly a crowd captivator. The crowd cheers encouragingly after the first line, perhaps hoping to collectively extract the oratorical resin hidden somewhere beneath his sheepish and milquetoast demeanour. After the second line though, the crowd isn’t really too sure. And then he drops that bomb, with that slight look of glee in his face.

Excuse me if this is really offensive, but right then and there his face looked Mao-ish. I’m sorry. That’s just what he reminded me of. “How can they realize what is being lost?” If there is one sentence that chillingly epitomizes everything that is wrong with online keyboard cowboys, it is that. He looks like he was transposed straight from CCTV and Xinhua, a vile, flabby concoction of selfish nationalism mixed with misinformation.

But that’s not what really bothers me. What’s really worrying about all of this is the absolute lack of any trace of humanity (or empathy) in that person. Maybe I’m being too harsh here. Maybe my judgment is totally out of place, and I should try and rein in my comments.

But to see that young person utter those words, words that he apparently prepared and “practiced” before he got on stage, and to witness this sad, atavistic caricature of another era spewing these explicitly offensive and nigh-psychopathic statements in downtown Toronto, in front of hundreds of people, was throughly dreadful. To him, and the many others who support his maladjusted way of thinking, this “speech” is the succinct embodiment of their rationales.

This, to them, is what justifies the harsh and brutal crackdowns on Tibetans everywhere in Tibet. In this person’s fat and pneumatic head, is a Dalai Lama who is a sexual deviant and a slave master. In his book of history is a barbaric nation that was occupied for hundreds of years, in spite of every known fact pointing to a series of contention and revisionism.

From his eyes he sees a culture that is beneath him, and a peaceful struggle that is spit-worthy and dismissive. His memory is clouded with a red, pervasive ink that blots out any sign of dissent, and to him a torch relay being disrupted is more cause for indignation than a human rights activist jailed and tortured for speaking the truth.

His moral fiber is attuned to the sensitivity of a vast party machine, as opposed to the plights of children being shot in the back on border passes, or young idealists rolled under tanks and silenced by bullets.

His flag is a symbol of pride, one that he had no trouble looking back on when he first left China for greener pastures and greater freedom, but one that he can still wave in the thrusting moment of convenience. As a linchpin to justify his contempt for those that oppose crimes against humanity or have the temerity to demand their rights as an individual.

I urge the people with whom I’ve engaged civilly over the internet in discussions about Tibet to look at this video and then defend his speech (or whatever you’d like to call that). Remember that this is the type of person who’s organizing your demonstrations. And to remember that this is exactly the type of person the Chinese Communist Party wants you to follow.

Tomorrow there’s apparently a similar demonstration in Ottawa in front of the Parliament building. Will this guy be leading the charge again? Does anyone know?

I actually intended to write about something altogether different today. But I guess it’ll have to wait. This post got way longer than I’d planned.

Someone please make a case for this guy, and actually stop me from making him a scapegoat so quickly. I’m unsettled by the ease with which I’ve almost reduced him to a genocidal freak.

Please. Anyone?

If you happened to be shopping downtown on Yonge St. this afternoon, you probably came across the sea of red and the piercing howls that was the pro China demonstration on Dundas Square today. It was an impressive crowd, with Chinese people from all walks of life, chanting “One China! One China!” and applauding themselves at various signaled intervals. You could’ve sworn this was February all over again — the Chinese new year déjà vu. Where were the dancing dragons and child acrobats with silk ribbons?

The reason for the demo today, though, was entirely removed of any cultural or political significance. The event was organized, believe it or not, by international Chinese student groups who were upset about the media coverage of the recent uprisings in Tibet. They wanted Toronto to know the unfettered, unbiased and unadulterated truth — so they handed out copies of “damning” evidence under instructions of the Chinese consulate. The gist of their argument: Tibetans were the violent troublemakers behind the unrest inside Tibet (they deserved what they got); China is one and, above all else, Tibetans should be grateful for that. The obvious face-slapping truth of China’s bloody hands behind the suffering of Tibetans is just western propaganda, and you should be shameful for even having thought of that. We’ll harass the shit out of you if you think otherwise.

