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.]

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.

Read the rest of this entry »

[I realize that this is a touch late now that I think about it, but it begs to be written. It’s a culmination of having been privy to these perpetually baffling social ordinances of our little (quite sizable, actually) Tibetan community in Toronto. I don’t harbour any illusions of this being a particularly regional attribute, nor am I convinced that it is only symptomatic of Tibetan gatherings. What I know of, and muse upon, are only those that I have personally experienced and laughed about later. If it comes across as condescending, judgmental or negative, please grant me the luxury of doubt for the sake of humour. Tibetan parties are very, truly, fun. Come around one if you hear one's in your neighbourhood.

There’s a texture here that’s a shade unique, and personal to me, in some instances, but the overall picture remains constant: drunken people and bad music converging into a night of loose hips and looser wallets.]

If you’ve ever been to any Tibetan parties in Toronto, the first thing that strikes you, after you’ve cleared the entrance, before the crowd gets bigger, or even before the famous Mang-tso hits the floor, is the piquant reservation about the place. Regardless of any kind of venue, location or the organizers, it’s there; like a thick, all-encompassing drape, full of crossed arms and judgmental eyes. Any unsuspecting person who joins the party suddenly becomes self-aware of their arrival, as if they’ve just stumbled into the wrong wedding reception where the bride had just turned heel and abdicated the congregation: all eyes on the intrusive stranger, a little confused and quite annoyed. After a quick second’s existential quandary you naturally assume the “position” as well: blending into the low-lit periphery and corners of the main dance floor, surveying the characters and biding your time. You may take note of this lull in activities to grab yourself a drink, look around for familiar faces and just generally act inconspicuous. Nobody likes a showoff, and certainly not before the real party has begun.

The men are usually garbed in two distinct styles: semi-formal or street. There are variations and combinations for each of them; for example, a dude wearing a semi-formal pair of trousers can have a totally snazzy shirt on top with a pair of tattered sneakers below, or a guy wearing a baseball hat will have a suit jacket more suited for a courtroom appearance. There’s also a third, surging but less prominent style, which is that of a rocker/skater look: drainpipe trousers (sometimes torn at the knees) with converse shoes and a trucker hat. In all of the cases, you can, sort of, assess the employment aspirations and educational background of a person from his looks, and in some cases, determine if he’s single or at the party with a significant other.

There are exceptions of course, and I do not intend to portray such an obviously diverse field of Tibetan men into convenient pockets for dissemination. Fear not, bhumo-tso: your choices are many and varied. It must be said, though, that I feel a pang of disbelief every time a guy decked in a horribly mismatched and double-oversized assortment of bottoms and basketball jerseys, complete with a heavy compliment of silver chains, wrist bands and shiny earrings, manages to capture the fancy of a curious set of eyes. He must be really funny, I think. That or she has an unnatural capacity for street-tough posturing.

My only, genuine, regret is the absence of men in cowboy dresses. The guys, usually middle-aged or older, who were completely oblivious to the raised eyebrows at them and who actually felt bolstered by their outfit. They would have stamped their presence about them with an air of swagger and nonchalance that only a true pioneer from the prairies could muster. They enlivened an atmosphere like no other. They used to; not so much anymore. I have a sinking feeling that they’ve converted to the street look to compensate for the changing times around them. Shame.

The women are naturally, and by far, more interesting to look at. I can attest from experience that for the ladies, the dance begins far before the actual party has actually begun. They commit to a ritual that is time-honoured and bereft of any discrepancy in cultural differences: the arduous task of choosing from the wardrobe closet; the preening, huffed about way that they tend to their faces, the incessant calls to friends (men do that too) and the porous anticipation and excitement at the thought of strutting their heels and whisking the scent of their perfumes around them. Among many others.

When they get to the party itself though, there’s a sudden swerve in their earlier disposition. Inside the venue – with the colourful lights dancing around them, and the music banging off all sides – excitement gives way to ennui, anticipation to annoyance: eyes ready to roll at the slightest perceived threat or interest. With men, it transforms into similarly bored entropy, but with a touch of irritable possessiveness. In both cases, the air of reservation reigns supreme, and the look in both men and women is that of waiting for something to finish; like sleepy villagers in early morning standing in line to have their buckets filled up from the local pump.

