Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

Taking Back Our Losar 2009

I was visiting Phayul the other day and I noticed a link on the corner that proclaimed “Say No to Losar 2009″. Click the link and it takes you to a registration page with profile pictures of – Tenzin Tsundue, Lhadon Tethong etc., — the various leaders within the independence movement who have supposedly signed on to this appeal. I’ve had talks about this issue a number of times with friends and family. At first I tended to think that “Saying no to Losar” was a good idea, a way to release pent up anger in the lead-up to the 50-year anniversary of the first popular uprisings in Tibet. But the more that I’ve talked about this and thought about it, the clearer it has become: Losar must not be affected because of the significance of 2009.

The reasoning behind the growing call for saying “NO to LOSAR” (which, by the way, makes our new year sound as if it’s just some Canadian mining corporate in Tibet) is this: on the 50th anniversary of the uprising of March 10, 1959, Tibetans all around the world will mute their Losar celebrations, and hold prayers and vigils instead, in a sign of solidarity and in memory of those who have perished inside Tibet.

“No to Losar 2009” is being propagated as a show of respect. As a way of saying to the Tibetans in Tibet and the world beyond that we are capable of missing a few days of festivities, and that we have more pressing and urgent matters to deal with. There is an underlying subtext in the directives being issued by the Tibetan groups in India, and elsewhere, which equates celebrations to callousness.

A reminder that, lest we get too carried away, our brothers and sisters are still bearing the brunt of one of the most oppressive regimes on earth.

All of this is true. It’s true that we are about to begin yet another year reeling from the lies of the Chinese government. It’s true that the Chinese government is increasing its pressure on the Tibet freedom movement. It’s true that there are no signs of reprieve, and yet we’re constantly being told that we have to bide our time and hope that things speed up.

So we’re pissed off, and rightfully so. We’re angry about what has happened so far. We’ve bared ourselves on waves of hopelessness, disbelief, anticipation, and anger. And so, on the most festive period on our calendar, the “No to Losar 2009” advocates tell us to sacrifice our joy for the sake of those who suffer.

Or at least that’s what the Tibetan groups seem to be saying in their press releases. (If I’ve missed or misunderstood any part, I’m more than glad to be corrected.) How can we celebrate in the face of half a century of oppression? It’s a direct appeal to the heart and our conscience.

But what about our heads? Does this make sense tactically, strategically?

One of the most striking parallels throughout history, among the various regimes that have imperiled and attempted to eradicate a group of people, is their ways of trying to bind those in chains into a suffering so deep and pervasive that it sucks the life out of them. Oppressors try to rob the basic humanity of those who are being oppressed. If they succeed in making us inhuman, the crimes of genocide become sterilized and clinical.

So the thinking was in Nazi Germany, in history’s various imperialist and colonialist empires, and in the Chinese regime as well.

So how do we resist genocide? How do we resist the denial of our humanity? One way is to be happy. To be happy is to be human. Happiness is a force that buckles the steely reins of dictators and seeps effortlessly through the shackles and cloaks of oppression. It is a light that dims but never withers, a song that gathers spirits and resonates through the roof for the whole world to hear. It is a burst of colours, of the so many things that make us who we are.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that celebrating Losar every year, happily and profusely, is a victory for a small nation of people numbering less than 2 % of China’s total population.

It is an even greater victory for the smaller minority that lives abroad, in far flung diasporas. It is a sign of defiance and of unity; a blazing symbol and a blaring horn that shouts, “We have our own traditions, we have our own identity and we celebrate our own new year.”

“We do not belong to you.”

The Chinese government may have taken a lot from us, and they continue to, but they can’t take our identity from us. Before all this talk of boycotting Losar, let us not forget that it belongs to us. It is a piece as unique and integral to us as our language, religion and mountains. A part of us that we can hold up against any other country in the world, to let them marvel at our ingenuity; that a civilization spread across a vast plateau high up the Himalayas can devise an intricate calendar all their own. There aren’t a lot of UN countries that can boast that.

But we can. Because Losar is ours.

And sure, some might say, “So what? It’s just a bunch of old rituals and an excuse for a lot of people to throw their money around and act silly.” It is true. But there are some among us who believe in the significance of Losar, of what it means to us, what it means to our parents, and what it says to the Chinese leaders.

Why are we creating this argument around something – celebrating Losar – that means a lot to some Tibetans, and not a lot to some people? It would be fine if the many impassioned activists among us resolved to not celebrate Losar because we didn’t feel right about it. But why dictate your absolutist convictions on the wider community that is already straining from the pressures of maintaining the language and culture in a rapidly homogenizing environment for their children?

