A Law That Closes a Door

On March 12, 2026, the National People’s Congress — widely regarded as a rubber-stamp legislature whose primary function is to formalize decisions made by the Chinese Communist Party’s Politburo Standing Committee — adopted the Law on the Promotion of Ethnic Unity and Progress. Set to take effect on July 1, 2026, the law represents a culmination — the legal codification of a policy of assimilation that has been building steadily since Xi Jinping became the President of China.

For Tibetans, Uyghurs, Southern Mongolians, and other “minority” communities across China, the law’s significance lies precisely in what it forecloses. Even as space for cultural survival and limited self-governance narrowed under Xi Jinping, it retained a theoretical existence — space that could be appealed to, negotiated over, or incrementally expanded. The 2026 law eliminates that ambiguity. It establishes a permanent legal foundation for the systematic assimilation of minority cultures, languages, and identities into a single, Han-centered Chinese national identity.

For the Tibetan leadership in exile, the implications are profound. Nearly five decades of diplomacy, dialogue, and calibrated compromise have been anchored in a single proposition: that meaningful autonomy within China remained possible. The 2026 law does not engage with that proposition — it forecloses, one by one, the very possibilities that proposition was designed to secure.

The Intellectual Roots of Assimilation

The 2026 law did not emerge in isolation. Its intellectual foundations were laid years before Xi Jinping came to power, in debates within China’s policy and academic establishment about the long-term viability of its approach to ethnic minorities.

As early as the 2000s, Ma Rong, a professor at Peking University, argued that China’s existing ethnic policies were entrenching divisions rather than building cohesion. He called for “de-ethnicization” — a deliberate shift away from institutionalized ethnic distinctions toward a unified national identity. These arguments were amplified by Hu Angang and Hu Lianhe of Tsinghua University, who in 2011 explicitly called for a “second-generation ethnic policy“ to replace regional autonomy with deep integration: the deliberate absorption of minority nationalities into a single Chinese identity.

This intellectual current found its political home under Xi Jinping. Since consolidating power in 2013, Xi moved China decisively away from even the limited cultural accommodation that had characterized earlier decades. In Tibet, this has meant expanding mass surveillance, restricting the Tibetan language in schools, closing private Tibetan educational institutions, and placing large numbers of Tibetan children in state-run boarding schools where instruction emphasizes Mandarin, Chinese culture, and loyalty to the Party. Religious institutions have come under intensified state oversight and China has been accused of Sinicization of religion.

For those watching Tibet closely, the 2026 law contains few surprises. Its significance lies not in what it introduces but in what it permanently forecloses.

The Middle Way and the Memorandum

To understand what the 2026 law forecloses, it is necessary to understand what Dharamsala, the seat of the Tibetan Government-in-Exile, spent decades building.

Each morning at around 4 a.m., the 14th Dalai Lama begins his day with tonglen (གཏོང་ལེན་) — a Tibetan meditation and mind training practice in which the practitioner absorbs others’ suffering and returns compassion in its place. In this practice, the 90-year-old Tibetan spiritual leader symbolically absorbs the hostility of the Chinese government and responds with compassion and a commitment to dialogue with his adversaries in Beijing. This ethic is not merely spiritual; it has shaped the political strategy of the Tibetan freedom movement for nearly half a century.

In the late 1970s, the Dalai Lama made a decision that would define the Tibetan freedom movement for generations: he renounced the demand for full independence. In its place, he advanced the Middle Way Approach (MWA) — a principled, non-violent path between the two extremes of outright independence and complete assimilation.. What Dharamsala sought was genuine autonomy and self-governance within China: Tibetan control over language, culture, religion, education, environmental protection, population migration, and local governance.

This position was shaped by two forces. The first was the Dalai Lama’s identity as a Buddhist monk, for whom non-violence and dialogue are not tactical choices but moral imperatives. The second was hard information from the ground — including reports from four fact-finding delegations sent to Tibet between 1979 and 1985. He also drew encouragement from Deng Xiaoping’s reported 1979 statement that “apart from independence, all issues can be discussed,” and from the relative openness of the early reform period in Tibet (1978-1987).

Even as that opening closed — most sharply with the crackdowns following the Lhasa protests of 1987–1989 — the Dalai Lama did not waver. International recognition and support, including the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989, did not lead him to escalate his demands. He continued to seek only genuine autonomy and self-governance.

Back-channel contacts, often facilitated by his elder brother Gyalo Thondup, eventually led to the resumption of formal talks in 2002. Between September 2002 and January 2010, representatives of the Dalai Lama and Chinese government officials held nine rounds of dialogue. The fullest expression of the Tibetan position came during the eighth round, in October 2008, with the presentation of the Memorandum on Genuine Autonomy for the Tibetan People.

The Memorandum outlined eleven areas for meaningful self-governance: language, culture, religion, education, environmental protection, natural resource management, economic development and trade, public health, public security, population migration, and international cultural and religious exchanges. Each reflected Tibetan aspirations to preserve a civilization with its own language, a distinct spiritual tradition, and a continuous history stretching back more than a millennium.

The Memorandum made no appeal to international law or the right to self-determination. It was framed entirely within China’s own constitutional and legal framework — including the Law on Regional National Autonomy — presenting genuine Tibetan autonomy not as a challenge to Chinese sovereignty, but as a call for existing legal provisions to be genuinely honored. Beijing rejected it as “independence in disguised form.”

What the Law Forecloses

The incompatibility between the 2026 Ethnic Unity Law and the Memorandum on Genuine Autonomy is not a matter of emphasis or degree. It is structural and total. The two frameworks move in opposite directions. Where the Memorandum seeks space, the law closes it. Where the Memorandum appeals to Chinese law, the new law rewrites what Chinese law means in practice.

• Language. The Memorandum demands Tibetan as the primary language in education and public life, as provided for in China’s own constitution. The new law establishes Mandarin as the dominant medium of instruction and governance, with Tibetan reduced to a marginal, secondary role.
  

• Religion. The Memorandum envisions Tibetans managing their own religious institutions and practices. The law reinforces state oversight and requires Tibetan Buddhism to be adapted to serve the interests of the state and Party.
  

• Education. The Memorandum advocates for local control over curriculum and language of instruction. The law mandates centralized ideological education built around Party loyalty and a unified national identity.
  

• Security. The Memorandum emphasizes local control over internal security. The law consolidates all coercive authority in Beijing.
  

• Migration. The Memorandum reserves Tibetans’ right to regulate demographic change within their homeland — a provision of existential importance given the scale of Han migration into Tibetan areas. The law actively promotes population mobility, inter-ethnic marriage, and ethnic “intermingling” policies that in practice accelerate the dilution of the Tibetan demographic presence in Tibet.
  

• External relations. The Memorandum insists on freedom to maintain international cultural and religious exchanges — connections that sustain Tibetan identity and keep Tibet visible to the world. The law subjects all external contacts to central control and frames minority communities’ international ties as potential threats to national unity.

On key areas that matter, the law moves in the precise opposite direction from the Memorandum. It does not narrow the distance between Beijing and Dharamsala. It eliminates the ground on which any convergence could stand.

A Strategic Crossroads

For nearly five decades, the Middle Way Approach has rested on a core conviction: that Beijing could be persuaded — through dialogue and compromise — to honor its own legal framework and accommodate Tibetan aspirations within it. The Memorandum remains the most comprehensive and legally grounded articulation of that conviction.

The 2026 law calls that conviction into question.

The Middle Way Approach remains a valid moral and political philosophy. Its commitment to non-violence, dialogue, and coexistence retains enduring relevance and commands broad respect and support — among majority of Tibetans and many in the international community including many in the Chinese community. But its principal operational instrument — the Memorandum — now confronts a Chinese legal order that explicitly forecloses the outcome it seeks. The prospect of genuine autonomy and meaningful self-governance has been formally and legally denied. China has now committed itself, in law, to precisely the outcome the Middle Way was designed to prevent: complete assimilation.

The implications are immediate and difficult:

• Can the Memorandum continue to serve as a basis for engagement when the legal ground it stood on has been legislated away?

• How can autonomy be negotiated when assimilation is codified as state policy?

• What does dialogue mean — and how can it be meaningfully pursued — with an adversary whose new law requires, in effect, that Tibetans cease to be Tibetan?

These are not questions that challenge the values underlying the Middle Way Approach. They are questions about how those values can find effective expression in a landscape that has changed dramatically and perhaps permanently. The Memorandum was an act of faith — that dialogue was possible, that compromise was achievable, that Beijing’s own laws meant what they said. The 2026 law quietly extinguishes each of those assumptions, one by one.

What Comes Next

The 2026 law does not merely constrain Dharamsala’s options — it demands strategic reassessment.

A constructive next step would be for the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA) to convene a Special General Meeting — bringing together Tibetan representatives from across the diaspora to deliberate collectively on the implications of the 2026 law and chart a future course. The last such gathering, held in Dharamsala in October 2019, brought together nearly 350 delegates to discuss the long-term vision for the Tibetan freedom movement and the relationship between the lineage of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan people. The challenges posed by the 2026 law are no less consequential — and they demand the same seriousness of collective reflection, and perhaps greater urgency.

The Middle Way Approach was conceived as a path between two extremes: independence on one end, assimilation on the other. China has now formally and legally committed itself to the latter. As a result, the foundational assumption underpinning five decades of Tibetan strategy — that genuine autonomy remains negotiable — appears increasingly untenable.

What Dharamsala does next may be the most consequential decision the Tibetan leadership has faced since the Dalai Lama first chose the path of dialogue and compromise over independence, nearly half a century ago.

Even now, my dreams often return me to the eleven joyful years I spent at St. Augustine’s School — an all-boys boarding school founded by the Roman Catholic Augustinian priests of St. Maurice’s Abbey in Switzerland. Perched in the hills of Kalimpong, in what is now West Bengal, the school was established in 1945 and stood in a town once known as the gateway to pre-1959 Tibet.

Among the roughly 250 boys who lived in the school hostel, many came from Bhutan, Nepal, Sikkim, and other parts of the eastern Himalayas. Coming from Dharamsala in Himachal Pradesh, I was among the few who had journeyed from the farthest reaches of the mountains — from the western edge of that great range to its eastern slopes. This distance meant I could go home only once a year, during the long winter vacation when school closed from early December to mid-February. During the shorter breaks, I either remained in the hostel or stayed with my local guardians in town.

One break was always the hardest — the two weeks from late September to mid-October for Dussehra and Durga Puja. For me, the journey home wasn’t worth it; it took nearly three days to reach Dharamsala. A small handful of us remained behind, huddled together in our near-empty hostel — homesick, restless, and bored stiff.

Books became my only companions. I devoured a stack of Hardy Boys mysteries and Louis L’Amour westerns, losing myself in worlds far from the desolate school buildings and the quiet hills. In my imagination, I traded my school uniform for a cowboy hat or detective’s trench coat, chasing outlaws across the desert or tracking clues through dark city streets — anything to escape the stillness of those long, endless hours.

In ninth grade, in 1984, even books no longer provided escape. As the annual Dussehra break approached, I was overwhelmed by homesickness. That year, I decided at the last minute to go home — without telling my parents, hoping to surprise them.

I couldn’t get a seat on the Tinsukia Mail — the main rail link in the 1980s connecting New Delhi with India’s far Northeast. I boarded at New Jalpaiguri Junction (NJP), excitement and nervousness churning inside me. The train was packed, every inch claimed by someone or something — bags, boxes, limbs, and lives pressed close. I stood for several hours near the lavatory, swaying with the rhythm of the train amid suffocating diesel fumes, sweat, smoke, and toilet stench, before finally slipping the TT (Traveling Ticket Examiner) a few extra rupees for a seat.

By the eighth grade, I had begun traveling alone — over 4,000 kilometers from home to school and back. One of my quiet coping mechanisms was buying a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes, occasionally Rothmans, before boarding. Whenever I felt scared, nervous, or overwhelmed, I would light one and take a slow drag. Somehow, inhaling and exhaling the thin curl of smoke made me feel steadier — less like a boy adrift among strangers, more like someone in control of his own small world, even if just for a moment.

My parents were surprised but happy to see me. My father served in the Department of Security of the Tibetan Government-in-Exile in Dharamsala, responsible for ensuring His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s safety and monitoring developments inside Tibet.

The vacation passed quietly, filled with comforting routines — familiar meals, familiar faces, and the slow rhythm of life in Dharamsala. All too soon, it was time to return. A few days before departure, I heard from Tenzing, a friend who studied at Dr. Graham’s Homes, another missionary school in Kalimpong. His father was also a senior official in the Tibetan government-in-exile. Tenzing suggested we travel together — a welcome idea, since the long journey would be far less daunting with a friend.

The train journey back to NJP was easier with Tenzing. Still, I bought a packet of Rothmans before boarding — by then, smoking on trains had become a ritual. It wasn’t the nicotine I craved, but the small comfort during those endless journeys. As we neared our destination, I would toss the half-empty packet into the trash can, a quiet farewell to a habit that never really took hold. Smoking was forbidden at school, and truth be told, I was never drawn to tobacco — only to the illusion that with each puff, I felt a little more grown-up, a little tougher, somehow more in control.

The train pulled into New Jalpaiguri on a grey morning in mid-October 1984. I traveled light with only a small backpack, while Tenzing wrestled with a heavy metal suitcase that must have weighed close to twenty kilos. Outside the station, buses, jeeps, and battered taxis waited to take passengers into the hills. Kalimpong lay just sixty kilometers away, but the winding, poorly maintained roads rose to nearly four thousand feet and took more than three hours.

The buses that plied the NJP–Siliguri–Kalimpong route had names as colorful as their paintwork — Blue Bird, Crown, Mayalu, Paragon, and Shradhanjali. Tenzing and I climbed aboard a smaller bus with about forty seats. Only a dozen passengers boarded initially, but we knew more would join at Siliguri — the bustling North Bengal city ten kilometers away and gateway to the hill regions of Sikkim, Darjeeling, and Kalimpong.

The scheduled 9 a.m. departure came and went with no sign of the driver or conductor. After nearly an hour, the conductor finally appeared and, speaking in Nepali, muttered something about a roadblock ahead. His tone was vague — clearly he had little information. In those days, the most reliable app for long-distance communication was word of mouth, and even that could be shaky. Someone had apparently told him about the road situation, but there was no way to verify it.

Another hour passed. I grew uneasy; both Tenzing and I were supposed to be back at our schools by five that evening. Around us, other passengers grew restless, voices rising. After several heated exchanges that nearly became an argument, the conductor gave in, shouting for everyone to board. With a groan of the engine, the bus pulled out. As we left, the sky darkened, and light rain began to fall — a faint but unmistakable omen.

National Highway 31A — now renamed NH10 — has long been the lifeline connecting the hill districts of Darjeeling and Kalimpong and the sensitive border state of Sikkim with the plains of North Bengal and the rest of India. For much of its length, the road winds dramatically between steep gorges and the restless Teesta River, which rises high in the Himalayas of North Sikkim before cutting south through West Bengal and into Bangladesh.

The Teesta I remember was wild and untamed— its waters surging with a force that seemed to command both fear and reverence. It swept away everything during monsoons, yet sustained life, providing water for drinking, irrigation, and power for millions. In the early 2000s, however, the construction of large dams began to tame its ferocity. The projects altered its natural flow, disrupted fragile ecosystems, and increased flooding risk downstream. The once-mighty Teesta, which had roared freely through the mountains during my childhood, was transformed into a series of controlled reservoirs — its spirit, like so much else in the hills, subdued in the name of progress.

A long stretch of NH10 runs along the Teesta’s banks through terrain infamous for landslides. The General Reserve Engineer Force (GREF), a branch of the Border Roads Organisation (BRO) under the Indian Army, was tasked with maintaining this vital national artery. Every monsoon, the mountains shifted and crumbled under torrential rain, burying sections in mud and rock. Each year, GREF crews worked tirelessly — clearing debris, rebuilding broken stretches, and battling against time and weather to keep the highway open, the hills connected, life moving.

Our bus, now carrying around thirty passengers, began making up lost time, and my anxiety about missing the school deadline slowly eased. For the first time that morning, I relaxed, and took in the view of the Teesta bordered on both sides by thick deciduous forest. The school was known for strict discipline — late arrivals after vacations were rarely excused — and the thought of facing the principal’s disapproval had kept me on edge.

About an hour into the journey, the bus lurched to a stop. Ahead stretched a long line of parked vehicles — trucks, jeeps, buses, their engines idling or turned off in resignation. The conductor hopped out to investigate and returned with grim news: the road ahead was closed. We were at Sethijhora, an area notorious for landslides. Over the next two and a half hours, we received at least three updates, none offering change. My earlier calm evaporated, replaced by gnawing anxiety.

I stepped out a couple of times to see for myself. A few bends ahead, GREF workers were clearing a massive landslide, bulldozers and excavators grinding away at mud and boulders that had swallowed the road. Close to one in the afternoon, the conductor made his announcement: the bus would turn back to Siliguri since no one knew when the road would reopen. Those who wished to stay would have to fend for themselves.

Most passengers climbed back aboard for the return trip. Only about ten of us — Tenzing and I among them — decided to stay, stranded between river and mountain, waiting.

We waited for another hour, but nothing changed. The air was thick with the smell of diesel and damp earth, the steady thrum of machinery the only sign of progress. A few local passengers, traveling light with just small bags decided to climb the hillside and cross the blocked stretch on foot. Tenzing and I had no such option — his heavy metal suitcase made it impossible.

The longer we sat there, the more restless I became. Each tick of my wristwatch felt louder, each passing minute a reminder that the 5 p.m. deadline was slipping away. Finally, unable to bear the helpless waiting, I blurted out a half-baked idea — something so impulsive and desperate that even as I said it, I knew it was reckless.