I’m not even kidding. Towards the conclusion of the event, at various instances, the Chinese participants mobbed and yelled down with relish anyone who dared to engage with them about Tibet. A Canadian man in the middle of the participants exposed his shirt which had a flag of Tibet on the pocket which absolutely drove the mob into fits and, if it were not for the swift response of the cops, the whole thing would’ve turned very ugly very quickly. At another instance, a fat Chinese boy with a hoodie, who couldn’t have been a year over twenty, shoved and cussed at a person who talked about the dead Tibetans from the last couple of weeks. Old folks were screaming, “You don’t know the truth! You never been to China!” “Liar!”

The whole thing would’ve been ridiculously funny if not for the dangerous underpinnings. This was a large crowd of mostly adults who gathered and exulted in their abject nationalistic fervour. The whole idea behind this event was to show that the greatness of China overshadowed and overwhelmed any aspect of human rights or freedoms. In a pointedly candid display of misplaced fealty, they placed the might of the party before the rights of the citizens. And most worryingly of all, this happened in Toronto, Canada: a place where you can glean all versions of the facts, and not just the one fed down the tubes of the Communist propaganda machine.

If a community of thousands, across an ocean and a continent from its “motherland”, can be shepherded so blindly and easily, what does that mean for the billions in China who actually don’t have the free access to media like we do here in Canada? I try not to exaggerate online, but I’m absolutely serious when I say that I felt like a Jew who inadvertently stumbled into a Nazi rally when the call of Aryan superiority was first spreading throughout Germany. This was how the monks must’ve felt when the cadres of the Red Army, drunk on their premature jingoism, destroyed the monasteries in Tibet and burned Buddhist texts with demented glee during the Cultural Revolution.

It was a chilling reminder about the extent of China’s oppressive tactics. And it was heartbreaking to see otherwise rational human beings being filled with toxic emotions that encourage mass terror and mob justice. Is this what we’re up against? I have to commend the brilliance of the fucking party officials who have honed their crafts and mastered the art of intimidation and shock therapy. After all, they did have the best in the business when it comes to purging millions and torturing the soul out of a nation.

But this was in Toronto. In Canada. This isn’t some village deep in the country of China. We have more than a dozen news channels just in Toronto, and more international ones, including the CCTV of China. How then do you reconcile this fact with the many Chinese students and adults who were adamant in their accusations that the news of Tibet circulating around here were just western media propaganda? When they are aware that China actually shut down Tibet from any international reporters in response to the protests there? When they even kicked their own press people outside of Tibet? When their own intellects have been calling on the government to act differently back in China?

These were university students. How do you explain that? How the fuck…my head hurts just thinking about this.

Scanning the crowd of over a thousand, I saw lots of young, smiling faces unsure of what this demonstration was really about; and mostly excited because they were in such a large gathering in downtown Toronto. Toting Chinese and Canadian flags, they amassed on the edge of the square towards Yonge St., and menacingly stared down the small band of Tibetan protesters who, in spite of the request from the local Tibetan organizations, spiritedly answered the pro China event for the sake of the Tibetans being killed in Tibet right now. The evening news coverage of the demo actually had equal time for the counter-Beijing actions taken today. Take note international students from mainland China: this is what a balanced news report actually means.

I’m glad we decided not to engage the Tibetan community into this. A riot would’ve been inevitable. And this is just what the Chinese officials would’ve craved back in Beijing — a distraction.

As I was about to leave the Dundas Square, I caught sight of one particular Chinese man with whom I just couldn’t help starting a conversation. I had seen what happens when you try to talk up the issue about Tibet as a Tibetan supporter, so I tried to approach this with an objective angle — I pretended to be a Korean reporter. And this was the person in question:

Now, first of all, it took all of my earthbound, human/activist strength just to stifle a chuckle. I mean, seriously – how can you not look at this person waving a fucking UN flag and just convulse with laughter right there on the street? Really, who makes this shit up? I just had to pry this mind open and find out what was cooking his noodles.

“Hi, I’m a reporter from Korea Times. I see you have a UN flag there — can you please tell me why you’ve brought this particular flag to this event here?”

When I first approached him, he seemed a little hesitant. Maybe he thought no one would think twice about a pro China demonstrator waving a flag with the UN symbol on it. It was only after I told him that I was Korean that he loosened up a little. He said he had lots of Korean friends in his athletic club. He even showed me an insignia on his jacket to prove his case.

“I bring it, y’know, to show that we want peace. Tibetans — they create trouble. China want peace.” [sic, from his end, all the way through]

“Right. Do you know that China actually doesn’t want the UN to look into the issue of Tibet? They’ve vetoed against any talk about Tibet at the general assembly.”