The dresses that our women-kin (in the broader, Tibetan sense) wear are multi-faceted, and a lot more attuned to different styles rather than age, or employment/educational standing. The colours usually feature a dark shade in some form, and conservatism is the norm, rather than the exception. Then again, that can be attributed to the Tibetan society as a majority, as an outlook; and not just to the choice attires in parties for women. The jeans are tight, sometimes low-hip, and the tops accessorized by a dazzling array of jeweled necklaces, pendants, braces and shawls. The dresses, I have noted, are black most of the times. Full-length leather boots are parlayed for their aggressive, bold tendencies; and when the women sashay about the dance floor, watch out for the air of entitlement. It is a poor, intrepid but insipid soul who dares approach a girl without the choice permission of her eyes. I haven’t heard of any accounts of guys being kicked upside their behinds with those intimidating sets of boots, but I imagine that it must be most humbling.

Women are also the ones most likely to wear an actual chupa to a dance party. It is a sad and sobering commentary about our society that no one really thinks twice about ladies in traditional Tibetan garbs; but for men it would be a most unsavoury prospect – we who are horrified at being labeled as uncouth or worse: boring.

It should be noted though that the chupa is a lot more form-pleasing and attractive on a woman. For guys, even the most sharp and athletic looking stud becomes reduced to an ungainly bundle of layers – the slim look fat, the short become shorter. Only the most dignified, noble warrior from faraway times would manage to look proud in a setting such as this, and even he would’ve felt ridiculous every time he entered the men’s washroom just to pee.

And it should also be noted that it is usually the older women who can be seen in chupas time and again. They are derisively labeled as aunties, a term coined by the Tibetan community (here? further?) for women hovering around the middle-ages (or maybe even lower – it’s all relative). The men folks of similar ages are called uncles. Those are terms that I absolutely loathe; not only because they reek of crude and unfair classifications, but also because they’re so unimaginative. I’m sure we can find better replacements for Tibetan cougars and sugar daddies. Uncles and aunties just have this queasy, shuddering feeling of naïveté about them; the kind that recalls faint traces of inbreeding and unwanted relatives.

Back to the party: the lights are in a furor, people more or less milling about; but it still hasn’t hit its crescendo yet. The floor still remains, yawning and strangely intimidating. Sometimes it is so bad that you can almost imagine tumbleweeds blowing across it. But then, at the centre of the floor, a phantom appears: twisting and contorting its joints in an irreverent and almost awe-inspiring lack of finesse. Its phantasmagorical movements have a rhythm all its own, removed from the music and the place around it. There it goes: shadowboxing, grabbing its crotch, thumping its chest with one arm across it, shadow-roundhouse-kicking; all in a non sequitor, voluminous disregard for form, beauty or reason. It dances because, it just has to. Who is this enigma? Who is this figure that openly revolts against early-hours convention? Who is it that so openly mocks us, calling us out for our inaction and apathy?

His name is Mang-tso, or T.O.B, as he likes to refer himself, usually in third person; T.O.B being short for “Tibetan Original Blood.” I’m guessing his self-anointed title asserts his undisputed claim to legitimate Tibetan-ness, which sets an awkward standard for mixed Tibetans. T.H.B? T.Q.B? None of them have the ring of T.O.B, as he himself would prove beyond doubt by spitting such ill, memorable, street-certified rhymes as:

We T.O.B, we are cute
We have a dimple.
Look at you, you have a pimple.

Or,

Ra tat a tat a, ra tat a tat ah.
T.O.B Mang-tso need a glass of watah.

And he would offer these sorts of gibberish provisos unasked to anyone, irrespective of time, location, or relevancy. The Tibetan community of Toronto has a lot of personalities, but if there is one character that stands above all, one that breaks through the current of time, change and scrutiny, it is Mang-tso.

Even his name Mang-tso is just a nickname, bestowed by the Tibetans of Toronto for his ubiquity. Mang-tso is the Tibetan word for democracy, and even though he has yet to display any redeemable social skills, everyone knows about him. Every visitor in Parkdale gets to know about him soon enough.