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Though Tenzing and I were roughly the same age, I was bigger, so my “brilliant” idea — which, in hindsight, was really a death wish — was that I would carry his suitcase while we made a run for it. We waited for a lull in the clearing operation, watching as the bulldozers paused and the workers stepped aside to rest. Then, seizing the moment, we made our move — a mad dash across the churned-up stretch of road while no one was paying attention.

What I hadn’t bargained for was the mud. The entire section was a thick, soupy slush — the kind that swallows your shoes and refuses to let go. Each step forward felt like an act of will, one foot sinking as I fought to pull the other free. The suitcase felt heavier by the minute, weighing me down like an anchor. The other side was only about a hundred meters away, but it might as well have been a kilometer. Every step felt slower, heavier — as if we were running inside a nightmare where escape was just out of reach.

I don’t think I’ve ever prayed harder in my life. To my left, massive boulders hung precariously on loose, rain-soaked soil, ready to tumble at the slightest shift. Below us, the Teesta roared — swollen, brown, and furious — as if mocking our stupidity. We made a quick, desperate decision to stay closer to the river’s edge so that if the mountainside gave way, we could at least try to leap into the water.

We were barely a quarter through the quagmire when the GREF soldiers realized what we’d done. What followed might have been comical under other circumstance — soldiers at both ends of the landslide waving their arms wildly, shouting at us to come toward them. Retreat was impossible. So we pressed on, each step an act of sheer will, mud sucking at our legs, the suitcase dragging me down like dead weight.

Then, as if the situation needed more drama, the dark clouds began to drizzle again, turning the muck into a treacherous paste. By the time we stumbled to the other side — soaked, panting, caked in mud — a senior GREF officer was waiting. He looked like he wanted to slap us — though perhaps only fear and relief held him back. We must have looked utterly ridiculous — two bedraggled schoolboys who had just flirted with death for a reporting deadline.

We went straight to a nearby stream to wash off the mud. The full weight of what we had just done — and how close we’d come to disaster — hadn’t yet sunk in. We had barely peeled off our wet socks when the ground beneath us began to tremble. A deep, rolling rumble filled the air, rising like thunder from inside the mountain.

I turned toward the road we had just crossed — and watched, in stunned disbelief, as it disappeared. Within seconds, the entire stretch collapsed in a violent cascade of mud, rocks, and uprooted trees. The avalanche roared for several minutes, powerful enough to choke off a section of the Teesta itself.

For a long moment, I couldn’t move. The tiny hairs on my neck stood upright, and a chill ran down my spine. It struck me then — with the clarity of lightning — that if we had been even two minutes slower, neither of us would have lived to tell the story.

Even now, whenever I hear the low rumble of thunder rolling through the hills, I think back to that day — when the mountain moved, and somehow, we made it across.

In March 1970, the holy ground of Thekchen Chöling in Dharamsala was transformed into a vast gathering place as approximately 30,000 Tibetans from India, Nepal, and Bhutan assembled for the first Kalachakra teachings conferred in India by His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. The Kalachakra, or “Wheel of Time,” initiation is one of the most significant and complex of all Tibetan Buddhist Tantric empowerments, traditionally extending over ten to twelve days of preparation, teaching, ritual and initiation.

My mother and I were among the many pilgrims who attended, having traveled from Chakrata, a military town located about 435 kilometers southeast of Dharamsala. I was not yet three. My mother, now 88 years old, is deeply religious, like most Tibetans of her generation, and holds a set of beliefs, a few of which, can verge on the superstitious.

Toward the end of the teachings, she encountered an incident that unsettled her. As we sat tightly packed among thousands on the teaching ground, a woman stepped over me while trying to pass through the crowd. My mother immediately grew anxious; she believed that stepping over a person seated on the ground was inauspicious and could bring misfortune.

Her fears seemed realized when I came down with a fever the following day, forcing us to return home before the conclusion of the teachings. Even more troubling – though my mother could never prove any connection to the Kalachakra incident beyond a mother’s strong hunch – was what followed. The fever gave way to febrile seizures, some mild, others terrifyingly severe, that came and went over the next three years, causing my parents immense distress.

The seizures dominated my life. Since my father was away most of the time for work, he rarely witnessed my convulsions – my limbs stiff as a rod, my body burning with fever. We sought help from every direction: doctors, healers, and lamas. My mother had respected teachers perform several rounds of mo (divination) and held shabten (prayer ceremonies) at home, praying for my recovery. My parents had me wear amulets and sacred threads around my neck to ward off harmful spirits. One high lama even gave me a new name and instructed my parents to dress me only in yellow.

One weekend morning, my father came home with a guest – the legendary Major General S.S. Urban, commanding officer of Establishment 22, where my father served. General Urban was a Sikh gentleman, and to borrow a Trumpian turn of phrase, he was “central casting.” I’m sure the General’s imposing presence and unexpected arrival had little to do with what happened next, but barely had he begun sipping his tea when I collapsed under the force of another convulsion.

After being briefed on my condition, the General recommended that I see his guru, Sri Sri Sitaramdas Omkarnath, whom he affectionately called “Baba”, who had an ashram in Rishikesh.

I had one darshan (audience) with Baba ji. He was a renowned spiritual figure who traveled widely across India and was constantly surrounded by devotees. After the initial consultation, he instructed that I visit his ashram every four to six weeks to meet with his staff. What I remember most vividly were the tiny pills he prescribed – small white pellets kept in slender glass vials. They resembled little pearls and had a sweet taste, which made taking them enjoyable. I was also placed on a strict vegetarian diet for the next two years.

My poor mother bore the brunt of my temper tantrums over the dietary restrictions. In a family that ate meat daily, she had to devise elaborate schemes to keep me compliant. She would feed me first, then send someone to take me out for a walk while the rest of the family sat down to eat. By the time we returned, she would have aired out the kitchen and dining room so that no trace of the meat’s aroma lingered. But I had a keen sense of smell for a three-year-old, and more often than not, I could still catch the faint whiff of momo or meat curry that my siblings and others must have so deliciously enjoyed while I was given vegetables and potatoes. I was quite a handful, and in managing me, my mother had to draw on a deep reservoir of patience she perhaps didn’t even know she possessed.

The cantonment town of Chakrata sits perched at about 7,000 feet, while Rishikesh, on the banks of the Ganges, lies roughly 130 kilometers away. The first stretch of road – about 44 kilometers from Chakrata to Kalsi, another cantonment town – wound through steep mountain terrain along a narrow, one-way route. Traffic from both ends moved in convoys at alternating intervals, which meant travelers had to plan their journeys carefully around the convoy schedule.

It was time for yet another visit to the ashram in Rishikesh. That morning, I waited for my father near the convoy departure point while he stopped by his office. We had planned to leave with the early morning convoy. The journey and the consultation typically consumed the entire day, allowing us to return just in time for supper.

As departure time approached, engines rumbled in the crisp mountain air. My father was, as usual, running late – but normally he would appear just as the military police at the gate began signaling for the convoy to move out. This time, however, there was no sign of him. The minutes ticked by. The gate opened, the vehicles rolled forward in formation, and the convoy departed – without us.

About an hour later, my father’s jeep finally pulled up. The military had recently issued him a brand-new vehicle: an earth-colored Willys CJ-3B, produced under license in India by Mahindra & Mahindra. Compact and sturdy, it had two open doors in the front and a narrow seat behind for two passengers. My father jumped out, offered a quick apology, lifted me onto his lap, and we sped off. Military vehicles were exempt from the convoy system and could use the road at any time.

I’m an uncle now to an adorable nephew and niece, ages three and one. Their father would probably have a heart attack if he ever saw how we traveled that morning. There were four of us in the jeep, and not a single seatbelt among us. The vehicle, though rugged, had none of the safety features that come standard in today’s cars – no airbags, no restraints, nothing but faith in the driver and a firm grip. My father had me seated on his lap in the front seat, my small hands clutching the metal hand bar in front. He placed his large hands over mine, and together we held on tightly as the jeep roared down the winding mountain road.

We were probably doing over 80 kilometers an hour. The driver, perhaps anxious to make up for lost time, pressed harder on the accelerator as the narrow road snaked downward. Then, around a sharp bend, everything changed. Out of nowhere, a utility truck – also exempt from the convoy system – appeared, climbing uphill in our lane. The driver, in a desperate act of self-preservation, jumped from the moving jeep, leaving the rest of us hurtling forward.

The mountains erupted with the screech of twisting metal and the explosive crack of shattering glass. The impact threw me forward. The windshield shattered, and tiny pieces of glass rained across my face. Tiny fragments embedded in my cheek; others cut across my father’s temple. I remember the metallic taste of blood and the ringing in my ears that drowned out every other sound.

When I turned, dazed and crying, the man seated behind us was slumped forward, his forehead split open from the force of the blow against the metal frame of our seat. I could see white bone beneath the blood. It felt unreal – like time itself had paused in that thin mountain air, holding us between life and death.

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My father’s firm grip on me, and the fact that we were both holding on to the metal hand bar, saved us from being flung through the windshield. Other than the cut on my right cheek, I was miraculously intact. My father wasn’t as lucky: blood trickled down from a gash at his temple, and both his knees were damaged, injuries that never fully healed.

When we stumbled out of the wreckage, our driver was sprawled on the ground, clutching his legs and moaning in unbearable pain. It was a performance worthy of a Best Supporting Actor award. Beneath the theatrics, though, I could see the fear in his eyes, as he was probably thinking of what kind of punishment awaited him for abandoning the wheel.

We were extraordinarily fortunate. The jeep hadn’t flipped on impact, even though the crash site overlooked a steep valley that would have swallowed us whole. The rugged build of the Willys CJ-3B had likely saved our lives.

The jeep was so badly mangled that the front section, including the engine, had crumpled inward and twisted slightly to one side. The steering wheel jutted out grotesquely, bent at the edges. Later, the wreck was towed to Kalsi, where Establishment 22 maintained a major auto repair workshop, but the damage was beyond repair. The mechanics could do little except strip it for parts. In the end, the military had no choice but to consign the vehicle to scrap.

The utility truck we had collided with was a Tata lorry loaded with heavy telephone cables. Aside from a small dent on its front bumper and a few bent flag poles, it had sustained only minimal damage. Though the accident had clearly been our driver’s fault, the men in the lorry looked more frightened than angry when they realized they had collided with a military officer’s vehicle. They stepped out quickly, apologizing profusely, and began helping in whatever way they could.

We had no proper first aid supplies, but the lorry driver improvised a crude, if painfully effective, remedy to stop the bleeding. He dipped cotton balls in petrol, set them alight, and pressed the small flames onto our open wounds to cauterize them. The searing sting is something I still remember. A few hours later, word finally reached army headquarters, and a rescue vehicle was dispatched to take us to the military hospital for treatment.

That night, lying in a hospital bed with my face bandaged and my father resting nearby, I remember staring at the ceiling and feeling, not in words but in the vague awareness a child possesses, that something immense had brushed past us and moved on. It would be years before I understood it as the second time death had come close, looked me over, and turned away.

The wounds eventually healed, though even weeks later, my mother would still find tiny shards of glass in the cut that became a faint but permanent scar on my cheek. My father received a new jeep and a new driver (the old one escaped with nothing more than a stern reprimand). Later, when I asked him what kind of vehicle he had been given, he said it was the same model as the one destroyed in the crash. I told him, with all earnestness a child can muster, “Pala, you should get a Shaktiman instead.” The remark drew a quiet smile from him.

(Shaktiman trucks were widely used by the Indian armed forces but were finally phased out in the late 1990s.)

Introduction

It was the winter of 1969, and twenty-seven Tibetans found themselves swallowed by the vast stillness of the North Maine Woods, working as lumberjacks for the Great Northern Paper Company. To them, it might as well have been another planet. Around them stretched an endless forest of hemlock and spruce – trees whose soft fiber fed the paper mills owned by their employer. The whirring of chainsaws against frozen wood, the humming of tractor engines, and the moan of winter wind were their constant companions. The nearest settlement was Portage Lake, a small town in Aroostook County fifty miles away, which served as their temporary refuge from the wilderness.

The ground lay buried under four to six feet of snow, and the mercury hovered at minus eight Celsius. Everyone worked in double-layered gloves, their breath freezing in the air as they handled saws and hauled wood. The labor was unrelenting: felling towering spruce and hemlock, loading the trunks onto sleds to be hauled to piling grounds, then cutting the logs to uniform lengths and stacking them into cords – neat piles measuring four feet by four feet by eight feet.

Each cord demanded the strength of a three-man team, and on most days the men managed six. At $7.50 per cord, the pay worked out to about $15 a day for each lumberjack. It was hard, cold, backbreaking work — work that few, had they known what awaited them before leaving India, would likely have chosen.

How did this small group of twenty-seven Tibetans – and their families – find themselves more than 13,000 kilometers from Dharamsala, India, where they had been living as newly arrived refugees from Tibet?

Two Paths to America

The Maine group was one of two distinct groups that together constitute what could be described as the Tibetan Mayflower moment. The first arrivals in 1960 – the Seattle Group – were Tulkus (high lamas) and members of Tibet’s aristocracy, men of learning, privilege, and influence. The Maine group, by contrast, were ordinary Tibetans from working-class backgrounds, unaccustomed to wealth or status. They came in two batches: the first six in 1967, followed by twenty-one more in 1969. Their contexts and opportunities in America were worlds apart. Different as they were, both groups shared a journey of exile, courage, and hope. Together, they forged the first chapters of Tibetan settlement in the United States, planting roots in a new land as pioneers of a community yet to be imagined.

Through a remarkable turn of fate, both groups eventually found their way to the Pacific Northwest, where they laid down roots. This is the story of that unlikely convergence – how monks and aristocrats, lumberjacks and ordinary Tibetans, all became part of a single narrative that grew into one of the most vibrant and successful Tibetan-American communities in North America.

Geshe Ngawang Wangyal: The Pioneer

Any account of early Tibetan arrival in America would be incomplete without acknowledging Geshe Ngawang Wangyal, a Kalmyk Tibetan Buddhist monk affectionately known to Tibetans as Sogpo Geshe la. He came to the United States in 1955 and, just three years later, established the first Tibetan Buddhist dharma center in the West. The center still stands today, a living testament to his vision.

Geshe la, who received his Geshe degree from Drepung Gomang monastery in Lhasa, was a pioneer in bringing Tibetan Buddhism to America. He not only sponsored visits by many Tibetan Buddhist teachers — helping them learn English and share teachings — but also nurtured the first generation of American scholars of Tibetan Buddhism, among them Jeffrey Hopkins and Robert Thurman. These well-known students in turn created a second generation.

The late David Urubshurow, a Kalmyk Mongolian American attorney, and strong supporter of Tibet, captured Geshe la’s remarkable life in a profile published in Tricycle magazine. In addition to his role in the Dalai Lama’s escape into exile, Geshe la was instrumental in making possible His Holiness’s first visit to the United States in 1979. At the time of his passing in 1983, he donated his building in New Brunswick, NJ, to His Holiness. The proceeds from its sale went towards the purchase of a New York building that would go on to house both the Office of Tibet and the Tibet Fund.

The Tibetan Lumberjacks

The Great Northern Paper Company, one of the leading players in the American paper industry during the 1960s, faced serious challenges in recruiting lumberjacks to work its vast timberlands in Maine. The work was grueling, the pay and benefits modest, and the conditions harsh, making it difficult to attract American workers.

Around this time, Dr. Ernest Dale, a professor at the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania, suggested an unconventional solution. Having encountered Tibetan roadside laborers during his travels in India, he proposed bringing Tibetan workers from India to Maine. Acting on this idea, the company reached out to the Office of Tibet in New York, which in turn coordinated with the Central Tibetan Administration’s Department of Home. Through an open application process, 27 Tibetans – mostly single men in their twenties – were selected.

The first group of six Tibetans arrived in New York in early July of 1967. The Great Northern Paper Company picked them up in a helicopter and flew them from the airport to the top of PanAm (now MetLife) Building where a press event was held on July 6. The event jointly organized by the Office of Tibet and the company, with the late Kungo Phintso Thonden la, the Dalai Lama’s Representative, speaking on behalf of the Tibetans. The event attracted considerable coverage in both New York and national media. The second group of 21 followed two years later, arriving in Boston on September 3, 1969, after the company was satisfied with the performance of the first recruits.

The Tibetans were employed on two- or three-year contracts. The company sponsored their employment, including Green Card applications, while workers repaid the cost of their airfare and other expenses through wage deductions. Each contract began with a 10-week training program in chainsaw use, wood cutting, tractor driving, and safety procedures. The new employees were also taught English, as language was a major barrier. They earned $1.30 an hour, with additional pay tied to productivity, and typically worked nine to ten hours a day, five days a week. During the workweek, they lived in bunkhouse-style lumber camps, where a company cook provided hearty meals. Most of their fellow workers were Québécois Canadians.

In the early years, the Tibetans also had to learn how to handle Percheron draft horses - massive animals weighing over 700 kg and accustomed to French commands - for hauling logs. Increasingly, however, this work was replaced by mechanization, with timber skidders taking over as the company modernized operations. They also had to take good care of their chain saws as all costs related to repair and maintenance had to be paid by the employee.

The company permitted spouses to join the workers in Maine. Four of the lumberjacks were married, while another married his partner who was already in the country. The married men later had their wives join them. Before long, a small settlement known as “Tibetan Village” emerged in the town of Portage Lake, where the loggers and their families lived. The men spent weekends there, returning to the lumber camps during the workweek for their physically demanding routine of cutting, hauling, and stacking pulpwood.

Although the community offered companionship and support, life remained difficult. Most of the Tibetans spoke little or no English, and as the only non-whites in one of the whitest states in America, they attracted considerable attention from the local population. The weather in winter was unbearably cold. Financially, their situation was precarious: after paying for rent, utilities, food, and other essentials, there was little left to save, and for some the pay wasn’t enough to cover expenses, forcing them to do part-time work on weekends. When the wife of one logger gave birth to a daughter, the Tibetans pooled donations to cover the family’s medical expenses, as the family did not have insurance – an expression of solidarity, but also a reminder of the hardships they faced.