“Yes, yes. The problem in Tibet now OK. Tibet is OK.”

I think he was missing my point entirely, so I proceeded with another angle: “Would you support the UN going into Tibet and finding out what’s the problem there?”

“Tibet have no problem. I been there. Tibet OK now. I just want world peace.”

“Tibet has no problem? Then why are there so many Tibetans protesting in Tibet?”

“Tibet have no problem. Tibetans just violent and do looting in Lhasa. I was in Tibet, y’know. Tibetans there happy under China.”

At this point I must’ve had a purple, knobby vein throbbing against my temple, but I kept my cool. For the sake of… journalistic integrity. Yes, that’s what.

“But the violence was only inside Lhasa. Everywhere else in Tibet it was mostly peaceful, and the Chinese army still clamped down on them violently. Do you support their tactics?”

“I don’t know. I just know Tibet is OK now. Don’t worry. Everybody want world peace.”

“Do you support the way the Chinese government has not allowed for any form of protest in Tibet, regardless of whether they are peaceful or not?”

“What?”

Somewhere in this conversation, a random white dude just walked up to us and joined in this discussion.

“What I’m saying is — you see that here in Canada, everyone has the right to protest if it is peaceful. You can’t do that in Tibet or even China. How do you feel about that?”

This is where the stammering begins, and I’m not ashamed to say that I smiled inwardly for reducing him to a blathering fuckwit.

“I…I…I don’t know. We just want to show the rest of the world that China is fine. Tibet is OK now. I been there, y’know.”

“But that’s really not the case. Lots of Tibetans inside Tibet are unhappy with the Chinese government. How do you feel about that?”

“Tibetans…they don’t know. They just…cause violence and loot other people’s properties…”

“Yes, but this was mostly in Lhasa, and only for a couple of days. The rest of the protests were peaceful.”

“Tibetans…they don’t know…they very violent.”

This was one of the few instances when the random white guy chipped in from the periphery. “You sound really condescending and mean when you say that. Look, you’re even smiling when you say those things about the Tibetans. That’s not right, man.”

I wasn’t really seeking any third-party validation from this tiresome exercise, but I was relieved that it wasn’t just me not eating the horseshit this UN flag-waving, pro Communist China sheep was spewing.

As I shook hands with both men and started to part my ways, I turned back one last time and asked him where in Tibet he had really been, since he brought it up so often during our brief discussion.

“Oh — just in Lhasa…”

“Just in Lhasa?”

“Yeah, y’know, and … Ching village.”

I swear I’m not making this up. Right from his hesitant tone to the abrupt pause before he came up with this utterly believable name for a village inside Tibet (Ching or Jing, I forget), it was plain as fresh snow that this guy had a seriously skewed knowledge of Tibet and China’s history. And his smiling attitude for maintaining this kind of dangerous mindset was just the icing on the cake that I didn’t want.

He couldn’t even pull off his bullshit act convincingly. If it’s any consolation, at least my portrayal of a Korean reporter was spot-on. Down to my name: Hong Sung Park. Korea Times Daily. Without a shred of thought. A pro, through and through.

I sure hope Mr. “Cary” is looking forward to this interview in tomorrow’s papers.

What a mess. Yeesh!

“I’m finally beginning to feel what it is like to be a refugee and to be helpless,” I confided to my mentor, Shannon, in my office a week after the March 10 uprising.

The images, footage and accounts of Tibetans being systematically detained and oppressed from the recent unrest have clouded the consciousness of every Tibetan and Tibetan supporter I know of. There is a hollow dread in the way we speak and carry ourselves. A sense of outrage mixed with grief and a feeling of helplessness quietly swirls inside our house like a closed room filled with a translucent film of cigarette smoke.

The eyes of the protesters I meet are shiny with grief; and in some cases, almost glassy, like they’re not quite sure of what state their mind is in. Everyday brings new reports of Tibetans revolting. Every evening we turn the tube on for the latest coverage, every morning the computer screen flickers with internet postings of monks, nuns, nomads and students rising up for the call of independence. Of bodies riddled with bullets. Of armoured tanks maintaining the order in a holy city.

Tibet is in flames. And in Canada: life – as it is wont to do, as it is meant to be – just goes on. Bills have to be paid, school papers are due, and meeting appointments scream with their dull insistence for attention.

Meanwhile, Tibet is in flames.

“It’s almost like I know the sufferings of the Tibetans back home, and I am affected by it tremendously,” I sighed out. “But I am removed from the whole thing.”