There are countless numbers of stories around him, woven into the fabric of the community, as old as the late 90s settlers and as real as snow. Some are amusing, some tragic, and some just profusely stupid. But let’s not get waylaid by the stories. If there’s one constant theme to Tibetan parties in Toronto, as straight as the divide between men and women, and stronger than even the sepulchral dance floor of the early hours of the party, it is that of Mang-tso breaking the floor.

Let’s also not miss the fact that this guy will come to any party, all the time – bar none. I can’t ever recall one single party where I haven’t seen him gyrating his spines and spitting his rhymes at puzzled strangers. He comes usually attired in a loose shamble of oversized clothes, a baseball hat or a bandana wrapped around his head. Sometimes he has another piece of bandana around his mouth, to conceal his face (I think) which is a purpose defeated since almost no one fails to recognize him. He walks with a purposeful gait, with undulating shoulders and his head hung low, glancing at people sideways (sizing them up?) and mostly harmless. That’s his reputation in the community: eccentric and sometimes annoying, but mostly harmless.

And so goes this party maven; this dance-floor breaker. He isn’t a break dancer by any stretch of imagination, but he does carry himself like he just completed a ridiculous spin on his head. The way he strides towards the bar, exhausted and content, barely masking his effulgence. He seldom sits, choosing instead to lean on walls or tables. He almost always comes earliest, and alone. If there’s one thing the Tibetan organizations in Toronto can be thankful to Mang-tso about, it is his unfailing resolve to support all the various fundraiser parties in the community. He drinks too, but not to the point of incapacity. Most of the times, I should think. How else would he able to afford his extravagant dalliances otherwise?

There’s one more piece in this growing mantle of oddities: he rarely removes his over-sized, down parka. The place can be crowded, musky and dripping with sweat, yet he always has his huge jacket on.

And it’s always just Mang-tso being Mang-tso. Mostly harmless. People these days don’t even nudge each other when they see him getting tribal in the empty dance floor; not unless it’s someone new to town and not fully acquainted with Mr. T.O.B. Who knows, they wink mischievously, he might even serenade you tonight.

The real party, or more elaborately put, the time when the people start peeling off the walls and chairs, and hesitatingly – or enthusiastically, depending on the alcohol intake and popularity of the tune that just beckoned them to dance – enter the dance floor, varies a little from each party but usually starts picking its tempo up after 11 p.m. That is a fact. At every Tibetan celebration night, the mood of the event makes a marked upswing after a rush of bodies suddenly start pouring in from outside, usually two to three hours before closing time. Most people, for whatever reasons, are perfectly fine with their rationale of paying full price for only half of the event. Maybe their choice lies not in the quantity of the time spent, but the quality of it.

So, it’s not really because of Mang-tso breaking the floor and the dam of clogged feet along with it. It’s because Tibetans, at least the young, hip and socially wary, choose to come at a predetermined time of being fashionably late. Not that anyone would notice by this time of the night.

The role of DJing for all of the major Tibetan parties in Toronto is usually serviced by not more than four revolving lists of party anthems enthusiasts. They seem to be quite a populist bunch as well, from the nearly indistinguishable traits and preferences in their music played at every party. Some are a little quirkier than others; but overall, most patrons wouldn’t be able to discern one playlist arranger from the other without the advertised names. They just like the tunes, or they don’t (understandably). Barring any miraculous feat of total crowd captivity, the unfortunate DJ has to put up with muffled post-event assessments from unsatisfied disco aficionados more often than not. “DJ gaa-mas” is a popular sentiment at the conclusion of every dance.

So many possible improvements, so many people to please. The only consolation for a disc spinner is the free admission and the free drinks that he gets for his troubles. And yes, it’s always, unfortunately, a he. Always.

If you were perched from high atop a vantage point, or if you were obscenely tall, and staring down at the people on the dance floor, the moment the area starts to become more crowded, a curious and almost organic arrangement of shapes will take place. After a moment’s hesitation and confusion, a clear pattern emerges: crop circles. They form and break up sporadically, but the overall shapes persist. Partygoers encircling one another, staring at each other and not staring, shuffling their legs and bobbing their heads, almost reluctantly, while possibly imagining all sorts of lurid images in their heads about some other dance patron from a foreign circle.