The discussions in itself isn’t a bad thing – it’s an example of engaged minds butting heads – but when the debate boils down to accusing those that disagree of being “unpatriotic”, “uncaring” or “unsupportive”, that’s when you have to reconsider sending out mass appeals that have implications beyond just a call for political awareness.

Imagine if those at the helm of all of this issued a joint statement calling everyone to observe a moment of silence in memory of the so many that had perished and continue to suffer. Wouldn’t it be so much more engaging, inclusive and constructive to create programs and actions during Losar celebrations that use the energy of the people that have gathered, to have our various leaders speak out and raise the awareness and fervour of the crowd? Wouldn’t it be wiser and more prudent to use Losar as a high launching point for our campaigns in 2009? What better way to start the New Year off on a powerful note rather than with depressing notes about our state of exile?

Why begin the new year with a whimper?

And yet, because Tibetans inside Tibet have begun this movement, we are told of stories of this bizarre turnaround where Chinese authorities are now doling out cash and trying to force Tibetans to be joyous and happy. How much more absurd can this get?

Have we lost sight of the diversity of our community? Are we to believe that we should feel guilty and ashamed about celebrating something that is a significant part of who we are? Saying “NO to Losar” in 2009 makes as much sense as boycotting tsampa and butter tea because some Chinese company started manufacturing them.

Is there not a better, more articulate way of mobilizing the Tibetans other than telling us “it’s just a few days, get over it”?

Here’s an idea: let us have a day of Losar (either the first day or the third Sangsol day) as a remembrance day by holding a day of fast which not only symbolizes the shared suffering of Tibetans inside and out of Tibet, but also pays respect to those who have perished. We can use Losar as an example to educate people about the distinct features of Tibetan Losar; why Tibetans have a new year based on its own Tibetan Calendar for centuries and why we never consult the Chinese one. This would increase awareness, garner support and raise funds for further actions to serve the Tibetan cause.

Promoting our movement in a positive way will always succeed over issuing fragmented dictates that amplify the insularity of political groups, and subsequently disenchants the wider population that wants less and less to have anything to do with “politics”. The monopolistic and didactic approach defeats the purpose of what the Tibetan groups intended to accomplish with this campaign.

One of the more inspired actions during the brouhaha of the Beijing Olympics last year was when we created our own Tibet games. Did we hang our heads and turn the TV off during the 2008 games? No. We organized street rallies. We enlisted our own athletes and had them apply for visas to China so that they could participate in the Olympics and represent Tibet.

We didn’t even call for a mass boycott of the games, even though we had all the rights and reasons to. So we’re willing to be considerate towards foreign athletes but not to our own traditions?

If our goal is to help our brothers and sisters inside Tibet, then we have to think more strategically before making bold proclamations of what does or doesn’t help the cause. What helps our struggle is to make our presence felt wherever we live. What helps is sending articles to the general public about our upcoming Losar. What helps is inviting local dignitaries and media personalities to our New Year’s celebrations and to let them know that the Tibetans are holding special campaigns around the 50th anniversary of the Chinese occupation. What helps is finding creative ways to celebrate Losar meaningfully in the context of our history, issues and people.

What doesn’t help is alienating a large portion of the community and creating friction over the matter of whether we should or shouldn’t be having fun.

What doesn’t help is singling out a part of your identity and carelessly flicking it off in some misguided attempt to alleviate the suffering of those inside Tibet.

What doesn’t help is having knee-jerk reactions and thinking that they are an answer to our bigger problems.

What doesn’t help is trying to simplify your arguments by comparing the two different realities of Tibetans who live inside and out of Tibet.

What doesn’t help is calling people out to sacrifice something that ultimately turns out to be purposeless. So that, at the end of it all, not only do we have nothing to show for (except for resentment), but we also took away the chance for others to enjoy and have a good time in spite, and because, of the hard times.

And that last point is important. It is especially in times like these, when our outlook is bleakest, that we search and fight for the reasons that make us engaged, energized and alive.

Aren’t the joys of celebrating our identity something worth fighting for?

I certainly think it ranks up there somewhere between our right to self determination and our desire to have an independent Tibet.

We know that there is a lot of grief and anger over the recent crackdowns in Tibet. We know every time we wake up in Canada, and elsewhere, that we are spared from the grim reality of what our brothers and sisters face in Tibet. We know all of that and we must always resolve to change the situation for the better. But we ought to know how to do it in a way that promotes and strengthens our community, rather than polarizing it.