Somehow, this ache of grief and desperation doesn’t quite seem as profound as I want it to be. The stress on my shoulders feel fake. My burning throat sounds like it is putting on a show. My outrage is muted.

“I feel like I’m not really genuine about my emotions towards everything that’s been going on.” This part I questioned to myself.

And it is a question that has been haunting me incessantly as the days wear on. I’m trying to get a hold of my hyper self-consciousness. What does it matter to what extent I am truly affected by the events inside Tibet? What about the scores of Tibetans I see who don’t even seem to care about their news? How would you know if they care or not? What good does it do to second-guess every thought and emotion I have? What do you care about what others think? Am I being true to myself by ignoring these doubts? Are they really doubts or just filaments of my personal insecurities clouding up my thoughts?

While I go through the motions of everyday mundane activities with the shuffle of a condemned cynic, blood flows from the monasteries and percolates through the hallowed streets; from Lhasa to Sichuan, from tent to tent, square to every square. The piercing cries of freedom that I hear on the internet chills my spine and constricts my chest.

A grainy video from Labrang, Amdo, shows thousands of Tibetans gathering in the centre of the town, whistling rebelliously and waving the multi-coloured snowlion flags. A cameraman goes up closer and shows the excited faces of young Tibetans, some hardly past teen, barely managing to conceal their nervous smiles as a battalion of riot troops advance menacingly from across the street towards them.

A bang from a teargas shotgun, and the crowds quickly disperse.

The scenes unfolding before me on the computer screen succinctly encapsulate the state of my being. I am here – halfway across the world, it is quiet – with my hand on the mouse and my throat feeling uncomfortably tight, trying to get a sense of the unrest inside Tibet.

Except there is no way that I will ever be able to truly feel the terror that has struck my mountainous homeland. I will never know how it feels to hear the bangs on my door as Chinese troops raid every house inside Lhasa to arbitrarily detain every young person and monk they suspect of rioting. I will never feel the way my heart beat against my chest the way those young Tibetans did as they threw rocks at the advancing riot police. I will never experience the anguish of a mother who sees her high school kid forcibly taken from the house and thrown into the dreaded army trucks. I will never have the frustration of a generation constantly marginalized in their own birthplace taken out on properties that are owned by an encroaching group of settlers from outside. I will never have the opportunity to take pictures and record testimonies of the brutality like the scores of reporters who were recently expelled from Tibet did.

But most of all, I will never experience the euphoria of joining thousands of other Tibetans inside Tibet as they chant the freedom slogans and call for their leader, His Holiness the Dalai Lama, to return to Tibet. I can’t imagine the swell of pride and courage, of being swept up uncontrollably into the torrent of unadulterated energy, and of finally casting aside any fear of retribution and personal costs.

I will never know that moment. I have seen it, and continue to see it, but my body is irredeemably and inconsolably intact and removed. My joints are tired and my eyes are heavy. The shot of adrenaline that coursed through my body when I was with the crowd that stood below the two boys who waved the Tibetan flag from atop the Chinese consulate building in Toronto has long worn off. I feel like I am a washed out shell of a once idealistic person.

My actions don’t feel like they’re enough. My head feels like it was just poured with molten lead. I am constantly aware of how I am talking to people, like I am looking through the eyes of a very nuanced robot.

My energy is slipping away from me, through cracks that I can’t even bother to cover. Every morning that I hear of yet another uprising, my heart picks its beat up momentarily, and then eventually levels out as I pack my bag and step out into the cold, orderly and quiet streets of Toronto. I have assignments to fulfill, plans to carry out, and streetcars to catch. I feel like I am in a state of fuzzy whiteness, like someone who’s just recovering from a flash bang: all ringing in the ears and maladjusted irises.

But I am reminded time and again, from the chiding of my younger brother to the sacrifices of countless people, that this moment is the searing pinnacle of a movement. That the revolts will now culminate into a revolution, and the forces of dissent will tear the agents of tyranny asunder.

That the sum is far more significant than the parts, and that the motions of the mass will thrust the individual into heights previously unexplored.

And that sometimes the decisions we make lie beyond our choices. We do what we can because we have to.

The walls of injustice seem intimidating at times. In those slips of courage and conviction, the cries of those who suffer under the force of aggression and the persuasion of bullets bounce off the walls and echo into the dark hollow of despair and memories best left covered. But the torch of truth shines with a relentless ferocity that overwhelms any form of hopelessness and fills the void with a light of inspiration that far exceeds any wall of injustice. It ignites the fire of those who’ve been oppressed. It captivates the mind, body and soul, transforming it into a vehicle of change. Of action. Of the truth.