There are smiles aplenty, of course, and sometimes people do genuinely want to dance. By themselves or in pairs. Usually couples and some eccentric folks (Mang-tso included, although not, hopefully, to his extreme). But I can say for certain that ninety percent of the people there are there to check the others out. It’s the same as any other dance party, and Tibetans are no exception to this.

I know I’ve done this countless number of times. Sometimes you would feel like you’re trapped in a circle, sucked in by its gaping vortex, and you would peer away from the hollowness, towards another circle; as if on the other side, things were much better, much livelier and a whole lot prettier. But you know it’s just misguided, infantile thoughts. That it’s the same story everywhere and nowhere is it more evident than in the circle in which you hopelessly pine for a smaller circle, ideally reduced to just two persons: you and that someone else.

Sometimes you do find that other person, locked in another circle and maybe hoping for the same thing as well. You lock eyes, then quickly look away, blushing and feeling slightly guilty for not feeling content about the group you’re already in with.

But then sometimes you do want to approach that another person, but then are not too sure if that one is attached to anyone else. Does it come tethered? Is it attracted to anyone else? Should I deploy emissaries to reconnoiter and determine the best possible route?

So many questions, so little time.

By the time the party winds down, long after the bar has closed, and the patrons begin to retrieve their coats and friends, you’re hit with the sinking feeling that you might just have wasted another thirty-odd dollars and four hours in a totally fruitless endeavour. Or maybe you don’t feel that way. Maybe you reason that, hey, it’s for the sake of our community. If CTAO/TWAO/SFT/TYC throws a party and needs my support, who am I deny them that?

It’s a roll of dice, usually, and a particular combination of drunkenness, music, atmosphere and attitude. Some of the times you feel great about having been there, most of the times you’re indifferent – meh. And then sometimes, like at the last New Year’s Eve party, when you’re not particularly drunk and the music isn’t particularly happening and you don’t really have the budget to buy the tickets in the first place and yet you manage to buy drinks for four people, somewhere deep inside your gut there’s an incessant clawing that reminds you the next day about how much you totally wasted your time and your money. You can’t help it. Yes, there was a large crowd, and yes, there were some people glad to see you there, and yes, yes you know CTAO absolutely deserved your money. It all leads to a big conclusion of “oh well.”

At the end of every party, there’s always a chance of some sad pugilists waiting to engage in some fisticuffs with some person that either inadvertently brushed against them or looked at them the wrong way. They usually huddle around the gates in groups, buoyed by the self-serving assurance of posse-wisdom and the detached cowardice of gang rushing. Most of these scourges are either recent high school dropouts, or perennial factory dwellers, but always young and stupid. The kinds that see fit to take their frustrations out on strangers or rivals at a time when merriment and congeniality are the flavours of the night. They don’t (can’t) see far, these poor insolents, far beyond the throbbing rage of their alcohol-induced anger, and frustration-fuelled animosities. Their insecurity is veiled by an overpowering sense of machismo, and an excruciating loss of humour and perspective. The angers don’t flare up as much as it used to previously, but it’s still there sometimes, quietly simmering under the hood of a reject, burning with the anger of youth and senselessness.

They don’t usually go beyond name-callings and shovings. It eventually gets broken up. Anger lies simmering and unfulfilled. For now.

At least Mang-tso just spits terrible rhymes. He was mostly harmless.

[Nov. 30, 2007] There was a swirl of flurries sweeping the road before we headed out, but I didn’t think much of it. The flakes were bit-sized, and quickly vaporized under the heat of car exhausts and steam from underground. As we descended on Bloor Street, a hauntingly beautiful show of wind and snow danced before us under the warm, tinted street lights. Traffic wasn’t as heavy as on a normal Friday night, drivers perhaps daunted by the cold and opting to stay indoors for the evening. We felt a surge of adrenaline, as is the case with the onset of most Critical Mass rallies. Our chests swollen and our bells ringing in furor, the sidewalk pedestrians gawked in bemusement at this troupe of cyclists cum activists riding in the chilly November night. We were making a point, damn it! And we wanted to show that come snow or rain, we were going to persist.