At the time, the Tibetan government-in-exile’s annual voluntary contribution program – the Green Book Chatrel – had not yet been introduced. The idea for the program was only proposed later, at the General Assembly meeting of the governing members of the Tibetan Freedom Movement in Dharamsala on July 30, 1972. Nevertheless, the lumberjacks and their families made voluntary monthly donations of $1 per person, which were sent to the Central Tibetan Administration’s Department of Home through the Office of Tibet in New York.

In 1970, Great Northern Paper merged with another company and came under new management. By 1971, business had begun to slow due to rising competition and other challenges. As the initial contracts expired, the Tibetan lumberjacks either left on their own or were released by the company. Some moved to New Jersey, New York, and California, but most headed to the Pacific Northwest. This shift was largely influenced by Don and Kareen Messerschmidt of Oregon, an American couple who had visited the Tibetan workers in Maine and developed close friendships with them. They encouraged the Tibetans to relocate west and helped them find jobs. Kareen’s father, who owned a lumber company in Oregon, was able to employ several of them. Those who secured work – many again in the lumber industry – extended invitations to others, creating a chain of migration.

By the mid-1970s, the majority of the former Maine lumberjacks had resettled primarily in Oregon and Southwest Washington, where they established a new community known as the Oregon and Southwest Washington Tibetan Community. It was a second landing of sorts, as if the Mayflower had sailed on from Maine to the Pacific coast, carrying its Tibetan passengers toward a more enduring home. Their experience as lumberjacks in the remote forests of Maine, though marked by hardship, became the unlikely first chapter in the story of Tibetan settlement in the United States.

The Rockefeller Foundation and the Seattle Group

While the lumberjacks were carving out a hard life in the remote forests of Maine, another Tibetan community had already taken root in the Pacific Northwest, thanks to the Rockefeller Foundation, whose funding enabled the Seattle group of Tibetans to come to the United States in 1960.

Tibet – its history, culture, and mystique – has long captured the imagination of Americans. By the early 20th century, Tibetan Buddhism and art were beginning to fascinate a growing number of collectors, scholars, and spiritual seekers. Adventurers like William Montgomery McGovern brought Tibet closer to the American imagination. His 1924 book To Lhasa in Disguise, recounting his daring journey and audience with the 13th Dalai Lama, received wide coverage in the American press. Tibet’s remoteness and aura of mystery only heightened the fascination.

When the Chinese invasion and occupation of Tibet led to the failed uprising of 1959 and the flight of the 14th Dalai Lama with thousands of refugees into South Asia, Americans were ready to respond. Interest quickly turned to action, with scholars, spiritual seekers, and philanthropists seeking ways to support the Tibetan community. Among the first major private donors was the Rockefeller Foundation.

In 1959/60, the Rockefeller Foundation provided funding for several Tibetan studies programs in universities in the U.S. and across the globe. It set up a “Special Fund for Tibetan Studies” and allocated a total of $325,000 equal to over $3.5 million in 2025. The program description explained in the Foundation’s 1960 Annual Report highlighted the need for the programs to bring Tibetan refugees from South Asia and tap into their expertise.

The fund recipients were to use the funds to sponsor Tibetan experts and their families and seek their assistance in research work. Programs that received support included Bavarian Academy of Sciences, Munich; Italian Institute for the Middle and Far East, Rome; Institute of Advanced Chinese Studies, University of Paris; Oriental Library, Tokyo; University of Leiden, Netherlands; University of London, School of Oriental and African Studies; and University of Washington, Seattle.

The University of Washington’s Tibetan studies program was founded by Professor Turrell Wylie, the well-known Tibetologist who also developed the Wylie transliteration system for Tibetan script. The school and Professor Wylie used the Rockefeller funding to invite nine Tibetan religious leaders and aristocrats and their families. The group of learned scholars associated with the school included Dezhung Rinpoche, a high Sakya lama; Dagchen Ngawang Jigdal Rinpoche, head of Sakya Phuntsok Phodrang; Kuzhok Rinpoche, the younger brother of Jigdal Dagchen Rinpoche; Takser Rinpoche, eldest brother of the Dalai Lama; Surkhang Wangchen Gelek; and Jigme Dorji Yuthok. The Foundation grant also trained scholars like Gene Smith and others in Tibetan culture and Buddhism.

The Seattle group of Tibetans had a dramatically different experience from the Maine loggers. Their employer, the University of Washington, had brought them not for physical labor but to support the development of its Tibetan Studies program. Working closely with Professor Turrell Wylie and other scholars, they devoted long hours to reviewing texts, engaging in discussion, and contributing to documentation projects. These religious figures and experts played an important role in advancing the academic study of Tibet in the United States while also strengthening the reputation of the University of Washington as a leading center for Tibetan Studies. Professors Elliot Sperling and Melvyn Goldstein were among the famous alumni of the program.

The Rockefeller funding also indirectly led to the establishment of Phuntsok Phodrang in Seattle, which elevated the city as a significant hub for the Sakya school of Tibetan Buddhism.

Sakya Phunstsok Phodrang

Sakya Phuntsok Phodrang is one of the two branches of the Khön family lineage of the Sakya school of Tibetan Buddhism, the other being Dolma Phodrang, currently based in India. Traditionally, leadership within the Khön family, including the throneholders of the Sakya school, alternated between these two branches.

In 2014, the Sakya school introduced a significant reform to its succession system. For centuries, the title of Sakya Trizin – the head of the school – had been a lifetime appointment. Under the new arrangement, the title was changed to a fixed three-year term, rotating among qualified male members of both Phodrangs. This marked a historic departure from nearly 1,000 years of tradition. The 41st Sakya Trizin, Kyabgon Gongma Dorje Chang Rinpoche, is now recognized as Sakya Gongma Trichen, while the current head, Kyabgon Gyana Vajra Rinpoche of Drolma Phodrang, assumed the role of 43rd Sakya Trizin in 2022.

Kyabgon Sakya Dagchen Ngawang Kunga Sonam Jigdal Rinpoche, who passed away in 2016, played a central role in transplanting the Sakya tradition to the United States. In 1960, he became the first Tibetan to arrive and settle permanently in Seattle with his family. There, he established Sakya Phuntsok Phodrang and later the Sakya Monastery of Tibetan Buddhism as his seat. The monastery became both a spiritual home for Tibetans in America and a beacon of Tibetan Buddhist culture in the West. Much as the Mayflower settlers planted their faith traditions in New England, the Phuntsok Phodrang became a cornerstone of Tibetan religious life in the Northwest. Today, Dagchen Rinpoche’s grandsons, Avikrita Vajra Rinpoche, Asanga Vajra Rinpoche and Abhaya Vajra Rinpoche continue to uphold and transmit the Sakya lineage to a new generation.

The Convergence: Building Community in the Northwest

The convergence of these two migration streams – the Rockefeller-sponsored settlers in Washington and the former Maine loggers moving to Oregon – gave rise to one of the earliest and strongest Tibetan communities in America.

In Washington, the Sakya Phuntsok Phodrang provided both religious leadership and a community nucleus. As Dagchen Rinpoche’s family expanded, Seattle attracted more Tibetans, including important religious leaders such as Dhongthog Rinpoche, who arrived in 1979. Other prominent Tibetan families were Jigmie Yuthok and his wife Oma Pangda, Surkhang Sawang, Ngawang Nornang (known as Nornang Geshe la) and his niece Lhadon Kyarsip. They were all part of the University of Washington Tibet studies program. Nornang Geshe la worked with Turrell Wylie and co-authored with Melvyn Goldstein Modern Spoken Tibetan: Lhasa Dialect and taught Tibetan language at the University of Washington’s Department of Asian Languages.

At the same time, the Tibetans who had initially worked in the forests of Maine resettled in Oregon and southwest Washington, where they established a vibrant community of their own, bound together by shared experiences of labor, struggle, and resilience.

The Northwest gained further recognition in October 1979, when His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama made his first-ever visit to the United States. Seattle was among the cities on his maiden itinerary, and the visit was organized by Jigmie Dorji Yuthok and Seattle University. His Holiness returned to Seattle in 1993 and again in 2008.

For the former lumberjacks and their families who had resettled in Oregon, a milestone came in 1984, when they had their first opportunity to host His Holiness during his brief visit to Seaside, Oregon. Later, Portland became a recurring venue for much larger and higher-profile visits, most notably in 2001 and 2013.

A Hub for Activism and Advocacy

Northwest Tibetans recognized very early the need – and unique opportunity – to educate the American public about Tibet and lobby for support. Tibet activism and advocacy can be understood as any sustained effort to counter the distorted narrative and repressive policies of the Chinese government on Tibet, while amplifying the voices and rights of the Tibetan people.

Two Tibetans from the Northwest who played pioneering leadership roles were the late Kunsang Yuthok of Seattle and Jigme Topgyal. Kunsang la, who later served as His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the Central Tibetan Administration’s Representative in Paris (1997–2001), founded the Tibetan Rights Campaign. Jigme la, who was one of the Maine loggers, established the Tibetan Foundation. Both worked closely with the International Campaign for Tibet (ICT), contributing to campaigns and initiatives that had lasting impact, including the landmark immigration bill passed by the U.S. Congress in 1990 that enabled 1,000 Tibetans to resettle in America. They also lobbied for the establishment of the Voice of America’s Tibetan Service and the Tibetan Fulbright program, among other initiatives. Both were also on the initial board of ICT established by Tenzin Tethong in 1988.

I worked at ICT in the early 1990s and met both Kunsang la and Jigme la several times in Washington, D.C. They were knowledgeable, effective, and eloquent representatives of the Tibetan-American community – highly skilled in engaging with members of Congress and their staff both in their home states and on Capitol Hill. Beyond political lobbying, they invested considerable time and energy in grassroots outreach: speaking about Tibet and Chinese repression in schools, colleges, universities, clubs, churches, synagogues, and Buddhist groups throughout the Northwest.

The 1990 Immigration Act: 1,000 Tibetans

Seattle and Portland became two of the 21 cluster sites across 18 states designated by the Tibetan U.S. Resettlement Project (TUSRP), established in 1989. Through the Immigration Act of 1990, TUSRP secured 1,000 immigration visas for Tibetans living in India and Nepal. Of these, the Seattle community facilitated the immigration of 31 Tibetans, while Portland received 50. The new arrivals began reaching the Northwest in 1992, marking a new chapter of growth and renewal.

With these reinforcements, both communities now had critical mass and began organizing themselves more formally. The Tibetan Association of Washington obtained its tax-exempt status in 1993, and the Northwest Tibetan Cultural Association (NWTCA) in Portland followed in 1996. These institutional foundations not only provided structure and continuity but also signaled the communities’ transition from fragile exile outposts into established organizations capable of preserving culture, supporting new arrivals, and advocating for Tibet on American soil.

The Dream of a Peace Center

The 1980s and 1990s proved to be a fertile period for initiatives related to Tibet and Tibetan culture in the United States. Public interest in Tibet was on the rise, fueled both by the escalating unrest inside Tibet and by the growing visibility of His Holiness the Dalai Lama on the international stage as a global messenger of peace and compassion.

Amid this momentum, Jigme Topgyal la — already deeply engaged in grassroots advocacy and serving as President of NWTCA from 1995 to 2002 — sensed an opportunity to channel this energy into something lasting. It was during this time that the idea of establishing a peace center — one inspired by His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s message of nonviolence and dedicated to promoting both Tibetan culture and the Tibetan cause — first took shape. He shared his vision with His Holiness the Dalai Lama and requested permission for Geshe Kalsang Damdul la, then at the Institute of Buddhist Dialectics (IBD) in Dharamsala, to spend time in Portland and serve as NWTCA’s spiritual advisor.

Between 1995 and 2002, Geshe la made several extended visits to Portland —sometimes staying as long as six months. In addition to guiding the community, he taught at Portland State University as a visiting Tibetan scholar. Learned, fluent in English, and deeply respected, Geshe la became a vital presence. Under his guidance, NWTCA organized numerous teachings and public lectures that drew ever larger audiences, giving the community both spiritual nourishment and growing public support.

The next step in Jigme la’s plan was to invite His Holiness to visit Portland. That milestone came in May 2001, when the Dalai Lama spent three days in the city, from May 13–15. The visit was an extraordinary success. One event at Pioneer Courthouse Square alone drew 25,000 people, all eager to hear His Holiness’s message of peace and compassion. The visit also generated a surplus of around $800,000. Of this, the community offered $50,000 to His Holiness, who returned the gift with instructions that it be used as seed money for the envisioned peace center. Nearly $500,000 of the remaining funds were invested in purchasing and renovating a building to serve as a Tibetan community center.

Among those moved by His Holiness’s message were Dorothy Lemelson and her son, Eric Lemelson, of The Lemelson Foundation. Mrs. Lemelson reached out to the community after the visit with an extraordinary offer: to donate a 10-acre property near the Portland Zoo, straddling the jurisdictions of Washington and Multnomah Counties, valued at $890,000 at the time. Her condition was that the community would assume responsibility for all expenses related to applying for and securing land-use approvals from both counties. In addition, Eric Lemelson pledged a personal donation of $500,000 for each approval obtained and offered to assist with fundraising for the peace center.

It took the community nearly two years to secure land-use approvals from the two county courthouses. Along the way, they had to fend off a lawsuit from a wealthy local family that opposed NWTCA’s application, stoking fears of another Rajneesh-like complex emerging in Portland. By the end of 2002, however, the Lemelson family kept their promise: the Association received both the deed to the 10-acre property and a $1 million donation.

Yet the more ambitious dream of establishing a peace center ultimately went unrealized. Differences among community leaders about who, how and whether to proceed with such a project prevented consensus. While some donors and supporters were disappointed, what was accomplished was nonetheless remarkable. The community had secured resources, visibility, and infrastructure that laid a lasting foundation.

In 2012, NWTCA sold the land and the original community center and purchased a new 17,000-square-foot building for $2 million. This facility continues to serve as the community’s home. A year later, during his 2013 visit to Portland hosted by Maitripa College, His Holiness the Dalai Lama personally blessed the new center, affirming the community’s resilience and achievements.

A Flourishing Today

Thanks to His Holiness the Dalai Lama, the vision of the elders who first arrived in Seattle in 1960 and the resilience of the 27 lumberjacks who made their way from Maine to Oregon, the Tibetan communities of the Pacific Northwest stand today as some of the most established and dynamic Tibetan-American communities in the country.

Seattle is now home to roughly 350 Tibetans, while the Northwest Tibetan Cultural Association in Portland represents a thriving community with close to 1,000 members. The Tibetan Association of Washington recently purchased a small property that houses Sunday language and music classes, community meetings, and storage. The acquisition was supported by nearly $400,000 in state government grants.

The community has flourished economically and professionally. Most Tibetans in the region own their own homes, and many are employed at some of the Pacific Northwest’s largest and most influential companies—Boeing, Amazon, Microsoft, Delta, Costco, and Microchip Technology, among others—as engineers, IT professionals, and managers. Others have built distinguished careers in medicine, serving as physicians, gastroenterologists, hospitalists, infectious disease specialists, nephrologists, psychiatrists, dentists, and nurses. There is also a large pool of retired officials and staff from the Central Tibetan Administration in the region. In addition, two former Tibetan Members of Parliament and the current Representative of the Office of Tibet in Washington, D.C. also hail from this area.

The community’s achievements extend into public service and leadership as well. One of the daughters of a Maine lumberjack now serves as a county court judge in Oregon, while a daughter of the Seattle community holds a senior government position in the White House. Alongside them, Tibetans in the Northwest contribute as UPS and school bus drivers, police officers and detectives, transit officers, entrepreneurs, electricians, carpenters, welders, and plumbers — embodying the full spectrum of a community that has taken root, thrived, and continues to give back to its adopted country and to the Tibetan refugee community in South Asia.

Conclusion

What stands in the Northwest today is a testament to the sacrifices, perseverance, and foresight of the early pioneers. The elders who left their homes in Tibet, endured hard labor in the forests of Maine, and helped build academic programs in Seattle could hardly have imagined the flourishing that would follow. Their legacy lives on in the younger generations who now serve not only their Tibetan community but also the broader American society — bridging cultures, strengthening democracy, and carrying forward the resilience of a people in exile.

The story of Tibetans in the Pacific Northwest mirrors the broader Tibetan diaspora experience: a people displaced by history who, through resilience and faith, rebuilt their lives in unfamiliar lands. From the logging camps of Maine to the academic halls of Seattle, from the sawmills of Oregon to the community centers that now flourish in Portland and Seattle, the Northwest Tibetans have embodied the larger exile journey — anchoring their identity through culture, language, and spiritual traditions, while fully engaging with and contributing to their host society.

Just as the first settlers who crossed the Atlantic on the Mayflower laid foundations for a new life, so too did the “Tibetan Mayflower” of 1960 and 1967–69 chart a course that has blossomed into one of the strongest Tibetan communities in America today.

Notes:

1. The author wishes to thank Jigme Topgyal la for generously sharing his experiences as a lumberjack in Maine, for recounting his dedicated work with the Tibetan Foundation and the Northwest Tibetan Cultural Association, and for offering valuable insights into the Tibetan community of the Pacific Northwest.
   

2. The author would also like to thank Sonam T. Nyatsatsang and his family for generously providing all the photographs on the Tibetan lumberjacks, as well as for sharing his knowledge and insights into the Tibetan community of the Pacific. Northwest. His father-in-law, Wangchuk Dorjee la, was among the first six Tibetans hired by the Great Northern Paper Company in 1967, and he is now completing his memoir.
   

3. The author would also like to thank Chimie Yuthok la for providing information and materials related to her parents (Jigmie Yuthok and Oma Pangda), Nornang Geshe la and Lhadon Kyarsip la (her son, Geleg Kyarsip la, is married to Chimie Yuthok la).