It creates a movement.

And it creates history.

I can either choose to be a part of it, or I can wallow into the depths of my doubts.

I know what I must do. I know what needs to be done. I don’t care for my highs and lows.

Tibet burns — her cries are louder than ever. A nun dies — her years of devotion to peace cut abruptly short by the blunt violence of a small bullet. A student gets detained in a prison — his careless days whiling away in classes now come back to hurt him much deeper than the electrical shots being unleashed on him by impassive interrogators.

The pain is real. The suffering is there. The blood is still warm. And the Tibetans continue to defy the forces that keep bombarding them with teargases and lies about the Dalai Lama.

Uprisings are always unforgiving. This one is no different.

But it hurts a lot more knowing that beyond the rounds of rallies and protests, the extent to which I can truly help the Tibetans will always be removed from the actual terror inside Tibet.

The spirit of the community is strong. If only I could smell the air of unrest in Tibet, only then do I believe that I shall truly come to appreciate the unyielding grip of passion that is spreading throughout the plateau. Only then do I think I can say that I am a genuine part of this movement.

Until then, all I can do is protest … and pray.

It begins with a whisper. A murmur that escapes like steam from an open sauna room. It grows quietly, collecting the apprehensions and memories of lost years. It drips through every crack, through every pore in the surface, and infects it with an unmistakable hint of Clarity.

It shakes the foundation. It breaks a dam. It corrodes fear and eliminates doubts.

This thing, this surge, this fuel that ignites a movement and sweeps a generation along with it, it feeds off and into the nectar of Things To Come. This elixir inebriates an individual’s hesitancy, and jolts it with an electric shiver that tingles the fingertips and swells the chest till the heart thumps against it with such an aching vigour that your hands tremble and your sight turns tunnel vision.

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It’s funny in a sad sort of way how carried away I can get sometimes with my vainglorious sense of self and duty. How I can pit my responsibilities against my resolutions and tattle off about inane matters one-by-one in order to tick things off as though they’re merely a hindrance or a point that needs to be acknowledged in a “ho hum whatdowehavehere today?” way. Case in point. “My dalliances with activism” just sounds so off-putting and cringe inducing that I am tempted to remove the last post away from the fleeting scrutiny of this anonymous net-world, to rid myself of this mind-numbingly self-indulgent reverie that I’ve dared to share with strangers from all stripes of ideology. But that would be a wishful sin committed in yet another guise of pride and I must live in terms with what I’ve decided to commit with.

I also need to get off my operatic bent and get straight to the damn point.

In case you were wondering what suddenly set off this barrage of yet another non sequitur claptrap — and trust me, I’ve surprised myself quite a lot as well — this is why: Yesterday, six pro-Tibetan activists of SFT from Canada, the US and the UK were detained in China after staging a bold and dramatic direct action aimed at reminding the IOC and the world in general about the upcoming Aug. 8 One Year Beijing Olympics Countdown. The two Canadian activists, Mel Raoul and Sam Price, rappelled down a section of the Great Wall of China and unfurled a 450-sq. ft banner that reads “ONE WORLD, ONE DREAM, FREE TIBET”, both in English and Mandarin. They remained on the side of the wall with the banner in its fully glorious and cheeky display for more than two hours before the Chinese authorities descended on them and whisked them away for detention. No one knows yet about the whereabouts or the conditions of those six brave souls.

Let us just — for the sake of fully appreciating what just transpired half-way across the globe here — try to grasp not only the logistical complexity of launching this action from the get-go, but also the sheer amount of fortitude, of grit, determination and the fundamental belief in what’s right, that leads six young people to undertake this. To train: climbing, rappelling, evading sinister figures; to contemplate and understand the risks involved and then to hop on a plane and land in a foreign and slightly unwelcoming city; to clear customs with a large fabric emblazoned with a politically provocative message; to find a spot in a tourist-flooded area that isn’t as heavily scrutinized as some other parts; to figure out the opportune moment in deciding to rappel down the ancient stones; to hold on to your message as long as it takes; to land an ideal vantage point to capture this momentous show of defiance and declaration; to guide the international news media as it tries its best to catch up and cover; to humble two powerful forces; to harden the resolve of thousands of aspiring activists and humanists all across the world; and to accomplish all of the above-mentioned without spilling a drop of blood in malice or uttering a word of threat. ‘Amazing’ does barely any justice.