The guy with the trumpet was there, as usual. One of these days I’m going to introduce myself and compliment him on his ridiculous lung capacity prowess. But for now, I was just content with admiring him from afar. He blared away at all intersection stops, playfully trumpeting at car drivers. Holiday season was in the air and his tunes followed. The pack was steadily resembling a mass now, and we had yet to hit the ROM.

My garb for the evening was a basic courier getup: tights underneath my cargo shorts, a pair of arm warmers to go with my windbreaker and a neckgaiter. A couple of layers and that was it. My modus operandi was dress light and resistant to the weather. I also wore a pair of gloves that was meant more for having your hands inside a pocket than for being exposed to the frigid air on the handlebars. The weather forecast before I hit the tarmac was pegged at a little below zero. Slightly freezing but I figured that the insular pocket of climate within the city would bump it up a degree or two, and I naively estimated that the collective mass and exuberance of the cyclists would round up the actual biking temperature towards a balmy degree or another above freezing. I was set. And I looked like a hardcore cyclist, I vainly mused.

We turned at the corner of University, I think. I can’t remember clearly because I was too distracted by trying to have my gaiter cover my chin and mouth. As usual, a couple of corkers were stationed beside the sidewalk, thanking motorists for their patience and wishing them a good weekend. It is a noble endeavour, this play at politeness, to try and placate drivers who wouldn’t normally think twice about cutting in front of a cyclist and endangering the life of the person on the set of two wheels. We live in a contrived world where the so-called majority of car owners have to test their patience on that one Friday night when responsible and environmentally aware citizens demonstrate that it is okay to actually take the road on your bicycles.

To understand this tumultuous relationship between car drivers and cyclists in a metropolitan city such as Toronto is an effort of equal parts frustration and a deepening loss of faith in humanity. On the one hand you have cars: multi-tonne amalgamations of steel, rubber, plastic and oil. A moving island in itself, where all sorts of amenities lie at a person’s disposal — a force of humankind that reduces the culpability of a person to the trials of meeting appointments and hauling items over long distances. They allow us, simultaneously, to get from one point to another while listening to the radio, making a few calls, staying warm or dry (or cool), hold a cup of takeout coffee, and maybe even having the baby sleep in the back. It is a gift of Olympian proportions, this device of ours, and nowhere is it more evident than when you’re stuck in the freeway during rush hour. We tap at the wheel, let our foot off the gas and on the brakes and then on the gas. A friend of mine once remarked on how being in a car is like an extension of being inside the womb. We hunch in a fetal position, the seatbelt serving as the cord, and a flurry of emotions envelope us through the course of one trip. Panic, controlled rage, road rage, frustration, boredom, car sickness, happiness, contentment, drunkenness. It is rare that a driver is ever struck by the awareness of being inside a womb. And even if he is, that quickly snaps away the second that asshole cut into his lane. Temperament is a blinking sidelight: ready to be taunted and taunting at a moment’s notice.

And then you have the humble cyclist, often mislabeled as an overzealous and self-righteous crusader of the road. Imagine a city brimming from sidewalk to sidewalk with cyclists. A place where people on wheels could actually see each other’s face and acknowledge their presence with bell rings that would be construed less as a sign of impatience and more likely as that of camaraderie. On streets where the most serious collisions between bikes would normally result in a few scraps on skin and twisted wheels, rather than the hair-pulling grievance of dealing with seedy insurance companies over the most minor of dents. At street lights where pedestrians can feel safe about crossing the road and maybe catch a glimpse of a cute bike courier, zipping by in a blur as she hits one tower after another. Maybe this is all a heady, disillusioned, romantic notion of a fantasy land where people still tip their hats and paperboys announce the results of court proceedings beside the steps of the city hall. This isn’t productive or meaningful in any which way. But a person can still dream, can’t he? And when he’s in downtown riding along a bunch of other passionate, well-meaning “crusaders”, he has a reasonable excuse to drift away in a brief reverie before he gets hit by the immediate, face-punchingly obvious wall of cold on the last Friday of November 2007.