4. The four Tibetans in the black and white cover image from the Rockefeller Archive Center are from left to right: Takser Rinpoche, Dezhung Rinpoche, Sakya Dagchen Rinpoche and Kuzhon Rinpoche.

5. The open source materials the author accessed included Leaked Categories, VOA Tibetan-English, The University of Maine’s DigitalCommons@UMaine, and RFA Tibetan Service

6. ProPublica’s Nonprofit Explorer was most helpful in obtaining information on the two Pacific Northwest Tibetan community organizations.

Father was late again. He was late often. His life belonged less to us than to the Establishment 22,1 the secretive military unit where Tibetan soldiers were stationed across the long India –Tibet frontier. As a senior military officer, his responsibilities demanded regular visits to far flung outposts, checking on the Tibetan soldiers who stood as India’s forward line of defence against the looming threat of China and Pakistan.

At home he was no less elusive, with long hours at the office and endless official functions. Yet in the midst of that absence, there was one ritual that tethered him to me: our late afternoon walks which I treasured deeply. They began with a swift trading of his uniform for simple civilian clothes. Then we would set off on the familiar three-kilometre loop that circled the quiet cantonment of Chakratha, just the two of us.

The town of Chakratha, once a cantonment of the British Indian Army, rests high on a ridge at nearly 7,200 feet, cradled by thick forests of Deodar that scent the air with resin and shadow. It lies within Dehradun district in the Himalayan state of Uttarakhand, India, a quiet settlement shaped by the rhythms of the Jaunsari people who have lived there for generations. From its heights, the horizon unfurls in sweeping panoramas of the Himalaya — an unbroken chain of snow and sky. On clear days, the great peaks reveal themselves: Swargarohini, Gangotri, and Yamunotri, Chaukhamba’s mass rising solemnly, and farther east the distant yet commanding silhouettes of Nanda Devi and Trishul.

By late afternoon, I had grown restless and a nagging presence tugging at my mother’s patience as she tried to balance keeping me occupied while also preparing dinner. Outside, the late-summer light was slipping away too quickly, as though in a rush to embrace the night.

It was close to six when Father finally appeared. He cut a striking figure — olive fatigues pressed sharp, a maroon beret angled neatly with the 22 snow lion insignia gleaming against its fold, and a leather briefcase swinging at his side. To me, he seemed larger than the narrow doorway through which he entered. He bore the title of Dapon, a rank that echoed the authority of a Brigadier in the Indian Army. Within Establishment 22, he stood as the senior-most Tibetan officer, though always under the command of his Indian superiors: an Inspector General with the stature of a Major General, and a Brigadier just below.

We lived in a modest yet comfortable military quarter, one among many in a settlement of roughly seven thousand soldiers. Around us stretched a world of order and discipline — rows of officers’ homes, the barracks beyond, and the steady rhythm of a garrison town where the dominant sound and sight was the bugle at dawn, the echo of boots on gravel, and soldiers performing their drills.

“Isn’t it too late for a walk?” my mother asked. Outwardly she carried herself with a quiet, demure grace, yet within the walls of our home she was the one who steered its course — never hesitant to voice her thoughts plainly. I didn’t linger to hear Father’s reply. I bolted through the door, the cool air brushing my face, and felt a rush of relief when, a moment later, he emerged as well, my jacket and hat in his hands.

Our walk route was always the same: a loop that threaded first through the market, then along a cliffside stretch where only scrub and sparse shrubs clung to the earth, before descending toward the cantonment’s entrance — known simply as One Gate — and finally rising again on the last incline that led us home.

At Chakratha’s elevation the air rarely grew oppressive, even in the height of summer, but that evening in early October carried an unusual chill. I felt it sharply. My head was bare; a childhood illness had led to a Tibetan monk urging my parents to shave away my hair. I remember tugging the hat more tightly against my scalp, grateful for its small shield against the mountain cold.

The market of Chakratha, I imagine, has not changed much even now though other mountain destinations in India are bursting at its seams due to over development, sprawl and unchecked tourism. The town’s character is fixed by the presence of the military, and to this day it remains a restricted area, closed to foreigners. In the 1970s it was little more than a cluster of small shops, their shutters already beginning to rattle down as soldiers and townsfolk hurried to make their last purchases before nightfall.

Everyone seemed to know my father. As we passed, people paused to salute or greet him with a respectful “Namaskar ji,” their voices tinged with familiarity and regard. He moved quickly, his stride long and purposeful, while I scrambled along on five-year-old legs that strained to keep pace. Only when the light softened and it became clear we would reach home before dark did he ease his tempo. By then we had reached the stretch where the street rose above a cliff.

My father was rarely one for play. Yet on that particular evening, a lighter mood seized him. While my attention drifted elsewhere, he whisked away my hat and began a mischievous game of “come and get it.” Each time I reached, he would draw it back at the last moment, his laughter echoing in the cool air. Soon he was tossing the hat skyward, letting it spin briefly against the fading light before tumbling back down. Then, with one wayward throw, it landed high upon a rock at the edge of the road — beyond even his reach.

I was cold, frustrated, and near tears. “I want my hat back!” I cried, again and again, retreating away from my father as he tried in vain to jump and retrieve the cap. Then I saw his expression shift. His face froze into a mask of terror. He was shouting and waving frantically, but to me, there was only silence — then sudden darkness.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by my mother, my father, and my sister. Their faces were pale with worry. My mother wept softly, whispering, “God was watching over you, my son.” I felt no pain, only confusion.

It was my sister who calmly explained what had happened. My father's horror had come from watching me step backward, slipping between two concrete barriers and vanishing over the edge. He had rushed forward and looked down, expecting the worst. Instead, he found my body several meters below, caught in the embrace of shrubs clinging stubbornly to the mountainside. Had I fallen just a little farther along the slope, where there was less vegetation, serious injury or even death would have been a strong possibility.

The hospital kept me overnight for observation, but I emerged with nothing more than scratches and bruises. I was too young to understand the enormity of what had happened. My first question was not about life or death but about my hat: “Pala, did you get it back?” My mother’s face flickered between incredulity and joy.

In the days that followed, I learned more. As darkness fell and the cold deepened, my father had sprinted wildly to the market, imploring the first passerby for help. Soldiers came, rappelled down the mountain, and carefully freed me from the shrubs before carrying me to the waiting ambulance.

The accident left its mark on my father. We rarely walked that path together again, and he never snatched my hat after that day. A few years later, when I finally returned to the spot, I saw the slope clearly for the first time: dry, quite steep and dangerous. Looking down, I understood what I could not at five years old — that I had been given a possible second chance at life. I, also, realized that it wasn’t just the fragile thicket of shrubs, but also the privilege of being a military officer’s son, which ensured a swift rescue, and ultimately my survival.

In Tibetan Buddhist culture, when a family member passes away, the family often consults an astrologer for guidance on various matters, including the proper time for cremation. The astrologer performs complex calculations, considering the individual’s birth year, zodiac sign, and other factors to interpret the person’s life, the influence of karma, and to gain further insights. At times, I have heard astrologers remark that their calculations confirmed the deceased’s lifespan had reached its natural end — even when the person was still very young.

I have had three moments in my own life when death came close, yet I survived. Perhaps these escapes can be understood as my lifespan not having run its natural course. When the Ground Disappeared is the first story in a three-part series.

Foundations of Faith

I grew up in Herbertpur, a small town in what is now the Indian state of Uttarakhand, where my late father served in the Special Frontier Force (SFF) — the Indian military unit composed largely of Tibetan refugees. Just 60 kilometers away stood the SFF headquarters in the cantonment town of Chakrata.

In our household of seven, Tibetan Buddhism wasn't merely practiced — it was woven into the very rhythm of daily life. Each dawn brought the ritual offering of ཡོན་ཆབ་ (yon chab) at our family altar, a practice meant to accumulate merit (བསོད་ནམས། བསགས་པ།, sönam sagpa) and virtue. While most Tibetan families offer seven bowls of water, my father kept 108 bowls on the altar. As he made the offerings, my younger brother and I would haul a heavy bucket of water from the kitchen — a task that felt more like chore than ceremony at the time.

After breakfast, my parents devoted hours to their prayers. By late afternoon, we would watch them empty the water offerings and carefully stack the bowls in neat rows. During quiet moments throughout the day, the soft rhythm of མ་ཎི་ (mani) recitation filled our home as their fingers moved steadily over rosary beads — a gentle percussion of faith that became a dominant soundtrack of my childhood.

Early Pilgrimages: Adventures in Devotion

Among my happiest childhood memories are the family pilgrimages we undertook every few years. These journeys began even before my birth — when I was still in my mother's womb—and continued through my college years in the late 1980s. Looking back, those early trips felt like grand spiritual expeditions.

We traveled with everything: bedding neatly rolled, stoves carefully packed, and dry rations. Nights were spent in dharamshalas (धर्मशाला "shelter for pilgrims") or simple rooms rented from Thai and Sri Lankan temples in places like Bodhgaya.

Two items remain vivid in my memory. The first was our metal kerosene stove — still common in rural India today. These noisy contraptions required pumping by hand to build pressure, then forcing kerosene into a preheater until it vaporized and sprayed through a nozzle, mixing with air to create a steady blue flame that both cooked our meals and illuminated our temporary homes.

The second was our bistar — a military-style bedding roll made of sturdy green or khaki canvas. About six feet long and three feet wide, it featured two clever pockets: one at the head for pillows, another at the foot for sheets. A quilt and blankets were folded along its length. Once packed tight with attached canvas belts, it formed a compact bundle with a leather handle. In those days, the bistar was every traveler's companion across India — a portable bed that could transform any space into temporary shelter.

During those early pilgrimages, the deeper spiritual significance never fully dawned on us children. We saw these trips more as family adventures than religious journeys. Only later would their meaning begin to unfold, and even now I find myself still discovering new layers of appreciation for their spiritual dimension.

Understanding the Path: Tibetan Buddhism 101

Although born into Buddhism and raised with its rituals, my personal practice remains modest, and my understanding of Tibetan Buddhism stays at a foundational level. Still, I grasp and believe in its core principles.

At the heart lies karma (ལས་ lé) — the law of cause and effect that binds us through cycles of rebirth. We remain trapped in samsara, the endless cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, by three poisons: འདོད་ཆགས་ (död chag) attachment or craving; ཞེ་སྡང་ (she dang) anger or aversion; and གཏི་མུག་ (ti mug) ignorance or delusion.

To free ourselves from this bondage, Tibetan Buddhism teaches cultivating three wholesome qualities: ངེས་པར་དོར་བ (ngépar dorwa) letting go or non-attachment; བྱམས་སྙིང་རྗེ་ (jam snying rje) loving-kindness and compassion; and ཤེས་རབ་ (sherab) wisdom.

Crucially, the faith emphasizes that karma is not fixed. The patterns we've accumulated can be transformed. There is always a path to work and improve our karma, gather merit, and create causes for a better future — ultimately achieving liberation from cyclic existence.

This path forward begins with taking refuge in the Three Jewels: the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. His Holiness the Dalai Lama often reminds us that among the three, the Dharma is the ultimate refuge. While a teacher (the Buddha) and supportive community (the Sangha) are invaluable, we cannot remain dependent on either. Real growth and eventual enlightenment come only through practicing the Dharma ourselves and taking personal responsibility for our spiritual journey.

Pilgrimage as Refuge in Modern Times

We live in an age of unprecedented material comfort yet rising mental distress. Everyone is "busy," but this busyness rarely brings the contentment we seek. We have more tools for connection than ever, yet loneliness pervades all age groups, with many relationships confined to digital spaces.

Not everyone has the time or readiness for serious spiritual practice, but pilgrimage offers a simple yet profound way to seek and deepen refuge in the Three Jewels. During pilgrimage, we step away from the distractions, noise, and delusions of our ordinary existence. We can purify karma, acquire merit, and receive blessings.

Whether visiting holy sites like Lumbini, Bodhgaya, Nalanda, Sarnath, or Kushinagar, or traveling to Dharamsala and South India where great Tibetan monasteries destroyed in Tibet have been rebuilt, pilgrims experience the Three Jewels as living realities. This spiritual immersion brings clarity, calmness, and peace. The opportunity to make offerings, donate, prostrate, and meditate feels cleansing and better equips us to deal with the three poisons.

What I find most appealing about Tibetan Buddhism is its fundamental message of hope: everything can be purified. Regardless of broken vows or accumulated negative karma, a path forward toward enlightenment always exists. Pilgrimage undertaken with proper attitude and motivation allows us to collect merit that facilitates spiritual growth.

As Buddha Shakyamuni taught in the Sutra Requested by Sagaramati:

ཇི་ལྟར་ཆུ་ཐིགས་རྒྱ་མཚོ་ཆེ་ནང་ལྷུང།།
རྒྱ་མཚོ་མ་ཟད་བར་དུ་དེ་མི་འཛད།།
དེ་བཞིན་བྱང་ཆུབ་ཡོངས་བསྔོས་དགེ་བ་ཡང།།
བྱང་ཆུབ་མ་ཐོབ་བར་དུ་དེ་མི་འཛད།།

Just as a drop of water that falls into the great ocean
Will never disappear until the ocean itself runs dry
Merit totally dedicated to enlightenment
Will never disappear until enlightenment is reached

Words of a Teacher

My reflections on pilgrimage only scratch the surface of this vast tradition. For deeper insight, I reached out to Khensur Rinpoche Geshe Lobsang Samten, former Abbot of Drepung Loseling Monastery, requesting his thoughts on pilgrimage's meaning and proper intention. Rinpoche graciously responded with a video teaching, the essence of which follows:

“There are many sacred pilgrimage sites, such as Bodh Gaya, Varanasi, and Gridhakuta (Vulture’s Peak) in India. Likewise, there are countless sacred pilgrimage sites in Tibet, Nepal, and Bhutan, including the three main monastic seats and many more. These sites were blessed by great Buddhas and Bodhisattvas in ancient times, and because of that, whoever visits these sites later will be blessed. One will also experience calmness and happiness from visiting such pilgrimage sites. There are temporary as well as long-term benefits to visiting such sites. Temporarily, it helps to purify ourselves. For instance, when you see a Buddha statue, we should pray:”

དེ་བཞིན་གཤེགས་པ་ཁྱེད་སྐུ་ཅི་འདྲ་དང།།
འཁོར་དང་སྐུ་ཚེའི་ཚད་དང་ཞིང་ཁམས་དང།།
ཁྱེད་ཀྱི་མཚན་མཆོག་བཟང་པོ་ཅི་འདྲ་བ།།
དེ་འདྲ་ཁོ་ན་བདག་སོགས་འགྱུར་བར་ཤོག།།

(May I and others become exactly like you, the Buddha, in your form, your retinue, the measure of your life, your realm, and your excellent and supreme name.)

“If it's a Tara pilgrimage site, we should recite:”

བདག་གིས་ཚེ་རབས་སྔོན་ནས་བསྒྲུབས་པའི་ལྷ།།
དུས་གསུམ་སངས་རྒྱས་ཀུན་གྱི་ཕྲིན་ལས་མ།།
སྔོ་ལྗང་ཞལ་གཅིག་ཕྱག་གཉིས་ཉེར་ཞི་མ།།
ཡུམ་གྱུར་ཨུཏྤལ་བསྣམས་པར་ཕྱག་འཚལ་ལོ།།

(The deity I have been worshiping since my previous lives
The embodiment of the Buddhas of three times
The bluish-green, peaceful Buddha with one face and two arms
I pay homage to the mother, the holder of the Utpala flower.)

“Likewise, if it's a Guru Rinpoche site, we should recite Guru Rinpoche's prayers, such as
(ཚིག་བདུན་གསོལ་འདེབས།) the Seven-Line Prayer, and his mantra.”

“The core of Buddhism is Bodhichitta and emptiness, and it is therefore very beneficial to recite prayers about them at such sites.”

བྱང་ཆུབ་སེམས་མཆོག་རིན་པོ་ཆེ།།
མ་སྐྱེས་པ་རྣམས་སྐྱེ་གྱུར་ཅིག།།
སྐྱེས་པ་ཉམས་པ་མེད་པ་དང།།
གོང་ནས་གོང་དུ་འཕེལ་བར་ཤོག།།

(The precious Bodhichitta
May it arise in those in whom it has not yet arisen.
And in those in whom it has arisen, may it not decline
But increase more and more.)

སྟོང་ཉིད་ལྟ་བ་རིན་པོ་ཆེ།།
མ་སྐྱེས་པ་རྣམས་སྐྱེ་གྱུར་ཅིག།།
སྐྱེས་པ་ཉམས་པ་མེད་པ་དང།།
གོང་ནས་གོང་དུ་འཕེལ་བར་ཤོག།།

(The precious concept of emptiness
May it arise in those in whom it has not yet arisen.
And in those in whom it has arisen, may it not decline
But increase more and more.)

“While a family vacation on the beach is fine, we should make sure to have a family trip to a sacred pilgrimage site, which benefits both this life and our next. Take your parents and relatives on a pilgrimage and, if possible, have a lama or guru lead the journey and introduce the sites. On such a pilgrimage, it is also very important to make offerings to the Buddha, show reverence to the Sangha, and be generous to the needy. Making such offerings will help us connect with the precious Dharma in our next lives. For instance, when we show reverence to the Sangha, we should pray to be guided by them in many more upcoming lives. And when we offer a butter lamp, we should pray for our intelligence to be brightened. Likewise, when we prostrate, which is the best remedy for anger, we should try to prostrate one hundred thousand times, if that is not possible, a thousand or even a hundred is very beneficial for reducing our anger.

It is very important to make a pilgrimage with a pure intention and to recite the relevant prayers of the sites. The core teaching of Buddhism is Bodhichitta and Emptiness; hence, it's important to recite prayers like:”

སྐྱེ་བ་ཀུན་ཏུ་ཡང་དག་བླ་མ་དང།།
འབྲལ་མེད་ཆོས་ཀྱི་དཔལ་ལ་ལོངས་སྤྱད་ནས།།
ས་དང་ལམ་གྱི་ཡོན་ཏན་རབ་རྫོགས་ནས།།
རྡོ་རྗེ་འཆང་གི་གོ་འཕང་མྱུར་ཐོབ་ཤོག།།

(May I in all my lives never be separated from my perfect guru
And enjoying the glory of Dharma
May I perfectly complete the qualities of the grounds and paths
And swiftly attain the state of Vajradhara.)