Try ‘humbling’.

Now, this isn’t the first time that SFT has dared unsettling the beast right under its very nose. Just three months ago, four members of this chapter-based, youth-oriented organization donned heavy parkas and brandished another large banner with the same message from high atop the base camp of Mt. Everest (on the Tibetan side). I barely managed to write about it then and quickly offered the video of the action as a substitute for my inability to give due thought and admiration.

This won’t be the case now. For one thing: I’ve met, talked and shared drinks with the two Canadians who unfurled the massive banner. They’re both either gainfully employed or pursuing post-graduate studies. They’re grounded, unassuming and definitely not driven by impulse at every other corner. In other words: they’re not your typical, in-your-face, hard-core activists, man. I’m pretty certain the other four are, more or less, the same. This is not meant to lampoon your average political activist, but just to give you an idea — a level of intimacy, if you will — about the kind of people who believe in the non-violent struggle of the Tibetan people. Sure, we’ve got our share of grizzled, passionate to the point of extreme-activists, but they don’t set the gold standard around here. Generally speaking. Instead, what we harbour here is a delightful balance of practicality and idealism that supports creativity and encourages individuality in the dithering dynamics of an energizing group.

And when I tend to get distracted by the constant minor waylays of my daily routine, it serves as a good reminder in humility and perspective that there are others who are willing to risk their own neck and comfort for the sake of those who are unable to speak under the duress of the red, iron hand. Sam’s done it more than once already, just so you and I know. And did I mention Kate, our very own Superwoman always in the thick of everything? She’s in Hongkong at the moment doing some mad media-handling bizness. What about Lhadon Thethong? Not only does she kick China’s red ass constantly from high atop the office of SFT Int’l, she’s royally kicking their red ass right in their very own backyard. Or front-yard. At this very moment. On blog. On TV. Is it just me or are us Canadians grossly over-represented in matters of PRC ass-kickery?

I would like to congratulate these six individuals. And I would like to sincerely thank everyone involved — for deciding that the dangers presented to themselves from this action pales in comparison to the magnitude and to the extent of the lives that they’ve affected and will continue to. I hope they come out of this safe and relatively unscathed. I would like to extend a note of comfort and thanks to the family and friends who’ve either supported or reluctantly tagged along to the whirlwind lives of their loved ones. And I would like to conclude this note with a nod to that one feeling that far surpasses any mention of humility, acknowledgment or appreciation.

Hope.

——————–

For further information and up-to-date coverage of this action, please visit our SFT Int’l Blog.

For all the details and latest from Lhadon in China, please visit her Beijing blog.

Wow. Words can barely encapsulate the admiration I have for these activists for taking the action right into the heart of the beast by hopping half-way across the globe and setting up tent at the base of the world’s highest mountain and THEN sticking it right into the faces of those Chinese expedition team-members. Man, oh man. Words cannot do justice. At least not mine, in any case. So here’s the video:

More about the action here. Thank you Tendor, Shannon, Kirsten Westby and Laurel Mac Sutherlin. Hope you’ll all be fine and just, thanks again for putting yourself in line for the millions of Tibetans who want an Olympic torch to grace the slope of the Mt. Everest of only a Free Tibet.

It happened sometime in the middle of the March 10 rally as our procession was slowly turning the corner from Queen St. and heading north of St. George St. towards the Toronto Chinese Consulate. I was leading a pack of hyperactive, bratty kids – some barely out of pre-school – and I was thinking to myself that this wasn’t a good route at all, that we were going through a residential neighbourhood with a general exposure level of almost nil. Zilch. Some people dumping their weekend house garbage and recycling materials stared at us curiously, but otherwise went about their ways. Some looked from their windows and balconies, wondering what this long line of colourful flags and people clad in dresses were up to on this Saturday afternoon. Put bluntly, we were shouting to no one but ourselves.

So, as I was leading the line, minding the kids and trying not to get pissed off at whoever orchestrated this rally route, a small Tibetan girl tugged at my jacket and asked me impatiently as little children are wont to do, ‘Are we there yet?’