And it was cold. Remember how I wrote of the surge of adrenaline and swelling chests earlier? Well, that pride quickly gave away to numb fingers and jaw cracking cold. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but I certainly didn’t factor in the chilling propensity of the wind and the fact that we wouldn’t be riding hard, but more leisurely instead. No one would get a point if all they saw was a bunch of speeding cyclists catching their breath at every stop light.

And so we set at this pace, our bodies slowly getting hunched into ever which shape to conserve as much heat as possible. Due to the controlled speed, and the steady slope of Yonge St. southbound, we didn’t even have to pedal much, thereby further ensuring that we were generating as little heat as possible. Some tried shouting at random intervals, as if calling out the winter and yelling it back to its place. Some, like I, tried shaking it off. We’d flick our hands, tap our feet to the ground and stutter inchoate sentences every now and then. My estimate of the cold blowing against my face was somewhere around minus 20 degrees. That, my friends, is Canadian cold. That is cold that will freeze a pack of six and a lake. That is cold of the cold alert type: the ones that send EMTs into overtime trying to retrieve drunk, homeless people off from the street. That is the kind of cold that makes you really appreciate the people behind this Critical Mass who still try to rally their troop and promise a hot cup of chocolate at the end. That is the type of cold that would dissuade me from taking the car, let alone the TTC. Again, serious Canadian cold, that one is.

I would’ve even preferred a generous dump of snow over this dry, vacuous and almost evil breeze that was in the air. At least the humidity would have kept the wind chill at bay.

But throughout it all, I kept my head up high, gaiter covering my mouth or not. Because you know what: it’s worth it. It’s worth it to show people on the sidewalks that cycling can be useful and fun even on a night as ungodly as this. To show motorists that we won’t concede neither to their short-sightedness nor to the numbing cold. And it was all well worth it when you can finish the night off watching some free cycling documentaries while sipping a cup of donated, organic chocolate. I wouldn’t want my Friday night any other way.

And I still managed to look like a bad-ass cyclist through it all.

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.

I meditated for a few hours last night. I should do this more often. Especially so since there’s so many stuff that I need to clear away before the end of summer. The job, family, SFT and all the other extracurricular luggage that comes with them. Not that I’m complaining or anything. My job at Greenest City has been a truly wonderful revelation for me: both in terms of work experience, skills and the magnitude at which we are affecting the community around us. I can honestly say, in all my experience of working for a paycheque, I’ve never had people come up to me and just gush about the sheer positivity of our work. The people and the stories that they have to tell more than make up for the odd days of frustration and dead-ends.

Family is family. You miss them when they’re not around: the warmth of the kitchen, the convenience of just plopping on the sofa and not having to worry about groceries or phone bills… They start getting on your nerves for the littlest things the day after the 2nd week together. It’s a rickety ride that I still haven’t quite managed to steady past my adolescence, but I’ve been assured by more than a couple of people that it’s a completely normal occurrence, and that I shouldn’t be beating myself over about the miserable, ungrateful sod that I think I am.

And concerning my ever fluctuating dalliances with activism — a word I’ve sullied so often for the sad purpose of placating my dull inertia — I’ve started to get into the thick of it all again. I’ve been making a few calls and sending fancy emails around lately so it shouldn’t be too long before I find myself deluged with commitments even bigger than my head. Ahh … to be young and restless.

And all the extracurricular items? What of it, you ask. Oh what can I offer but, a feckless “the usual”, my dear reader. When I get around containing impulses, discerning moods, capturing hints and mastering the art of unrequited mirthfulness, then shall I have the means to fully enthrall you of tales tall and poppy. Perhaps you can offer a word of advice or two: maybe it’ll propel me forward to greener pastures or maybe it’ll just pass through my ears while circumnavigating my brain, as it is wont to do so in most cases. In any case, for now, you’ll have to settle for a measly “the usual”.