We must also know that Losar is the biggest event in our calendar. We know that Tibetan families everywhere prepare months in advance for this. We know about it from our own childhood: when we wouldn’t be able to sleep on the eve of Losar because of the sheer anticipation of eating khap sey, getting a year’s worth of pocket money, and slipping into new sets of clothes. We know of our visits to the temples, of offering our respects to our ancestors. We know of the so many merchants and shopkeepers who rely on Losar to start their year profitably. And so on, and so forth.

It is all of that.

And it has been that way for centuries. It’s a set of weeks that starts with a series of dances for getting rid of bad karma from the previous year. And it ends with prayers for peace and prosperity for all beings in the coming year. It is a humbling and beautiful way of harmonizing our resolve for peace, our need of festivities, and our commitment to our culture, traditions and language flourishing so that we can hold our heads up high in the face of an empire as oppressive as China.

Sometimes, like they say, you gotta make best of what you got.

And the best way, I believe, for us to help the Tibetans in Tibet and ourselves, is to show China and the rest of the world that we are a nation of free and united people, proud and alive – as emphatically as possible.

Therefore, in response to the call to say “No to Losar”, I offer a humble “No thanks” and a hearty “Tashi Delek.”

[I would be remiss not to thank my partner, Kalsang, for her initial idea about writing this piece, and for encouraging me along the process with her passion for her culture and country, and her quick wit as well.

And also to my friend and mentor Derek, for his advice and fine-tuning of my message.]

I just finished listening to a documentary about activist burnout, which aired on CBC radio’s “the Sunday Edition” program, last Sunday, Sept. 12. The reporter and producer of that episode was Frank Faulk, and he interviewed me among a bunch of other activists.

The title of the episode: Burning Bright. (It’s on the second hour.)

I hesitated telling people about this documentary, partly because I felt like it would be some self-flagellating way to talk about myself, and another because a lot of things happened after the interview that reflected and, in some cases, went against what I had talked about during my conversations with Frank.

And now after I listened to it — on CD because Frank so generously sent a copy to me — I still hesitate to talk about it because I sound like I’m talking with my nose pinched so out of touch … so presumptuous and naive.

Allow me to put some context to where I was at the time and where I was coming from:

At the time that Frank was interviewing me, it was in the heat of the Olympic build-up. It was the spring of 2008, which now seems so distant but was actually just a few months ago. Tibetans had just recently risen up openly against the Chinese occupation. News of monks being killed and protests happening all over the world were fresh in every morning news reports. Toronto was abuzz: we had just a couple of weeks ago staged massive protests not only in Toronto, the largest Tibetan settlement outside of Asia, but also in places like Vancouver and Ottawa. I was in the thick of organizing dozens of school buses packed to the doors with Tibetans from Toronto heading to Ottawa to protest on the Parliament Hill. It was unprecedented.

There was a lot of excitement, moments of despair and panic, relief and anger, uncertainty and hope. It was a time when a committee of five fairly disparate organizations came together under one committee in a show of solidarity to collectively meet the challenges and opportunities presented by the summer olympic spectacle.

And it was during these intense periods of organizing and strategizing that punctuated the stress that I was dealing with and which eventually led to a burnout; which was gradual, but which took a while for me to register. For the most part, when you’re in the middle of a storm, you don’t really have the time to take stock of what’s being tossed around.

But that’s not to say that everything was a constant moment of discombobulation or some burgeoning heap of responsibility that was put on me in an unfair or unsustainable manner. I mean, parts of it do bear some truth in retrospect, but there were also times when I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. There is a sense of camaraderie in a dizzyingly uncontrollable situation that makes you come alive. We weren’t quite in the trenches like I’m making it sound, but we did have daily meetings with a healthy dose of shoutings and fist-banging and briefings all thrown in the mix while the rest of the community pricked their ears on every action we were planning.

For me, it was unprecedented and a tad crazy.

And this would all have been fine — in a youthful, activist frame of mind. Every person who feels passionate about something must be willing to step into the heat of it. But then there are those details: those intimate, boring, annoying details of life that invariably seep into your existence and stick out not because they’re there but because they have to.

Like the fact that you have a full-time job. Like the fact that you work in an office and having the phone ring every few minutes because a reporter would like to speak with you is not a fair use of the office phone or space.

And how asking to temporarily put your work on hold while you deal with more pressing matters (and expecting your co-workers to understand) isn’t realistic nor okay.