“It is also very important to recite the relevant mantra and prayer of the pilgrimage site. If it's a pilgrimage site of Lord Buddha, we should recite his mantra, and if it's Guru Rinpoche's site, we should recite his mantra. The same applies to Manjushri, Tara, and others. Likewise, it is important to seek blessings from monasteries and pray for the flourishing of Buddhism and to continuously be able to perform noble deeds for the benefit of all sentient beings. And we should pray for the long life of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, who has turned ninety this year yet actively continues to carry out his noble deeds for all sentient beings.”

གངས་རི་ར་བས་བསྐོར་བའི་ཞིང་ཁམས་སུ།།
ཕན་དང་བདེ་བ་མ་ལུས་འབྱུང་བའི་གནས།།
སྤྱན་རས་གཟིགས་དབང་བསྟན་འཛིན་རྒྱ་མཚོ་ཡི།།
ཞབས་པད་སྲིད་མཐའི་བར་དུ་བརྟན་གྱུར་ཅིག།།

(In a realm encircled by a range of snow mountains
A source of all benefit and happiness
May Avalokiteśvara Tenzin Gyatso
Remain steadfast until the end of existence.)

My 2024 Pilgrimage: A Journey of Generations

In 2024, I was blessed to undertake two special pilgrimages: three weeks in July and ten days in December. Both journeys were inspired by beloved family elders, each over eighty, who felt these might be their last opportunities for true pilgrimage. Their determination moved us deeply, prompting family members to make both time and financial commitments.

While many pilgrims choose the great Buddhist sites of India and Nepal, we followed our elders' wishes to seek out Tibetan monasteries and sacred places in South India and Ladakh — journeys carrying both spiritual meaning and family devotion.

Rediscovering Sacred Exile: South India's Monastic Towns

I had visited the three main Tibetan refugee settlements of Bylakuppe, Hunsur, and Mundgod in Karnataka many times—some visits official during my service with the Central Tibetan Administration, others personal. Yet during my 2024 pilgrimage, I gained deeper appreciation and clearer insight into the extraordinary scale of what Tibetan elders and the exile monastic community have built and preserved over decades.

Walking into South India's vast monastic campuses — Drepung, Gaden, Namdroling, Sera, and Tashilhunpo — I was awed by what has been created in exile. Knowing that most of Tibet's great monasteries were destroyed or hollowed out by the Chinese Communist Party, seeing them rebuilt and thriving within just decades felt miraculous.

The scale is staggering: Drepung, Ganden, Namdroling, and Sera house close to 20,000 monks and nuns combined. Their sprawling campuses, stretching across hundreds of acres, operate as fully self-sufficient townships with schools, clinics, residences, science and meditation centers, shops, hotels, convention halls, and recreational spaces. The governance model strikes a careful balance — centralizing certain key responsibilities within apex bodies while granting broad autonomy to the Dratsangs and Khangtsens.

As part of a group sponsoring prayer sessions at several great monasteries, I witnessed not only impressive physical infrastructure but also the inner workings and vitality sustaining these institutions. Nowhere is this scale more visible than in monastic kitchens preparing daily meals for thousands. Before dawn, stoves are lit and teams begin preparing bread and tea for breakfast. By midday, enormous cauldrons brim with rice, lentil soup, and vegetable dishes to feed entire communities. Weekly rations alone run into hundreds of kilograms — a remarkable logistical undertaking. While occasional meals are sponsored by devotees, the vast majority of resources needed are generated by the monasteries themselves through tireless leadership and fundraising efforts.

The Practice of Sacred Giving

During pilgrimages, there are many ways to make offerings and sponsorships. The most common include sponsoring tea and bread (གྲྭ་ཇ་) or an afternoon meal (ཉིན་གུང་བཞེས་ལག་). Sponsorships vary by scale.

At the three great monasteries of Drepung, Gaden, and Sera, sponsoring prayers for entire monastery is called Lachi (བླ་སྤྱི་) sponsorship. The next level is Dratsang (གྲྭ་ཚང་), or college: Drepung has Loseling and Gomang; Sera has Sera Je and Sera Mey; Gaden has Shartse and Jangtse. The smallest unit is Khangtsen (ཁང་ཚན་), houses within each Dratsang. Beyond covering food costs, it's customary to offer each monk or nun small monetary donations called ku-gyé (སྐུ་འགྱེད།) when sponsoring a prayer session.

During our 2024 pilgrimages, we sponsored prayers at all levels: Lachi sponsorships at Sera and Ganden, Dratsang sponsorships at Drepung Loseling and Gomang, plus offerings at several Khangtsens. Beyond great Gelug monasteries, we supported prayer sessions at Tashilhunpo, Namdroling, Gyudmed, Dzongkar Choede in Hunsur, Ngagur Tsogyal Shedrupling Nunnery in Bylakuppe, Rato Dratsang and Jangchup Choeling Nunnery in Mundgod, plus Sakya and Kagyu monasteries in Mundgod and Bylakuppe.

We also extended support to wider settlement communities in Bylakuppe, Hunsur, and Mundgod: sponsoring lunches at old-age homes, making donations to senior residents and staff, supporting an animal care center in Mundgod, contributing to Sambhota School and donating to a road construction project in Bylakuppe, etc.

In July 2024, we traveled to Ladakh, visiting sacred sites in Leh and the Nubra Valley. Beyond making offerings at Thiksey Monastery near Leh and Diskit Gompa in Nubra, we supported several initiatives: lunch and donation to seniors and staff at Choglamsar old people’s home, an animal welfare project near Thiksey, upkeep of ten sheep in the Changthang region, and donations to TCV, Lamton, and Jamyang schools and the Tibetan Youth Congress.

Looking back, what stands out most is how these acts of giving — sponsoring prayers involving thousands of monks, offering donations to elders and children, helping care for animals — transformed our pilgrimages into something deeper than expected. They became not only journeys to sacred places but ways to reconnect with childhood values and live out compassion tangibly.

Perhaps most meaningfully, these pilgrimages were guided by elders who felt they might be their last. Their presence reminded me that pilgrimage is not only about the sacred places we visit, but about those who walk beside us and the generosity we extend along the way. It was the elders in both groups who shaped the journey and determined the beneficiaries of our offerings.

Practical Considerations

Permits: All foreigners visiting Tibetan settlements in South India must obtain a Protected Area Permit (PAP) issued by the government of India in addition to a valid visa. The application is available online.

It is best to apply at least two months before your departure as approval takes time. For Ladakh, foreigners will need an Inner Line Permit to visit sites outside Leh.

Transportation: The nearest airport to Mundgod Tibetan Settlement is Hubballi Airport (HBX). with direct flights from Delhi and Bangalore. Mundgod is about 64 km (1.5 hours by car) from HBX. The most convenient way to get to Byllakupe is to fly to Bangalore (BLR). The Tibetan settlement is about 225 km (4.5 hours by car) from BLR.

Timing: The best time to visit the South India Tibetan settlements is from October to March as these are the months when the weather is dry and pleasant. June to September are the best time to visit Ladakh.

Accommodation: There are several guest houses and hotels, some operated by monasteries and others privately owned, offering a range of options for visitors.

Reflections on Continuity and Change

A pilgrimage is never just about reaching sacred destinations — it's about transformation that unfolds within us along the way. In South India, the Tibetan monastic community's resilience shines through vast rebuilt monasteries, harmonious chants rising from assembly halls, and quiet devotion expressed in daily rituals. These institutions, reborn in exile after devastation in Tibet by communist China, now stand as living reminders of faith, perseverance, and renewal.

Yet such places don't endure on faith alone — they require ongoing support from those who value their presence. For anyone seeking to pause, reflect, and step outside modern life's relentless pace, pilgrimage to South India — or any sacred site — offers more than spiritual journey. It's an invitation to rediscover balance, compassion, and clarity in a world that often leaves us restless and unfulfilled while also sustaining the monastic institutions that safeguard and preserve Tibetan Buddhist culture.

As I departed South India upon completion of the second pilgrimage in December 2024, I couldn't help but reflect on profound demographic shifts within the Tibetan exile community in India and Nepal. Not long ago, most Tibetan refugees resided in South Asia, and steady streams of new arrivals from Tibet provided monasteries with vital sources of young monks and nuns.

Over the past 10-15 years, this reality has transformed dramatically. Outmigration —particularly to Western countries — has accelerated substantially. Today, the Tibetan diaspora abroad rivals the population remaining in South Asia in size, while the influx of new refugees from Tibet has declined to mere dozens annually. These profound demographic shifts have reverberated throughout every Tibetan institution across India and Nepal, fundamentally reshaping schools, settlements, and monasteries alike. I have explored these developments extensively in previous posts on The Nomad Chronicles.

Today, monks of Tibetan origin comprise less than 30 percent of the exile monastic population, while the majority — around 70 percent — are of Himalayan origin, primarily from communities along India-Tibet and Nepal-Tibet border regions.

This shift presents undeniable challenges but also new opportunities. It underscores the Dharma's universality and Tibetan Buddhism's ability to take root and flourish beyond Tibetans themselves. Growing participation by Himalayan and international practitioners ensures these institutions' legacy is not only preserved but expanded — adapting to changing times while staying anchored in timeless wisdom.

The great Tibetan monastic institutions established in India and Nepal will stand as enduring gifts to the Himalayan Buddhist community — a living expression of gratitude from Tibetans in exile to the governments and peoples of India and Nepal. In the years ahead, it will be the monks and nuns from the Himalayan Buddhist community that assumes stewardship of these institutions, carrying forward the sacred legacy of Tibetans in exile with renewed strength, devotion, and purpose. In their hands, the Dharma and Sangha will continue to flourish, guiding future generations with wisdom and compassion.

Acknowledgement:

I would like to express my deep gratitude to Khensur Rinpoche Geshe Lobsang Samten, former Abbot of Drepung Loseling Monastery, for his teaching, guidance, and wisdom on the spiritual significance of pilgrimage. I am equally grateful to my family members, who not only made this journey possible but also served as cherished companions along the sacred path.

Notes:

1. All images belong to the author

The above is the final passage from Kusho (Tibetan honorific equivalent of "Venerable") Palden Gyatso's autobiography, published in 1997. The story of Palden Gyatso, the Tibetan political prisoner who died in 2018, is well documented and widely known. While Tibet has produced many political prisoners, what set Palden Gyatso apart from others, including those who endured equal or even greater suffering, was his survival and his emergence as one of the most powerful Tibetan witnesses to Chinese atrocities in Tibet. His voice carried particular weight because it arrived just as Western interest in the Tibet issue - and the plight of the Tibetan people - was beginning to intensify.

I missed Kusho Palden Gyatso's arrival in Dharamsala in the fall of 1992 by only a few months, having relocated to the United States that April. When I landed at JFK airport after my first international flight, I witnessed from a distance the first group of New York-bound Tibetans disembarking under the Tibetan U.S. Resettlement Project, which had provided 1,000 visas for Tibetan refugees under the 1990 Immigration Act.

The early 1990s were an exhilarating period in the Tibetan freedom movement. The large-scale unrest that swept Tibet from 1987 to 1989 drew prominent international media coverage and renewed global attention to Tibet. The death of Hu Yaobang, the reformist former General Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), served as the catalyst for the student-led protests in Tiananmen Square in April 1989. However, it is worth noting that the events in China - culminating in the massacre of thousands of protesters - were preceded by the largest demonstration for freedom and independence in Lhasa, held from March 5-7, 1989, which led to the imposition of martial law in the city. This confluence of unrest in both Tibet and China directly influenced the Norwegian Nobel Committee's decision to award the 1989 Nobel Peace Prize to His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama.

These developments triggered an avalanche of interest and support for Tibet in the West. “Free Tibet” bumper stickers became ubiquitous, especially in cities and towns on the West Coast and the North East of America and Canada. Three massive Tibetan Freedom Concerts soon followed: June 1996 in San Francisco, June 1997 in New York City, and June 1998 in Washington, DC. These concerts featured the most popular and other well-known musicians and artists. Together, they drew over 270,000 attendees and reached millions through mass media. Palden Gyatso was a featured speaker at the San Francisco and D.C. concerts. I attended both the New York and D.C. concerts and remember the Tibetan political prisoner’s frail figure and the maroon robes lighting up the jumbotron at RFK Stadium.

In 1992, there were only a handful of Tibetans in the Washington, D.C. area. When I assumed the presidency of the Capital Area Tibetan Association (CATA) that year, the outgoing president and his team handed over the association’s entire balance - less than US$20, if memory serves.

The International Campaign for Tibet (ICT) office, where I worked, was then located at 1511 K Street NW in Washington, DC. My official role was compiling and editing the Tibet Press Watch, published six times annually, and functioning as the organization's "everything assistant."

Distributing the newsletter to ICT’s growing membership was a labor-intensive operation. To qualify for bulk mail rates, we meticulously sorted addresses by zip code and followed strict postal guidelines, printing mailing labels, affixing them to each newsletter, and bundling them by state and zip code. I coordinated volunteer teams, organized pizza and refreshments, and oversaw the entire operation - including the final trip to the post office.

Back then, ICT also hosted an annual Losar (Tibetan New Year) Guthuk (དགུ་ཐུག) dinner for friends and supporters. The traditional soup contains nine ingredients and dough balls, each hiding a playful surprise - a piece of paper, wool, pepper, charcoal, salt, a pea, etc. Each guest receives a dough ball, supposedly revealing something about their character or fortune.

During our February 1993 celebration, we welcomed about fifty guests, including a senior legislative aide to an influential congressman. When this aide bit into her dough ball and discovered charcoal. We explained that it symbolized a “cold-hearted person” and she became visibly upset. We quickly reassured her that it was playful symbolism - much like cracking a fortune cookie - not serious judgment. The incident became a lasting lesson in the importance of cultural context when sharing traditions across communities.

By early 1995, ICT had relocated to a larger office at 1735 Eye Street NW to accommodate the organization’s rapid growth. At a staff meeting that year, we were informed that Palden Gyatso would be making his first trip to the West in April/May and that ICT would host the Washington, D.C. portion of his visit.

We were all excited. I was assigned as the staff member to accompany him wherever needed and given an additional responsibility that left me both excited and nervous: to serve as Palden Gyatso’s interpreter during his testimony before the House Subcommittee on International Operations and Human Rights - his first appearance before the U.S. Congress.

During that visit, Palden Gyatso stayed at the home of Grace Spring, the Tibet peace activist best known for holding a weekly vigil outside the Chinese Embassy every Friday morning for 18 years. Grace, who passed away in 2018, was both an artist and Tibet’s angel. She was deeply involved in the Tibetan freedom movement and served on ICT’s board. I worked closely with her and cannot recall a single instance where she declined to help.

When I stepped off the Bethesda Metro station that morning of April 1, 1995 and walked toward Grace’s home in Chevy Chase, Maryland, there was an extra spring in my step - I was eager to finally meet Palden Gyatso. By then, Kusho had already spent five busy weeks in Europe, visiting Britain, Italy, and Portugal, and receiving extensive media coverage. In Geneva, he had testified before the United Nations Commission on Human Rights, becoming the first Tibetan political prisoner ever to do so. That appearance left a lasting impression on him, as he would later recall in his autobiography:

When Grace opened the door, I found myself face-to-face with someone whose appearance I will never forget. I already knew Palden Gyatso’s story — thirty-three years in Chinese prisons and labor camps, including the notorious Drapchi prison. I knew of the torture, beatings, starvation, and relentless hard labor he and other inmates had endured.

I offered my Khata but could not take my eyes off him. He looked as if he had just stepped out of Drapchi - frail beneath the maroon robes of a Tibetan monk, slightly bent, cheeks sunken, teeth knocked out by an electric cattle prod. Supporters in London had fitted him with false teeth, yet the years of torture remained starkly visible.

What struck me most were his eyes - large, set deep into his face, and carrying the weight of unspeakable violence endured and witnessed. And yet, behind the physical frailty, the lasting impression Palden Gyatso left with me, and with everyone he encountered, was his steely will, unbroken spirit, and unshakable faith.

While ICT had scheduled many meetings and events for Kusho during that first visit, the most important was his testimony before the U.S. Congress. I had already read his prepared statement - translated from Tibetan - several times. Preparing for the oral statement, particularly the Q&A portion, was critical. It was also my first time interpreting before Congress, which made me anxious.

We spent hours rehearsing that weekend. I wanted to ensure Kusho didn’t speak too quickly and gave me enough time to interpret accurately. We even agreed on a signal: if he spoke for too long, I would place my hand gently on his lap as a cue to pause.

On April 3, 1995, Palden Gyatso appeared as a witness before the House Subcommittee on International Operations and Human Rights. The hearing, chaired by Representative Chris Smith of New Jersey - one of the strongest voices for human rights in China and Tibet - focused on the Chinese Laogai (gulag) system. The Ranking Democrat was the late Tom Lantos of California, a Holocaust survivor, close friend of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, and a steadfast supporter of Tibet. Also present was Congressman Benjamin Gilman of New York, another close ally of the Tibetan cause.

Palden Gyatso testified alongside fellow survivors of the Laogai system: Tang Boqiao, Catherine Ho, Father Cai Zhongxian, Liu Xinhu, and Harry Wu. Together, their testimonies offered a powerful collective indictment of China’s vast prison network.

We were the fourth witness to testify that morning. As planned, we began steadily, but Kusho grew visibly emotional and spoke for long stretches. I tried to signal him, but it became increasingly difficult to maintain the pauses I needed to interpret.

