Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

Stay steady that’s the rule of the book. You will not get wavered, but follow the scent of the swayed. I have a picture in my head of the wonderful days ahead, but they’re not. They’re not.

You can leave, you know? SFT will go on. There are some of us who are lifers. I think you need to see a therapist. That’s my suggestion.

Forgive the sins of the past, but don’t let them back to haunt you. So many presents in my insides, it’s so amazing. Yet all I’ve known is to disappoint them, and they do not take these presents lightly.

What have you got to show for? You’re out of college for most of it, and people don’t even seem to acknowledge all the time and effort you put into this group. What was the point of it all?

Do you make a purpose out of this life? Can you shape a cloud out of smoke and show them signs of desperation, euphoria and ennui? What gives and who takes?

But you know, there are some people in Parkdale who are white. So maybe we should consider that as well.

The alleys are dark and the pavement is slick with my desire dripping bit by bit. When it rains, it pours. When it burns, it burns. The sounds of the gutter will follow your footsteps into the unexplored and the unsteady.

Don’t tell me how to do my job for Tibet. If you haven’t burnt your finger in the movement, then please keep your thoughts to yourself.

We make hay out of the spoils of life. We make do with what we don’t. I own nothing. I belong only to your perception.

You don’t know how to garden? And you got hired?

There is a softness in here where you strike it feels like I’ve given into the force from underneath so that you can see me falling from all the way above.

When I tell you to do something, just fucking do it! Okay?!

Everyday feels like I have something to offer and something to take. But when I ask I have already refused your offer. Not because I’m humble but because I’m scared.

I think that Chinese lady is mentally handicapped. I tell her to do something and she just doesn’t listen to me. Is there anyone here who can speak Mandarin?

But I am a child, as are you, and as you fade so will my ignorance. I have bought a house by the cliff and the views are phenomenal. I just want to savour it before I bring it down to sea.

I disagree. I’d much rather engage people who can help this organization rather than the people who live in this community.

Hold the fort for the dead. Cry a slogan for you who passed away. Shed a tear for no one in particular. No one thinks of you in context anymore.

Who cares if we have a diverse board or not? It’s not like we’re going to put our pictures up online.

Do you carry the burden of those you care for? It’s a question that nobody does. It’s an act that everyone questions. The trick is not to question the unquestionable. The way is to answer it on your terms. We only love you. I’ve only known you for so long and so little.

I’m the boss here! Gelek listens to me. YOU listen to me!

I’m going to sleep because there is no seed inside the fruit inside the bowl. I’m going to sleep because I know you will be there for me.

We’ll start a group together, baby. We don’t need them.

Show a way. Be an example.

You’re okay, I guess.

“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.