Like the fact that you’re sleeping only a couple of hours every night for almost weeks on end and how caffeine isn’t the solution to a mild narcoleptic like me.

Like the fact that you have family matters to deal with, documents to apply and mail, and a whole stack of “to-dos” that just piles and piles.

Or like the fact that you may have your own personal inhibitions and doubts and insecurities and manifold other feelings that you feel must be swept aside for the good of the whole. And how it eats you from the inside to have these “feelings”, and you don’t know who to share them with, and you feel like your shoulder’s been burdened beyond what it can hold.

Because, of course, everything around me will have to revolve around MY perspective. And regardless of how you admonish yourself to think more selflessly, it just won’t do and you’re stuck in a swirl of existential and moral dugouts that don’t appear to have any opening in those moments.

And it’s just my long way of coming to my point: no matter how entrenched you may be in a movement, or how passionate you feel about something, there are those things that need to be addressed to, in addition to this big explosion of actions, that will sometimes throw a wench into your plans and mess it all up.

There are obviously a plethora of great people who have managed to succeed by sacrificing some aspect of their personal lives or mindset, but to a lesser moral like me, that was just one detail too many.

That was something which was so sad and humanizing about Frank’s documentary. It’s the stories of individuals who plunge into these waves of events and actions and attempt to shape the chaos around them into something less burdening and more beautiful for others. And sometimes they succeed and sometimes they don’t. And sometimes they fight on in spite of what the outcomes are, and sometimes we just crash and fold.

Or sometimes we just tell ourselves that we need a break and then repeat the cycle again.

But that’s the other thing: this all makes it sound like I was some weather-beaten, grizzled activist subsisting on caffeine and living in a community all by itself. Which isn’t the case at all, and which again bears a point about how I was initially unsure about even talking to Frank and later, talking to people about it.

There are people I know personally who have sacrificed far more, on a much deeper level, and they seem to be carrying on just fine. No one, of course, knows what goes on inside. But that’s not the point. The point is that there are way active people in the Tibetan community and beyond who’ve accomplished a whole lot more, and here you have this seemingly solemn, young kid waxing poignant about how tough he had it and how he’s contemplating about taking a reprieve and all of that shit.

You see where I’m coming from, right? If you’ve stuck with this posting so far, you’ll get a sense of how I’m always in the frame of catching myself. It’s a perpetual series of me trying to snap a picture of myself as I trip myself on a rock.

There are a lot of points that should ideally be addressed in a more meaningful and forthright way. But I suppose today is not the time and maybe I’m not the right person.

It’s a fascinating thing, this to do with self-consciousness and awareness. You weave this orb of thoughts and conceptions that at one point totally grew beyond your control, and now you are, for better or worse, feeding it while futilely attempting to make sense of it all.

It just grows on, and keeps on full steam. And sometimes when the orb’s brightest, you just burn out.

And you put yourself on hold, because issues always come up, personality clashes occur, and at some point you realize that not everything you do will be under your control. Or have anything to do with what you think is right. It hits you in the nose like you just walked into a glass door.

We have questions many, but consolations few.

N.B. Frank did a wonderful job with the conversations and the subject he dealt with. The stories are told in a heartrendingly personal way that sheds an illuminating light on activism and the lives of activists and the people they affect. I believe part of that reflects the warm way in which Frank conducted his interviews. It was personal without being overly sentimental. And it was brutally straightforward and honest. Something I aspire to capture if and when I plan to trudge behind storytelling such as his.

P.S. Not that it matters in any meaningful way, but at the time of the interview, it was outdoors and quite brisk. I was cold, had a cold, and midway through the interview, I was really holding my bladder. Again — not that it matters … mjussayin yknow.

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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If you’ve been living under a rock these past few weeks, or were a rock all along, then maybe you’d need to be told that there’s a mini furor going on down south. The U.S are currently in the midst of elections mania: two parties deciding who would be nominated for the winner-takes-all come November. Words like caucuses, primaries, campaign stops and polls (especially polls) are suddenly dominating the media again, on a nation-wide scale. There’s still nearly a year to go before it’s actually time to sit down to business, but if you’re a politics voyeur like I am — quite recently interested, truth be told — then you would be hard-pressed not to get a whiff of the craziness that has suddenly erupted in all the press, media, bars and blogs. Every American knows about the craziness, but perhaps only one candidate can have a legitimate claim, and an aptly titled popular movement, of having galvanized the voting mass: Barack Obama.

The title: Obama-mania.

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