As he had done in Europe, Kusho brought the torture instruments Chinese officials had used on him: cattle prods, electric shock devices, and handcuffs — silent but damning evidence of the brutality he had endured.

The hearing room, 2172 of the Rayburn House Office Building, was not filled with the full Subcommittee - common unless a hearing features well-known figures or headline-making issues. Yet for those present that morning, Palden Gyatso left a profound and lasting impression through his presence and his testimony.

Chairman Smith thanked him for his “very moving testimony” noting that “by visually displaying the implements used to repress people and to torture them” Palden Gyatso had added “an additional dimension to our understanding, feeble as it is, to what it must be like to live under the horrors of this terrible Gulag system.”

Years later, upon learning of Palden Gyatso’s death, Congressman Smith reflected:

The rest of Kusho’s Washington visit passed in a blur. He met with many individuals and organizations, including a meeting with the late Ambassador James Lilly, who had served as U.S. Ambassador to China from 1989 to 1991. For those familiar with Palden Gyatso’s story, it is well known that Kusho and his fellow prisoners had attempted to deliver a petition to Ambassador Lilly during his visit to Drapchi prison in April 1991.

The visit received wide coverage in the U.S. media. A.M. Rosenthal, the renowned New York Times columnist, wrote an op-ed after Palden Gyatso visited him and the Times office, comparing the Tibetan freedom movement to the struggle for the abolition of slavery and observing that “sooner or later, abolition movements triumph.”

Those few fleeting moments with Kusho Palden Gyatso-la in Washington, D.C., in the late spring of 1995 remained etched in my memory. After his 1995 tours of Europe and the United States, Palden Gyatso’s stature grew as he tirelessly traveled the world, giving voice to Chinese oppression and repression in Tibet. He later testified and served as a co-plaintiff in the 2013 lawsuit filed against China by the Madrid-based Comité de Apoyo al Tíbet (CAT), which led the Spanish National Court to issue arrest warrants for five top Chinese leaders, including Jiang Zemin.

He achieved near rock-star status and arguably remains the Tibetan political prisoner who most powerfully educated the international community about Tibet’s human rights crisis. People, prominent and ordinary alike, flocked to hear him speak. His life and book were adapted into the film Fire Under the Snow, and he received numerous awards honoring his courage and advocacy. Palden Gyatso passed away at the age of 85, having lived all his exile years in Dharamsala, where he continued his activism for a free and independent Tibet until just weeks before his death.

Palden Gyatso arrived at the perfect moment, just as the international spotlight was turning toward Tibet. The decades from 1990 to 2010 marked the peak of Western awareness and support for Tibet. Tibetans were fortunate to have someone like him - a witness, a truthteller, and a source of inspiration. For Tibetans born and raised in the relative comfort of exile, it would have been impossible to convey the legitimacy, authenticity, and living example of sacrifice that Palden Gyatso embodied.

I can still vividly recall the image of the frail Tibetan monk who commanded the full attention of everyone present on the morning of April 3, 1995, in Room 2172 of the Rayburn House Office Building. Though he spoke in Tibetan, it was clear that his words needed no translation — their meaning was immediate, and their impact profound.

There will never be another like Kusho Palden Gyatso la, but the truth he carried will continue to echo until Tibet is free.

Chandra Shekhar Ghosh founded Bandhan in 2001 as a microfinance NGO in West Bengal with just ₹2 lakhs from his personal savings. At a time when most saw only risk in lending to the poor - especially women in rural India - Ghosh recognized both a profound need and a profitable business opportunity. Bandhan secured a Non-Banking Financial Company (NBFC) license in 2006, transferred its microfinance operations and funds from the NGO to the NBFC, and by 2010 had become India's largest microfinance institution. In 2014, Bandhan made history as the first microfinance institution to receive a universal banking license. Its remarkable rise from NGO to full-fledged bank has since become part of Indian corporate lore. Today, Bandhan operates in 35 of 36 states and union territories, serves 3.16 crore customers through 6,309 banking outlets, holds deposits of ₹1,51,212 crores, and reported a profit after tax of ₹2,745 crore for FY2024-25.

It was early October 2016, and I had just returned to Dharamshala from my tenure as Representative of His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA) in North America. The Kashag entrusted me with a new role: Director of the Social and Resource Development Fund (SARD) and Chief Resilience Officer of the CTA. In conversations with Dr. Kunchok Tsundue, the Chief Planning Officer of CTA, Bandhan often surfaced as an inspirational tale. From 2016 to 2020, I worked closely with Dr. Kunchok. Our offices were separated by a glass partition, through which I often glimpsed him channeling his inner Ghosh - tirelessly focused on financial inclusion and expanding access to credit for the Tibetan community.

Background: Seeds of Financial Inclusion

The CTA's efforts to expand access to credit date back to the late 1980s. In the early 1990s, Michael Currier - a young U.S. philanthropist and committed friend of Tibet - made headlines when he pledged $1 million to establish a revolving loan fund for Tibetan refugees in India and Nepal. His unexpected death in 1998 cut short both his personal engagement and the program's strongest source of support. In 2000, the Office of Tibet in New York created the Tibetan Community Development Fund (TCDF) to mobilize U.S. resources for microloans to small Tibetan businesses in South Asia. Around the same time, the CTA's Department of Home launched a modest loan program for Tibetan farmers, marking another step toward financial inclusion.

These early initiatives laid the groundwork for a far more ambitious push toward scalable and sustainable financial inclusion beginning in 2016. Between 2011 and 2021, the CTA successfully launched numerous projects: cybersecurity strengthening, Tibet Corps, TibetTV, the relocation of the Office of Tibet from New York to Washington DC, Tibet Museum, TIPA auditorium, Green Book online payment, The Blue Book redesign, and major infrastructure upgrades to the CTA campus in Dharamsala. Yet among them all, the most ambitious - and the one with the deepest implications for Tibetan self-reliance - was the creation of Gangjong Development Finance (GDF) also called TibFin. Gangjong in Tibetan (གངས་ལྗོངས་) means land of the snows and it is a shorthand for Tibet.

With GDF, the CTA raised and disbursed millions of dollars in low-interest loans, taking the first concrete steps toward an unprecedented goal: establishing the first Tibetan bank in exile. More than just a financial institution, such a bank symbolized a pathway to self-reliance, economic resilience, and the preservation of Tibetan identity through sustainable livelihoods.

This essay examines the vision, scope, achievements, and unresolved challenges of Gangjong, and what they reveal about the Tibetan leadership's pursuit of self-reliance.

Gangjong: A Play in Five Acts

Gangjong's story unfolds as a play in five acts. Before diving into those acts, however, it is essential to state one fact: Gangjong would not have been possible without United States government support. The financial burden on the CTA was minimal, as nearly all costs - personnel, loan capital, consulting, and other operational costs - was funded through USAID. I explored the broader context of U.S. support for Tibetans in an earlier piece: The Long Ask: Inside the Tibetan Campaign That Secured a Landmark U.S. Aid Partnership.

Act I: The Assessment

The aspiration to create a financial institution in exile had long been a recurring theme in discussions with U.S. government officials and members of Congress. It was also important to my talking points during my tenure as CTA Representative in Washington, D.C. In March 2016, USAID commissioned Dalberg, a prominent international consulting firm, to explore the feasibility of establishing a Tibetan financial institution for refugees in India. The study examined the community's financial needs and the obstacles Tibetans faced in accessing credit.

The findings were revealing. Many Tibetans struggled to obtain formal credit, hampered by lack of collateral and proper documentation. This limitation was not merely a bureaucratic inconvenience - it constrained economic opportunities and contributed to out-migration to the West.

Perhaps most striking was the trust Tibetans placed in a community-owned institution. They believed such a bank would understand their values, priorities, and unique circumstances. Focus group discussions revealed that roughly 30 percent of participants would deposit at least half their savings in a Tibetan financial institution, while another 30 percent said they would place all their savings there after a couple of years. The CTA's figures suggested the Tibetan community held nearly $79 million in household savings, had credit demand of about $93 million, and received $10 million in remittances from abroad in 2015 alone.

The Dalberg assessment1 concluded that the community's financial volume - both savings and credit demand - was well within the capacity of institutions like NBFCs. Importantly, it confirmed that establishing a Tibetan financial institution was feasible from a regulatory standpoint, whether as an NBFC or eventually as a Small Finance Bank (SFB).

In August 2014, Prime Minister Modi's newly elected government launched the Pradhan Mantri Jan Dhan Yojana, aimed at ensuring every household in India had access to basic financial services. For the Tibetan refugee community, the timing was significant. The scheme's core prerequisites - bank accounts, Aadhaar cards, and mobile phones - were increasingly available to Tibetans, creating an enabling environment for deeper financial inclusion. India's national policy opened the door for Tibetans to participate more fully in the country's financial ecosystem, complementing the CTA's aspirations to establish a Tibetan financial institution in exile.

Act II: Tibetan Refugee Livelihood Support Programme (TRLSP)

With the Dalberg assessment complete and USAID's support assured, the CTA's next step was clear: it needed hands-on experience designing, implementing, and managing a major loan program. In 2017, SARD launched the Tibetan Refugee Livelihood Support Program (TRLSP) with USAID funding.

The first year (FY2017–18) focused exclusively on the winter sweater trade - a seasonal business sustaining nearly 70 percent of the Tibetan exile population. A total of 913 Tibetan sweater sellers each received loans of ₹100,000 (approximately $1,430). In the second year (2018–19), the program expanded to new products and businesses, supporting 2,643 Tibetan entrepreneurs with loans totaling ₹313.2 million ($4.47 million). By the third year (2019–20), beneficiaries had grown to 3,119 and the loan portfolio exceeded $5 million. Interest rates were deliberately low, ranging from 3 percent for six-month sweater loans to 6 percent for other products.

TRLSP proved highly successful and continues today. The CTA recruited, trained, and sustained a dedicated in-house team. Repayment rates stood at an extraordinary 100 percent. The loans gave Tibetan sweater sellers greater leverage with Indian wholesalers, enabling them to secure better prices, stock, and purchase terms. Net income increased for about 41 percent of traders, while others were encouraged to start new businesses. The program also significantly improved financial literacy within the community.2

Today, TRLSP is the largest small-loan initiative serving the Tibetan exile community in India, with thousands of beneficiaries across multiple settlements. In parallel, the CTA established a smaller revolving loan fund for the Tibetan community in Nepal in 2019.

Act III: Gangjong Development Finance and the NBFC License

Alongside TRLSP, the CTA took the critical next step by establishing Gangjong Development Finance Private Ltd. (GDF) in November 2017. Registered as a private limited company under the Indian Companies Act of 2013, GDF's mission was clear: provide affordable capital, financial services, and financial literacy to Tibetan entrepreneurs while strengthening Tibetan Micro, Small, and Medium Enterprises (MSMEs). The immediate objective was transferring from SARD account into TRLSP funds of approximately $5.5 million and building an initial loan portfolio of ₹40-45 crores.

The next milestone was obtaining an NBFC license from the Reserve Bank of India (RBI). To qualify, GDF needed a minimum Net Owned Fund (NOF) of ₹2 crores. Three foreign charities linked to the Offices of Tibet in London, Tokyo, and Taipei contributed the required seed capital - around ₹2.6 crores - structured as foreign direct investment.

The RBI licensing process was rigorous, involving extensive scrutiny and detailed compliance requirements. The GDF team addressed every query and met all conditions. In December 2018, GDF achieved a major breakthrough when it was formally granted its NBFC license.

Act IV: Investment Promotion Tours

With the NBFC license secured and legal framework in place to attract domestic and foreign investment, the CTA knew it was critical not to lose momentum. To build confidence and rally support, a senior delegation led by Dr. Kunchok and myself embarked on two investment promotion tours targeting the Tibetan diaspora.

The first tour, in June 2019, was a five-week journey across nine North American cities (Washington, DC, Vancouver, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco Bay Area, Southern California, Minneapolis, Toronto, and New York). Everywhere we went, the response was warm and enthusiastic. By tour's end, more than 50 Tibetans had pledged a combined $1 million - a remarkable show of faith in both Gangjong's mission and the CTA's vision for economic self-reliance. The second tour in November 2019 took us to five Western European countries (Switzerland & Liechtenstein, Austria, Germany, France and the Netherlands). Once again, the reception was extraordinary. Over 55 investors committed CHF 1.3 million, with many more offering encouragement, solidarity, and personal donations.

These tours revealed the extraordinary commitment of the Tibetan diaspora to invest in their community's future. Two simple products were offered - equity shares with a minimum subscription of $/€/CHF15,000, and preference shares with a minimum of $/€/CHF25,000, redeemable in five years with a 3% annual dividend. Yet for most, the motivation was not financial gain but the opportunity to participate in something larger: building the foundations of the first Tibetan financial institution in exile.

Gangjong thus became more than a project. It became a platform through which ordinary Tibetans could directly invest in their people's collective resilience and self-reliance.

The First Three Years: Rapid Growth

By March 31, 2020, Gangjong had reached impressive milestones. Optimism was high, and with good reason - in just three years, the project had exceeded initial expectations.

The TRLSP pilot, with three consecutive years of 100% repayment, proved beyond doubt the community's demand and capacity for development finance. Building on this success, GDF management began preparing to expand its portfolio by scaling up commercial loan products, aiming to make them 70% of total lending. A partnership was established with the Tibetan Chamber of Commerce (TCC), fast-tracking TCC members for GDF loans. The GDF board approved increasing the maximum individual loan amount from ₹20 lakhs to ₹50 lakhs, with higher loans subject to board approval.3

Financially, Gangjong's foundation was strengthening rapidly. Its capital base had grown to about ₹8 crore (roughly $1 million), with an additional ₹33 crore ($5 million) in funding expected from SARD by end-2020. Within three years, GDF had built a loan portfolio of nearly $5.5 million - still majority development loans, but with a clear trajectory toward expanding commercial credit.

The momentum was undeniable. Yet just as Gangjong stood poised to scale into a new growth phase, unforeseen global and internal challenges loomed - challenges that would soon test both the institution's resilience and the leadership's vision.

Act V: Capacity Building

In Act V, the enterprise entered a critical phase: strengthening itself as an institution and addressing foundational challenges. Once again, USAID's support proved invaluable.

In January 2020, USAID issued a Request for Proposals to conduct an Organizational Capacity Assessment (OCA) of GDF. The objective was threefold: identify and address capacity gaps, create a concrete action plan for institutional strengthening, and help GDF mobilize $10 million in debt, equity, and grants.

Through competitive selection, Dalberg was chosen to lead this effort, with engagement scheduled from March 2020 to September 2021. This marked a new phase in Gangjong's journey - one focused less on rapid expansion and more on building the systems, expertise, and credibility needed for sustainable long-term growth.

Key OCA findings4 included:

• Considerable potential exists to expand financial services for both Tibetans and closely associated underserved non-Tibetan communities in India. The Tibetan lending market alone was estimated at approximately ₹700 crore ($100 million).

• GDF is well positioned to serve this market. However, commercial lending activities remained limited, with much capital underutilized due to external factors like COVID-19, as well as internal challenges including the CEO's departure and absence of clear strategy and product portfolio.

• Moving into the next phase - shifting from primarily development lending to commercial credit and expanding the portfolio - would require significant strengthening of internal capabilities.

Overall, the assessment placed GDF's investment readiness at low-to-medium level across most OCA dimensions, reflecting both high investor expectations and the steep learning curve observed in other NBFCs that achieved success.

Key recommendations5 included:

• Articulate a clear strategy, business plan, and commercial product portfolio tailored to target segments

• Strengthen implementation capabilities and build the commercial loan book through pilots in one or two locations

• Improve internal systems and customer-facing processes by developing commercial product sales and customer acquisition processes, establishing coordinated collections systems, implementing robust underwriting processes, and accelerating replacement of the current MIS

• Build a strong leadership team by hiring a credible and experienced CEO

• Clarify relationship with the CTA—maintain GDF autonomy as an NBFC while continuing to benefit from CTA support

• Address legal and compliance issues to ensure adherence to all regulatory and statutory requirements

While GDF management had initially envisioned offering remittance services similar to Western Union and MoneyGram, the Dalberg OCA encouraged a broader outlook after success in the Tibetan credit market. The assessment identified promising opportunities not only in remittances, but also in the mortgage sector and extending lending services to Indian communities living alongside Tibetan settlements in hill regions.

Storm Clouds Gather

The Dalberg OCA findings echoed several issues already on the radar of GDF's leadership. Rapid expansion in the first three years had pushed the organization's capacity - people, systems, and infrastructure - to its limits. The CTA and GDF management were not blind to these challenges. In fact, a deliberate plan was already in motion to address them. Developing a comprehensive strategic business plan topped the list. USAID had approved funding in 2020 not only for this plan but also for essential policies and manuals, branding and marketing, technical support, and a pilot project in Delhi, Dehra Dun, or Dharamshala to prove GDF's commercial potential and demonstrate proof of concept.

Simultaneously, there was growing recognition that GDF's future depended on greater autonomy - functioning as a business entity in its own right while maintaining constructive relationship with the CTA. Options under discussion included relocating the head office to Delhi or Bangalore, recruiting a full-time CEO at competitive salary, estimated by Dalberg at ₹50–55 lakhs annually, etc.

But just as the foundation for this next phase was being laid, GDF faced three sudden and debilitating blows: the COVID-19 pandemic outbreak in March 2020, the tragic loss of key project architect, and withdrawal of support from the new Kashag that assumed office in May 2021. Together, these shocks reversed the momentum and ultimately led to the collapse of a promising institution.

COVID-19 Pandemic: The first COVID-19 case in India was reported in Kerala in late January 2020. By early May, cases had surpassed 50,000. The Government of India imposed a nationwide lockdown in late March lasting at least ten weeks, followed by intermittent lockdowns throughout the year. Most of 2020 was marked by office closures, remote work, and widespread disruption.