I undertook a yoga class for the first time a week ago and I must say that it left quite an impression on me. I’ve always viewed yoga as an overly mystified aerobics exercise buoyed into the mainstream by the excess media of west-coast lifestyle and shallow spirituality. I would imagine it to be another fickle, exotic fad that only the privileged can be bothered to bend over while the rest are left with some whimsical notion of eastern philosophy long ago gone with the flood. Which still holds true, in some ways. But it’s safe to say that I’ve gone over some of my initial squeamishness about the whole deal, and that learning to hold your breath while arching your back as far as you can is harder than it sounds. But my! Does it feel energizing or what?

Spirituality is another chapter of this maddeningly confusing manuscript of mine that I’m trying to reconcile with. Actually, “reconcile” would be an inappropriate choice of word here. Reconciling would imply that somewhere back then I had an affair or understanding with the nature of self that I somehow lost track of in the past. In fact, I have never even gotten anywhere near in terms of understanding the core concepts of Buddhism (my preferred “spiritual handle”, for now) and holding it in relation against my own existence and the existential conundrums of all the other beings in this universe. So, no — to learn, or rather, to commit would be more apropos. Humility has been a steady accrual in my personal ledger of wisdom and I ought to apply it in much more meaningful doses.

I’d like to think I know about Buddhism moreso than, say, the average Canadian. But I don’t think that’s true. I mean, indeed, I might know the Four Noble Truths and the Eight-Fold Paths and some other aspects of Buddhism, but really, can I honestly say with a straight face that I know Buddhism?

Here is what I delved on yesterday as I achieved an entirely minuscule and transient state of relaxation and contemplation:

My mind is a monkey. I’ll have to thank my dear father for having pointed that out numerous times. I’ve always cringed at his liberal use of clichéd (in my haughty state of mind, yes) metaphors, but now that I’ve deliberated upon it, it’s quite true. My mind is a restless, mischievous, cautious, over-zealous, wild, uninhibited, and insecure monkey. A thoughtless, aimless ape driven by the base instinct of just…living. A monkey that strays from one tree to another, swaying on branches, nitpicking with other monkeys, howling, screeching, biting, scratching, clawing. Always moving but never keeping still in one spot for however little time it can manage. I think about this monkey nature of mine and look back upon all my experiences and how I’ve dealt with people: how I’ve jumped to conclusions; been infatuated; disgusted; repulsed; benign; weirded; judged; welcoming; friend, brother and son. It strikes me as completely incredulous that never in one second of my being have I stopped to even consider taming this fickle self of mine. How, in moments of joy and despair, in grief and elation, have I had a chance to look back on my thought processes and examine it in an objective manner. How everything that I’ve taken for granted as my personality has been tainted by an omnipresent shade of guilt, greed, second-guessing, doubt and desperation. Insecurity has been gnawing away at my heels ever since I can remember but only rarely have I had the chance to look down and see how badly deformed my roots have become.

I realize that this may all sound pretentious to the nth level and you must have distended your optic nerve from all that excess eye-rolling. I also realize that the previous paragraph may prove to be offensive to primatologists or people who identify with our distant cousins as being beyond just academic subject matters. Be that as it may, I hope my attempt here at conveying my present state of mind is at least a little more clairvoyant than some other run-of-the-mill blog post or what-have-you. I can provide no satisfying conclusion to this rather meandering post, so you, dear reader, will have to make do with a cliffhanger of an ending — a term applied very generously out of context here.

I hope you enjoy this peculiarly mild summer that mother nature has bestowed upon us this year in thanks for all the burgeoning amounts of GHGs we so generously provide her with everyday. Lather up that sunscreen, baby! And mind your toes!

Driving along a seldom used back-road that suddenly leads into a vast stretch of farms and grasslands with an odd barnyard pockmarked here and there. Thanks, o Canada.

That cool drift that generally follows a quick storm on a hot, humid day. The smell of rain and the displaced dust helps too.

Being engulfed in the persuasive perfume of some mysterious passer-by on the side-walk. And as you distractedly turn to look back at the offending stranger, she drowns into the impersonal crowd, leaving you momentarily bemused at your own capacity for capriciousness.

Sitting through a crappy club and hearing the opening rift of a really good song, and looking at someone as you both realise it.