Are we there yet? A question so simple would require a rejoinder equally straightforward. But seeing as to how I had to constantly make sure that the children weren’t getting too close to the leading van and also not straying too far from the others behind, I ignored her, distractedly. The chorus, inevitably, soon followed. Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

I tried the soothing way first. ‘Not too long now, children, just another two blocks and you’ll see.’ ‘Come on, now! Let’s keep those feet rolling.’ And ‘Do you want the old people to go by us?’

It worked for a few minutes before they eventually caught up to my sweet nothings and demanded how long exactly this block I was referring to was. I then had to adopt the stern drill sergeant stance: glaring at them whenever they raised their hands despondently or accused me of lying. It didn’t work for long either.

It was then that I decided to get a little thorough with the kids. I slowed down to their trots, and tried to converse with an especially petulant and annoyed little boy. He had been screaming as fervently as he could for the past hour or so, and now that he was a little tired and bored, he had understandably deduced that this long walk wasn’t really as fun as it had originally started out as. I tried the peacekeeper way.

‘How goes there, kid?’ I elbowed him.

‘Dunno. When are we getting there?’ He asked a touch irritably.

‘It won’t be long now. See that light over there? As soon as we cross that, it’ll just be a block or so away.’

‘You said that about the first light. And the next one. And the next one. ’ He frowned and added, ‘I think you’re just lying to us.’

I bit my tongue and abated this swell of accusation about my supposed mendaciousness. I tried again. ‘You know, as soon as we get there (and it won’t be long), I’ll treat you with a cup of chocolate.’

The little kid ignored my olive branch offering and instead confirmed his suspicion about my dubiousness with his colleague next to him. They nodded gravely and quietly marched along.

I wasn’t going to let them slide by with such a pernicious attitude towards me, and the Chinese Consulate was close so! I sidled up next to him again, although that isn’t quite exactly how you would put it as he was barely up to my chest. He didn’t look up at me, choosing instead to stare at his dragging feet.

‘Do you know why we’re here today?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, about China’s taking over Tibet and stuff.’ He mused on it for a while and continued, ‘We’re here to free Tibet, aren’t we?’

I beamed and poked further, a little hopefully, ‘Do you know what’s happening in Tibet right now?’

‘Not really. I don’t care, really. What are we doing here anyways? I’m tired and I wanna go home.’

Sensing a dead end again, I quickly followed, ‘You know, every step that you take today means that one more Tibetan in Tibet won’t have to suffer for long.’

He finally looked up to me and asked in a suspicious, yet entirely childlike way, ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, man. Whenever you walk in rallies and shout the slogans, more people will know about what’s happening in Tibet and eventually, people will start to realize that what’s happening in Tibet is wrong.’

‘How does that help Tibet? It’s not like we’re shooting and bombing the Chinese.’

‘Like this: every time another person knows about Tibet suffering, they can act in ways that can help Tibet and the Tibetans.’

‘Like shooting the Chinese?’ He asked a little hopefully.

‘No, no. We don’t shoot the Chinese.’ Why not, asked collectively by some kids from behind. ‘Because that’s not the way Tibetans are supposed to solve our problems. Because that’s what the Dalai Lama told us to.’

Why, they prodded further; their inquisitive nature now taking over their exhaustion as always. ‘Because we don’t believe in harming other people. Because that’s not the right thing to do and there are other, better ways of solving problems.’

‘Yeah right,’ some snarky kid from the back.

‘No, because, as soon as you start harming the Chinese, by shooting at them, bombing them, whatever, you are encouraging the use of violence and bloodshed. Killing and harming aren’t the only ways to solve problems.’

‘Because, when you harm someone, you will have to pay for it later. Everything you do now will somehow end up getting back at you.’

How so, was the question this time.

‘I don’t really know,’ I said, quite earnestly. ‘Just remember that for every person you harm, that person or that person’s children will try and get back to you in the future.’

A distinct murmur spread across the precocious group and I was preparing myself for another barrage of rhetorical, existential inquiries when the consulate building mercifully came into view. This seemed to shut them up better than any sweet currying I’d attempted earlier.

As they disbanded quickly as they’d assembled, with that surge of energy that always burst forth whenever there were springs to skip across or snow to make snowballs into, I sighed a relief that I tried to mask as best as I could.

I found a ledge and tried to lean on it, tired from all that coordinating and convincing. The little kid from earlier approached me and handed me his placard. ‘Thanks,’ he said quickly.

‘No worries,’ I replied, hoping now that he would allow me some few minutes before I have to start packing things up.

‘Do you need any help collecting all your signs?’ He asked.

I smiled. ‘Sure.’