For GDF, the pandemic significantly slowed progress, eroding momentum gained in its first three years. Investor confidence weakened, and more than two-thirds of Tibetan diaspora investors in North America and Europe who had pledged contributions did not follow through. This was understandable, as global anxiety over health, employment, and financial security made investment in new ventures difficult. GDF promotional activities halted almost overnight, and the subdued environment persisted well into early 2022.

Loss of Key Project Architect: Another severe setback preceded the pandemic. In late 2019, GDF and the CTA lost a central figure in the project's development: a New Delhi–based consultant with decades of experience establishing NBFCs and navigating regulatory and corporate requirements. His firm had been deeply involved in every major step of GDF's journey - from company registration and NBFC license filing to building TRLF back-end systems and MIS. He served as primary technical advisor and troubleshooter for the nascent enterprise, also leading the important process of transferring TRLF funds from the SARD account to GDF. His unexpected passing after a brief illness left a significant void in expertise and leadership at a crucial growth stage.

Leadership Reversal: For those who devoted countless hours to advancing GDF's goals - an institution envisioned to increase income and strengthen Tibetan self-reliance in exile - the project was fundamentally apolitical. The CTA's involvement in loan programs stretched back decades, and the aspiration to establish a financial institution had reportedly been articulated as early as the 12th and 13th Kashag. By the fourth year of the Gangjong project, millions had been invested, and much groundwork for building the first viable financial institution in Tibetan exile history had been laid.

However, the incoming CTA leadership chose to emphasize the risks over the vision and potential, effectively sidelining a groundbreaking initiative. After assuming office in May 2021, work on GDF was abruptly halted, staff were released, and the project was portrayed to the community in an incomplete and selective manner. In its final phase, Gangjong was reduced to a political spectacle in the Tibetan parliament-in-exile, with executive and legislative branches passing responsibility back and forth rather than safeguarding an institution that had taken years of dedication, planning, and international support to build.

In retrospect, a fundamental flaw of Gangjong was exposed: with the CTA investing almost nothing of its own capital - relying instead on U.S. government funding - the incoming leadership could disengage with little consequence, treating a once-promising institution not as a community asset, but as a discretionary project they could abandon without bearing financial or political responsibility.

Conclusion

The Tibetan Refugee Livelihood Support Program (TRLSP) stands as one of the enduring legacies of the Gangjong project. By building a corpus of nearly $5 million, the initiative created a foundation that - under the right leadership - could still serve as seed capital for another attempt to establish a Tibetan financial institution in exile. While TRLSP has delivered meaningful impact, its scope is limited: small loans of ₹1 to ₹3 lakhs do not fully address the community's broader credit needs, and also the long-term viability of the winter sweater business itself is uncertain given demographic shifts, rising competition, and climate change realities.

The legal and regulatory challenges of transferring TRLSP funds to GDF were portrayed by the new Kashag as insurmountable. Yet during my time with GDF, several pathways were being actively explored- establishing a Special Purpose Vehicle, pursuing FCRA registration for GDF, exploring direct grants from SARD, and engaging directly with Indian authorities. These avenues demonstrated that while obstacles were complex, they were not without potential solutions.

Looking back, the CTA's initiation of the Gangjong enterprise was somewhat akin to raising an ostrich in a pen of chickens. Unlike its traditional programs, the CTA has no prior experience of establishing and managing a successful for-profit venture. Gangjong could not have survived indefinitely within the bureaucracy, regulatory burdens, and process-heavy culture of the administration. The vision was to eventually allow the institution to stand on its own - independent, agile, and capable of scaling beyond CTA structural limits.

My reflections on Gangjong are therefore mixed - immense pride in what was achieved, yet deep disappointment in how it ended. It required vision, courage, and extraordinary commitment from those involved. In a remarkably short time, the initiative advanced further than any previous attempt to build such an institution in exile. But its collapse represents a profound loss - for the dedicated team, for investors and U.S. government partners who placed faith in it, and most of all for the Tibetan community in exile. The investors will see their capital returned. The community, however, has lost a precious opportunity, like a flower cut off before it could bloom.

For more than sixty years, the rhetoric of self-reliance has been central to the exile narrative, yet tangible progress toward it has been limited. Gangjong represented a concrete and achievable path to genuine economic self-sufficiency. Had it been allowed to continue, it could have transformed Tibetan livelihoods while also generating broader benefits for millions of Indians - much like Bandhan Bank has done.

Imagine Gangjong Bank branches spread across major Tibetan settlements in India and key diaspora hubs, serving both Tibetans and surrounding communities. Such a network would not only expand financial access but also reposition Tibetans from passive recipients of aid to active contributors to India’s economy, while uplifting their neighbors in the process. The vision was within reach; what was missing was the the resolve to see it through.

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Alpine Paradise

It was July 8, 2023, and I was headed to Stadthalle Bülach, a 40-minute drive from my home in Switzerland. This was the venue where the Tibetan community of Switzerland and Liechtenstein had gathered to celebrate His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s 88th birthday. I arrived just before the day-long program was set to begin, only to discover that parking was a major challenge. The auditorium’s lot, which typically accommodates around 130 cars, was full, and every nearby street space was taken. After circling the area several times, I finally found a spot several blocks away.

It is easy to see why Tibetans, and many others, are drawn to Switzerland. This small nation of fewer than nine million people has arguably found a remarkable balance between Gross Domestic Product and Gross National Happiness. Its considerable wealth has been achieved alongside a relatively pristine environment, a vibrant democracy, effective governance, and consistently high rankings in the The World Happiness Report.

Switzerland has been my home for several years, and there is much to admire: clean air and water, a low crime rate, reserved yet polite and law-abiding people, an efficient and punctual public transportation system, and breathtaking natural landscapes.

The education system stands out for its flexibility and balanced pathways between general and vocational tracks once students reach the age of 14. Swiss democracy, often described as direct democracy, empowers citizens to play an active role in decision-making at all levels. Beyond electing representatives, citizens regularly vote on specific issues through popular initiatives and referendums. The country’s federal structure divides authority among the national government (the Confederation), 26 cantons, and roughly 2,130 municipalities (communes). Cantons and communes enjoy significant autonomy over education, healthcare, taxation, and policing. Even today, two cantons - Appenzell Innerrhoden and Glarus - maintain the tradition of voting by open assembly, where citizens gather in town squares to decide matters by a show of hands.

The Swiss system of collective leadership offers a compelling model at a time when authoritarianism is rising globally. The seven-member Federal Council, elected by Parliament, governs collegially, with the presidency rotating annually among its members.

Despite a relatively high rate of gun ownership, Switzerland remains remarkably safe. In 2021, the homicide rate stood at just 0.4 per 100,000 people, compared to 5.8 in the United States.

Tibetans in Switzerland

Records of Tibetans living in Switzerland prior to 1960 are scarce. Today, there are approximately 8,000 Tibetans in Switzerland, making it the largest Tibetan community in Europe. Until the early 2000s, it was also the largest exile community outside India and Nepal. How did this come to be?

To answer this, I explored open-source documents; particularly those on Dodis.ch, a publicly accessible archival database of Swiss federal diplomatic records, especially from the Federal Department of Foreign Affairs (FDFA); and other materials.

I had known Switzerland supported Tibetan refugees from the 1960s onward, but deeper research revealed the full extent of that support. It renewed my appreciation for Switzerland’s critical role, not only in resettling refugees on its own soil but also in shaping the lives of Tibetans in India and Nepal during those early exile years.

By contrast, the United Kingdom - a fellow European power with deep historical ties to Tibet - had a greater political and moral obligation to support Tibet. Britain maintained a diplomatic mission in Lhasa until the 1940s and was one of the few countries to engage diplomatically with Tibet before the Chinese invasion and occupation. The British also invaded Tibet in 1903 through the Younghusband Expedition. Yet, its political support for Tibetans has been disappointing, and its humanitarian contributions modest compared to Switzerland.

On this subject, I highly recommend an essay in notes on art in a global context, MoMA’s online journal. Written by Thupten Kelsang, a Research Fellow at the Victoria & Albert Museum (V&A) in London, the piece, From Loot to Legacy: Rethinking “Tibetan Art” in Western Museums - offers a Tibetan perspective on the debate around cultural heritage and decolonizing museums detailing atrocities committed by Younghusband’s expedition.

While a full account of Swiss government support for the Tibetans is beyond this article’s scope, this piece highlights key milestones and challenges, Berne’s diplomatic balancing act with China, and traces how enduring Swiss support enabled the growth of the Tibetan community in Switzerland.

Swiss Support: The High Points

Swiss government documents from the 1960s often mention growing public empathy for Tibetans. Perhaps the Swiss felt kinship with another mountain-dwelling culture facing upheaval. Support came from individuals, churches, civil society, government institutions, and media. One memorable campaign featured a stamp-like label reading “Tibet ruft um Hilfe” (“Tibet Calls for Help”) affixed to the backs of envelopes sent via Swiss Federal Post, raising both awareness and funds.

The Pestalozzi Children’s Village (Kinderdorf Pestalozzi) in Trogen, Canton Appenzell Ausserrhoden, was founded in 1946 to shelter children affected by World War II. In 1960, construction began on the Tibet House (Tibeterhaus) - one of several cultural houses in the village. It opened in 1961, and that October welcomed 20 Tibetan refugee children, accompanied by Tibetan caregivers. The children attended local schools and received Tibetan-language and cultural education to help preserve their heritage while integrating.

The Association for Tibetan Homes (Verein für Tibetische Heime, VTiH), the first major Swiss organization dedicated to Tibetan refugees, was founded in 1960. It coordinated resettlement and cultural preservation. In 1961, VTiH received permission to admit 22 refugees; a second group of 20 arrived a year and a half later in Unterwasser, Canton St. Gallen.

In March 1963, the Swiss Federal Council approved VTiH’s application to resettle 1,000 Tibetan refugees under federal refugee support decrees. The Swiss Confederation covered 75% of costs, with the Swiss Red Cross (SRC) covering the rest. Funds covered travel, housing, food, medical care, and integration.1

Selection and logistics were coordinated by the SRC with Tibetan authorities in Dharamsala. Refugees arrived in organized groups after three conditions were met: receiving cantons’ commitment of permanent acceptance; securing of adequate housing and jobs; and assurance of adequate financial resources.

Upon arrival, the Tibetan refugees were housed in communal accommodations (“Heimstätten”) across German-speaking Switzerland, near workplaces and schools. Expenses were covered by private donations and sponsorships collected by SRC and VTiH.

Many Tibetans had previously worked in road construction in India’s Kullu-Manali region, living in tents under harsh conditions. Arriving at Kloten Airport and moving into clean, furnished homes in picturesque Swiss towns was transformative. One refugee recalled being bewildered by formal sit-down meals and not knowing what knives and forks were for.2

While initial hopes were that refugees would work in agriculture, crafts and factories, many found and preferred stable factory jobs, especially in weaving and other industries. Swiss industries faced significant labor shortages in the sixties and early seventies.3 So, Tibetan labor was welcomed by the factories. The companies would inform the SRC how many workers were needed and apartments available. When groups arrived, they were often received by canton, SRC, and company representatives.

A memorable story tells of a Tibetan mother in the 1973 Glarus group giving birth on the plane; she named her daughter “Namdu” meaning airplane in Tibetan.4

One administrative consequence was the introduction of family names for Tibetan refugees starting in 1969. Since Tibetans traditionally have no surnames and many share similar names, Swiss authorities required family names for legal purposes - a practice still in use.5

In February 1964, Switzerland approved an office for His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s personal representative. Initially requested in Geneva, it opened in Zurich due to local Tibetan presence, later moving to Geneva. Phala Thupten Wangden was the first official representative.

Another milestone was the 1968 opening of the Tibetan Institute of Rikon in Töstal/ZH, established through the Kuhn family - owners of Kuhn Rikon cookware. The family also employed many Tibetans. The Institute, also a monastery, serves as a scientific, cultural, and spiritual center. His Holiness, the Dalai Lama has visited the Institute multiple times.

Tibetan Foster Children

While the majority of Tibetan refugees resettled through the Kinderdorf Pestalozzi program and the “1,000 Tibetans” initiative were able to integrate into Swiss society, a separate program involving the placement of Tibetan children from India into Swiss foster families became the subject of later criticism. Initiated by Swiss industrialist and philanthropist Charles Aeschimann in response to a request from Tibetan authorities, the program brought 160 Tibetan children to Switzerland between August 1961 and March 1964.6

According to program guidelines, foster parents were to provide Tibetan language instruction, cultural education, and maintain contact with Tibetan communities, with the goal of children eventually returning to India or Tibet.7 Despite these provisions and the program’s humanitarian intent, launched during a period of acute crisis in the Tibetan exile community, many children faced challenges of separation from their parents, adaptation to their foster families, and identity crisis. Some were later placed in rehabilitation centers; several died from substance abuse or suicide.8

Swiss Aid for Tibetans in India and Nepal

Beyond Switzerland, the Swiss government became a major donor supporting Tibetan refugee programs in India and Nepal. India’s Central Relief Committee (CRC), a government initiative chaired by Acharya J.B. Kripalani, coordinated aid for Tibetans in India. This article focuses on Switzerland’s larger aid footprint in Nepal.

From 1960 to 1963, the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) provided emergency relief to Tibetan refugees in Nepal. The Nepalese government preferred the ICRC and Swiss-led assistance over other donors. The royal government’s policy was to relocate Tibetan refugees from the sensitive border areas to Nepal’s interior and ICRC and later the Swiss Red Cross played a critical role in this process. Switzerland, a major ICRC funder, enabled financing through special federal decrees dating back to WWII.

As aid shifted from emergency relief to development, the Swiss government’s Technical Cooperation Service (DftZ) took over from the ICRC, aiming to make Tibetans in Nepal economically independent and integrated permanently. In 1976, DftZ became the Swiss Agency for Development and Cooperation (SDC).9

A notable Swiss initiative was the Tibetan carpet industry in Nepal, which became Nepal’s largest employer and top foreign exchange earner in the 1980s and 1990s.10 The Swiss established production centers and a trading company to manage import–export operations. Initially under DftZ management, the company was later handed over to Tibetan ownership. The trading company developed a permanent sales network and rapidly expanded both domestic and international demand for Tibetan carpets.

In 1972, the Swiss established the Snow Lion Foundation which remains the Central Tibetan Administration’s main development partner for Tibetan communities in Nepal.

The Swiss Red Cross, another key player, implemented refugee projects in Nepal but transferred most responsibilities to the Nepalese Red Cross by 1968.

A Balancing Act

Switzerland was one of the first Western countries to recognize the People’s Republic of China (PRC), establishing relations on January 17, 1950. While committed to its long-standing policy of neutrality and pragmatic diplomacy, Switzerland also upheld a “long humanitarian tradition” of offering refuge to those persecuted for religious or political beliefs. This dual commitment sometimes placed Bern in a delicate position - seeking to preserve ties with Beijing while remaining true to its humanitarian values.

From the early 1960s to the early 1990s, Switzerland carefully balanced its approach to Tibet and the Dalai Lama. Chinese officials repeatedly pressed Swiss authorities over issues like Tibet House, Tibetan children at Pestalozzi, the “Tibet ruft um Hilfe” campaign, aid projects in Nepal, the Tibet Office, refugee resettlement, and the Dalai Lama’s visits.

Although Switzerland played a pioneering role in resettling Tibetan refugees and supporting community initiatives, it was also cautious in responding to certain Tibetan requests. Entry permits for His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s visits in 1968 (for the inauguration of the Tibetan Institute of Rikon) and in 1972 were denied11, and his first visit in October 1973 took place under specific conditions. A request by the Tibetan leadership to receive a higher number of Tibetan refugees than the 1,000 authorized was declined,12 and meetings between His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the Federal Council did not occur until August 19, 1991.13

Conclusion:

Switzerland’s quiet but decisive role in creating the largest Tibetan exile community outside Asia stands as one of the great untold humanitarian achievements of the 20th century. Guided by a blend of political foresight, grassroots mobilization, and genuine compassion, this small neutral nation not only offered safe haven to thousands of refugees but also helped lay the foundations for thriving Tibetan settlements in India and Nepal. Yet the Swiss–Tibetan story is also one of careful diplomatic balancing—support for humanitarian principles tempered by the realities of maintaining relations with Beijing. It is a reminder that even the most principled actors must sometimes navigate the narrow space between moral conviction and geopolitical constraint.

The successful establishment of the Tibetan community in Switzerland was made possible through the dedication of countless individuals and organizations, far too many to name here. Among the most significant were the International Committee of the Red Cross, Swiss Red Cross, Swiss Aid to Tibetans, Pestalozzi Children's Village in Trogen, Association for Tibetan Homes, the Swiss Agency for Development and Cooperation, Caritas Switzerland, as well as individuals such as the the Kuhn family, Toni Hagen, Otto Wenger, Charles Aeschimann and Heinrich Harrer.

Today, the Tibetan community in Switzerland and Liechtenstein stands not only as one of the largest Tibetan diasporas worldwide but also among the most prosperous and well-integrated. That morning at Stadthalle Bülach, the parking lot had several sleek, high-end cars - BMWs, Mercedes and Audis - reflecting the community’s economic success. Yet, despite this progress, the concerns voiced by Tibetan elders in the 1960s about the gradual erosion of identity, language, and culture remain urgent. A new generation of Swiss-Tibetans now lives across 23 communities, but unlike many Tibetan communities in North America, Switzerland lacks a dedicated cultural center to serve as a social and spiritual anchor. The creation of such a facility, the first of its kind in Europe, would meet a widely recognized need: to provide a gathering place that preserves language and traditions, strengthens social bonds, and supports integration into Swiss society without sacrificing Tibetan identity.

Lastly, the story of the Swiss-Tibetan journey underscores the profound contributions of His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan elders. Confronted with the immense challenge of caring for tens of thousands of refugees - many arriving in India and Nepal with little more than the clothes on their backs - the Tibetan leadership worked tirelessly to safeguard their people’s welfare. In the Swiss government and its people, they found a compassionate and generous ally whose support proved invaluable during those critical early years.