That rude gush of ice-cold water that remained in the shower pipe before the warm water comes out. Perks you right up even though you’ve been dreading it since releasing the tap.

That tilted, painfully intrigued look on a dog’s face as you test your whistling prowess.

The wonderful mounds and angles of a woman’s shape. Especially so when all they care to have on is a pair of jeans and nothing else.

Instantly connecting with a complete stranger and sharing a nefarious sense of humour.

Moving people with your writing.

Watching someone close their eyes in bliss and thoroughly enjoy a dish that you made while listening to some Stones’ tunes.

Really old couples sitting on park benches and soaking up the bustling life before them.

Going over an absolute mess of pictures from the day, getting progressively pissed at yourself, and then coming across that one single image that “just works” and had nothing what-so-ever to do with the day’s intended theme.

Dragging your feet against the knots of a well-made Tibetan rug.

Talking to sensitive, precocious little children about the arts and music.

Unexpectedly catching a really good song in an otherwise shitty, commercial radio station.

Mature yet casually stylish women in subway trains and cafes.

Oily foot massages … and taking turns.

Walking through a neighbourhood early in the morning, when the streets are eerily silent and you share nods with joggers and street cleaners.

Spending the whole night talking about everything under the sun and beyond with old friends and schoolmates.

That dull sensation ringing in your head when you’re pleasantly buzzed and you can finally ask that pretty girl for a dance without mulling over the disaster scenarios.

Everyone agrees that yes, we demand an encore and all involved shall heartily stamp the floor beneath them. And then the band shows up, obviously glad of the reception.

The awe in babies’ eyes as they crane their head back and stare at the mountain of a being that you are. And then laughter.

Finding yourself attracted to someone, in spite of yourself.

(what do you like?)

The notion of a bunch of genetically gifted men dribbling a leather ball for forty eight minutes – all for the singular purpose of putting the said ball through a metallic hoop while others try to impede aforementioned purpose; all the while getting paid an exorbitant sum of money while grown men and little children alike gasp, cheer, applaud and boo through the course of the ball being dribbled through either lengths of the wooden court and being put through the metallic hoop – is a notion that is met with either revulsion or indifference.

On one camp, you have the people who stipulate the virtues of the free market system in dictating how much a player should be paid for basically doing what millions of others do for recreational purposes.

On the other, you have understandably bitter critics: those who bemoan the state of a society that values an entirely over-inflated set of significance upon an assortment of superficial identities, grandiose egos and masochistic emotions.

And then there’s me: a sad member of an ill-fated entourage who willingly, for a few hours at least, let his state of being led through a wild ride of a hopelessly optimistic and ultimately futile pursuit. Yes, dear readers, what I’m referencing to here is the predictably unfortunate conclusion of a brief story of a local team that somehow managed to draw the brim and vigour out of this hollow and gauzelike epidermis of yours truly.

Yes, in spite of the fact that I openly revile others who scream and gesticulate at the TV screen for outcomes that they think could’ve (should’ve) changed if someone had done something else instead, yours truly was there among the best (or worst) of them: bits of spit on the TV screen and standing up at certain periods just because it is humanly impossibly to contain this surge of emotions sitting down. It is understood by some – those who can relate will even still probably disagree – that there is a nigh visceral urge to connect with the people in the TV screen just so you can get your point across. To reprimand them. To support them. And finally, to curse at them.

And yet, even with all the fallout of empty beer bottles and wasted spittle, one cannot help but look back on the ride that was and admire the way it all transpired. It eventually leads to a reverie where one realizes that it was indeed a ride worth getting into. And so, as the train finally reaches its destination (for now), the moment of introspection gives way to a semblance of yet another inexplicable but almost understandable gut feeling: hope.

Thank you Toronto Raptors, you of the 2006-07 team. You have made me feel “proud” for reasons that I cannot be bothered to indulge. May the trials and tribulations of what has past make you a force to be reckoned with in the next season of this so-called national basketball association, that which was invented by Dr. Naismith and perfected predominantly by long-limbed people of African heritage.

Thank you.

And oh, before I forget…

Asshole.

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.’