(The author would like to sincerely thank the Schweizerisches Nationalmuseum and the Pestalozzi Children's Village Foundation for kindly providing the images used in this article).

A New Era in Dharamsala

It was a quiet morning in August 2011, just days after Lobsang Sangay had been sworn in as the new Kalon Tripa of the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA). I had recently relocated to Dharamsala after nearly two decades in the United States - driven by a desire to serve and to support the Kalon Tripa and his team during this pivotal chapter in Tibetan exile leadership and democracy.

It was an exciting but uncertain time. For the first time, political leadership had shifted from monastic and community elites to someone younger, with a professional background outside the traditional establishment. Just a few months earlier, in May, His Holiness the Dalai Lama had formally relinquished his temporal authority, transferring power to the democratically elected Kalon Tripa and the Tibetan Parliament-in-Exile. With that historic act, the 368-year-old Ganden Phodrang system - in which the Dalai Lamas served as both spiritual and temporal leaders - formally ended.

I was among a small group of individuals brought on by the newly elected 14th Kashag (cabinet) to serve as professional staff. My title was Advisor to the Kalon Tripa and Special Coordinator for Development. I worked from a modest office in the new Kashag building. My monthly salary was under $300, but the contract came with housing, subsidized meals, health insurance - and above all, the profound satisfaction of serving a cause I deeply believed in.

The Early Push for U.S. Backing

On my desk that first day sat several files, including materials related to the “Revitalization of Tibetan Settlements” initiative - a proposal that would become important to our early fundraising efforts.

The CTA, unlike any conventional government, has virtually no internal revenue base. It relies almost entirely on the generosity of the Indian government and external donors. In August 2011, the financial picture was less than optimal. The Green Book contributions - the main voluntary tax paid by Tibetans in exile - accounted for less than 10% of CTA’s budget. CTA-owned enterprises and most of its real estate had been privatized, and departmental reserves were low. Resource mobilization efforts were limited and highly centralized. Meanwhile, key European donors - Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Germany - were beginning to show signs of fatigue after years of support.

Upon reviewing the Settlement Revitalization documents, I came to appreciate the groundwork laid by the 13th Kashag, which had initiated the proposal back in 2007. Structured as a five-year plan, the proposal focused on five core priorities: workforce development, sustainable agriculture (with an emphasis on organic farming), critical infrastructure, implementation of the Basic Education Policy, and access to basic healthcare.

The funding sought was $8 million, and in a gesture of goodwill and to get the donor’s attention, Kashag even framed the ask as a “final, one-time request.” While other donors were likely approached, the bulk of the effort appears to have been directed at securing support from the U.S. government (USG). At the time, the only active U.S. funding was the longstanding annual PRM grant of about $2.5 million to support Tibetan refugees in South Asia.

A Painful First Step on a Long Road to Partnership

The efforts of the 13th Kashag yielded initial success when the U.S. Congress approved a $2 million grant in 2009, which USAID/India formally launched in 2011 as the Economic Development of Tibetan Settlements (EDOTS) initiative. The program aimed to support organic agriculture and workforce development in a select group of Tibetan settlements in India and Nepal. The grant was awarded to TechnoServe (TNS), a large international NGO headquartered in Washington, D.C.

What began with great optimism quickly turned to frustration. It became clear that a majority of the funding would be consumed by technical assistance, administrative overheads, and other expenses incurred by TNS headquarters and its newly established country office in Mumbai - leaving minimal resources for implementation on the ground. Delays and disagreements followed as CTA tried, unsuccessfully, to negotiate a more community-focused delivery of the funds.

The experience was a sobering introduction to the realities of international aid - where large, well-connected NGOs, skilled at maneuvering U.S. government systems, often operate with limited transparency and struggle to align with the actual needs of local communities. It exposed a deeper flaw in the architecture of U.S. foreign aid: while outwardly competitive, the system tended to reward bureaucratic compliance, institutional scale, and existing relationships over local knowledge, trust, and effectiveness. Far more could have been achieved had the resources been channeled directly to the communities themselves - those closest to the problems and best positioned to solve them.

Despite strong frustrations and serious discussions about pulling out, CTA chose to persevere. EDOTS, flawed as it was, marked the first step in establishing a direct working relationship with USAID - something we believed could evolve into a more meaningful, balanced partnership.

Building Momentum: The Breakthrough Years (2012-2014)

That patience paid off. Between 2012 and 2014, CTA secured three significant multi-year grants:

• $2.8 million for the Tibetan Education Program (2012–2016)
• $3.2 million to Strengthen the Tibetan Health System (2015–2017)
• $1.36 million from the Bureau for Democracy, Human Rights and Labour (DRL) for Internet Security and Digital Resilience (2013–2015)

These breakthroughs were the result of close collaboration with key allies and stakeholders: Tibet Fund (as the American partner receiving USG funding on CTA’s behalf), the Office of the Special Coordinator for Tibetan Issues, the Office of Tibet in Washington, and the International Campaign for Tibet (ICT).

The Washington Pivot: Building a Long-Term Vision for Tibetan Aid

Despite the welcome increase in funding, all three grants were one-time awards. There was no guarantee of continuity. In late 2013, the 14th Kashag adopted a new strategy to secure sustainable, long-term support. As part of this pivot, the Office of Tibet was relocated from New York to Washington, D.C., in April 2014 - providing a full-time presence in the capital for advocacy and donor engagement.

This approach followed the model set by the late Lodi Gyari Rinpoche, whose strategic and high impact diplomacy was instrumental in securing various Tibetan priorities in Washington. Rinpoche, a mentor and former boss during my time at ICT in the 1990s, was one of Tibet’s most accomplished diplomats, serving His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan people with dedication and distinction.

Rinpoche had pioneered key U.S. Congressional funding lines for Tibetan cultural and environmental projects inside Tibet. He established The Bridge Fund, which became the principal recipient of this congressional appropriation, along with subsequently other U.S.-based recipients such as Winrock International, Rockefeller Philanthropy Advisors, the Tibetan Buddhist Resource Center, and the Tibet Poverty Alleviation Fund.

The 14th Kashag led by Sikyong Lobsang Sangay launched a focused campaign to expand Tibetan line items in the U.S. budget. The resource mobilization strategy had three objectives:

1. Support for Resilience of Tibetans in Exile and Diaspora: Building on Congress’s longstanding support for initiatives inside Tibet, the CTA sought an additional appropriation to strengthen the resilience and well-being of Tibetan refugee communities across South Asia.

2. Institutional Capacity Building for the CTA: A key priority was securing funding to strengthen the CTA itself - enhancing its governance structures, operational efficiency, and ability to deliver services effectively to the Tibetan community.

3. Empowering Tibetan Civil Society: This ask sought dedicated funding for Tibetan NGOs working to defend human rights, promote democratic values, and advance religious freedom in Tibet and the People’s Republic of China.

Codifying Support: Tibetan Line Items in the U.S. Federal Budget

A major milestone came in FY2015, when Congress approved a $3 million Tibetan line item in the foreign operations budget. This doubled to $6 million in FY2016. In FY2018, a separate $3 million line item was added to strengthen CTA institutions. By FY2022, Congress had added another $3 million to support Tibetan NGOs promoting democracy and religious freedom in Tibet and China. Though this line item wasn’t renewed in later appropriations, it did result in a one-time competitive DRL grant awarded in 2023 to the Tibet Action Institute and Students for a Free Tibet.

By FY2024, total U.S. funding for Tibet-related programs exceeded $25 million -covering initiatives inside Tibet, efforts to strengthen the resilience of the Tibetan exile and diaspora communities, capacity building for the CTA, and support for Tibetan refugees. Between 2015 and 2023, Tibet Fund ranked among the top eight USG funding recipients for programs in India. The mission led by the 14th and 15th Kashags to secure dedicated Tibetan line items in the annual U.S. foreign aid budget was successfully realized.

This decade-long success was the product of a sustained, cross-administration effort involving four Kashags (13th to the 16th), allies in the U.S. government and Congress, the support of various stakeholders, and the moral leadership and inspiration of His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

The Unraveling

The carefully built framework for sustained U.S. support to Tibetan programs, however, unraveled rapidly following a dramatic policy shift in early 2025. On January 20, the new White House administration issued an Executive Order freezing all U.S. foreign aid. Within weeks, USAID was dismantled and folded into the State Department.

Secretary of State Marco Rubio announced a radical shift: “Every dollar we spend, every program we fund, and every policy we pursue must be justified with the answer to three simple questions: Does it make America safer? Does it make America stronger? Does it make America more prosperous?” A new doctrine, unveiled July 1, promised a pivot to “trade over aid, opportunity over dependency, and investment over assistance.”

Amid this upheaval, the Tibetan community received limited good news. In March 2025, Sikyong Penpa Tsering shared that that the PRM refugee program would be renewed. In July, media confirmed a $6.8 million restoration for Tibetans in South Asia - though it’s unclear whether this was a one-time award or part of a longer commitment. It should be noted that in April 2024, USAID issued a Notice of Funding Opportunity (NOFO) for a $35 million, five-year program, and by November, a new partnership with the CTA was announced.

From Dependency to Resilience

In many ways, we are back where we were in 2011 - facing an uncertain funding future. But the landscape has changed. The U.S. foreign policy and aid doctrine is now more decentralized, empowering regional officials over centralized decisions from Washington. The CTA must adapt, building stronger ties with mid- to senior-level officials at the U.S. Embassy in New Delhi and its consulates in Chennai, Hyderabad, Kolkata, and Mumbai.

Just as critically, Tibetan advocacy and projects must be reframed to show how it aligns with U.S. strategic interests - especially in countering Chinese disinformation and China’s malign influence. Dharamsala and its allies must quantify and communicate the impact of their work clearly and consistently.

The policy shifts underway in Washington are likely to persist beyond the current administration. Tibetan funding may never return to its 2015–2024 peak. This reality calls for a recalibration. The Tibetan leadership and community must begin laying the groundwork for long-term sustainability, with a focus on financial independence and institutional self-reliance.

Achieving this will require a fundamental restructuring of the CTA and a pivot away from its current welfare-oriented model to one that emphasizes individual responsibility and community initiative. The CTA must evolve from a primarily administrative apparatus to a dynamic institution focused on the geopolitical challenge of countering China’s influence. It must embrace innovation—leveraging technology to expand reach, improve efficiency, and modernize its governance and advocacy.

The Discovery

My father was a meticulous record-keeper—a habit instilled during his many years as the personal attendant to a renowned Geshe in Tibet and later through his military service in India. He maintained daily journals and kept organized files for each of his five children, preserving academic records, school correspondence, medical documents, and more.

While recently sorting through some of his papers, I found an envelope containing a document issued by the Gayday Iron & Steel Co. Limited. I had heard of this short-lived enterprise—an early industrial venture initiated by the Tibetan leadership in the 1960s—but had no idea that my father had invested in it.

When I asked my mother, she vaguely recalled him mentioning losing “quite a bit of money” in a company. No kidding—20,000 Rupees in 1961 would be worth nearly 1.85 million Rupees today. For someone of modest means and lifelong frugality like my father, that must have been a painful loss.

The discovery of this failed investment prompted me to dig deeper. What emerged from my limited research was a story rooted in a turbulent chapter of Tibetan exile history—a story of bold ambition, limited experience, and the immense pressures of an uncertain time. The individuals involved—most of them now long gone— seemed to have started out with the best of intentions, but hindsight reveals decisions shaped as much by hope as by inexperience with the enormous responsibilities they had assumed.

The Protagonists

After His Holiness the Dalai Lama, Kungo Gyalo Thondup stood out as one of the most consequential political figures in the early years of exile. As the Dalai Lama’s elder brother and his informal envoy to the outside world, he played a central role in shaping Tibetan strategy. My late father had worked with Gyalo Thondup both when he was the Dapon (Chief of Army) of Establishment 22 (also known as The Special Frontier Force) and during his tenure as the Secretary of the Department of Security in the exiled Tibetan government. I met him a few times myself. Gyalo Thondup was different from most Tibetan leaders and was a man of vision and bold ambition—outspoken, impatient with protocol and process, and attuned to the power of public attention. These traits earned him both admiration and criticism, and like many historical and powerful figures navigating complex terrains, his legacy remains debated.

One of the most consequential early initiatives overseen by Gyalo Thondup was the sale of the gold and silver reserves that the Tibetan government had earlier sent to Gangtok for safekeeping under the protection of the Chogyal of Sikkim. According to His Holiness the Dalai Lama, as cited by Jamyang Norbu on his blog, this treasure was worth around US$6 million in 1959—equivalent to about US$65 million today1. The bullion was sold in Calcutta, with part of the proceeds supporting the exile government in Dharamsala. The rest was invested or loaned to business ventures, including those affiliated with the Marwari trading family Jetmull Bhojraj of Calcutta, who had longstanding commercial ties with Tibetan and Sikkimese elites.

By the early 20th century, the Marwaris—known locally as Kayah—had transformed from moneylenders into the dominant mercantile class across Sikkim, Darjeeling, Kalimpong, and the northern Bengal hill regions. They owned and operated many different businesses including most of the tea gardens. While many Tibetans benefitted from their dealings with the Kayahs, others were outmatched by their shrewd and sometimes exploitative practices.

To manage the exile government’s finances, Dundul Namgyal Tsarong—son of the prominent statesman Dasang Damdul Tsarong—was brought in to work closely with Gyalo Thondup. Fluent in English and among the most educated Tibetans of his generation, Tsarong relocated to Calcutta and, in 1964, established the Charitable Trust of His Holiness the Dalai Lama. The Trust became the primary vehicle for managing the bullion proceeds and spearheading investment efforts.

While Gyalo Thondup continued to guide strategy and overall direction, his attention was spread thin. He was simultaneously overseeing the Tibetan guerrilla resistance in Mustang, helping launch Establishment 22, and acting as the Dalai Lama’s key interlocutor with Chinese leadership. Tsarong, therefore, handled most of the day-to-day operations. The personal and professional strain this placed on him and his family is poignantly documented in the memoirs of his daughter, Namgyal Lhamo Taklha.2

The Investment

One of the most ambitious ventures initiated during this period was the Gayday Iron & Steel Company, created to manufacture cast iron spun pipes—vital components for water and sewage infrastructure and other industrial applications. The project was seen not just as a revenue source, but as a pathway to economic self-sufficiency for the Tibetan exile community.

The Charitable Trust acquired roughly 350 acres of land in Hirodh, near Koderma in what was then Bihar (now Jharkhand). The scale of investment—spanning land, construction, heavy machinery, utilities, and labor—was substantial. Though exact figures are unavailable, the initiative marked a bold commitment. Production officially began in 1968, and at its peak, the factory employed hundreds, including Tibetan staff. There are also reports suggesting His Holiness visited the factory on more than one occasion, reflecting the importance the project held in the early years of exile.

According to Paljor Tsarong3, son of Dundul Namgyal Tsarong, approximately Rs. 10 lakhs of the Tibetan government’s funds were invested. An additional Rs. 15 lakhs came from private investors—both Tibetan and Indian—and Rs. 11 lakhs were borrowed from the State Bank of India. My mother, now 89, recalls the buzz in the community around the Gayday project. There was a palpable sense of excitement and national purpose. The initiative was framed as a government-backed enterprise whose profits would benefit the entire Tibetan exile community. Major monasteries, prominent businesses, and ordinary Tibetans were encouraged to contribute and support the company—and many responded, investing both resources and trust in the initiative.

My father was one of many who invested. Like others, his decision was driven less by profit and more by a sense of duty and patriotism—an effort to support a project seen as vital for the future of the Tibetan people.

It’s unclear who first proposed entering the steel industry—a sector notoriously difficult to penetrate. Some reports suggest Prime Minister Nehru encouraged the idea, but this seems improbable. Nehru’s government, deeply committed to a state-led model of industrialization, viewed sectors like iron and steel—central to India’s development strategy—as strategic and best suited for public sector control. It is difficult to imagine that he would encourage a newly exiled refugee community to take on such a technically and politically sensitive enterprise.

A 1960 Indian parliamentary statement confirms that the proposal and license application came directly from Gyalo Thondup. In response to a series of questions raised by Members of Parliament, the Minister of Commerce and Industry, Shri Manubhai Shah, clarified in a written statement4:

“No proposal for setting up a Cast Iron Spun Pipe Manufacturing Project was received from His Holiness the Dalai Lama. An application was received from Shri Gyalo Thondup of New Delhi for a licence under the Industries (Development and Regulation) Act, 1951 to set up an undertaking under the name of ‘The Gayday Iron and Steel Co. Ltd.,’ for the manufacture of 30,000 tons per annum of Cast Iron Spun Pipes and fittings. The undertaking is proposed to be located in Kodarma (Bihar State). A licence under the Industries Act has been issued for the purpose of setting up the undertaking with the manufacturing capacity as applied for.”

Whoever conceived the initiative, the leadership underestimated the technical, regulatory, and financial complexity of such a capital-intensive venture. The project was launched in technical collaboration with Hore Fornue, a Belgian company, but it’s clear in hindsight that the Tibetan leadership faced a steep learning curve with limited industrial experience and institutional support.

Challenges and Outcome

Launching an iron and steel factory in 1960s India was immensely difficult—even for established players. Gayday’s challenges were twofold: systemic to the sector and specific to its Tibetan exile context.

General Challenges of the Sector:

• High Capital Requirements: Setting up such a facility required substantial investment—not just in fixed assets and heavy machinery, but also in basic infrastructure like electricity, water, and internal transport.

• Technical Complexity: Manufacturing cast iron spun pipes demanded precision engineering, metallurgical expertise, and strict quality control—areas where local expertise was limited and often costly to import.

• Regulatory and Licensing Barriers: Navigating India’s industrial policy environment involved obtaining licenses under the Industries (Development and Regulation) Act, as well as import permits for foreign machinery and access to raw materials such as coke and scrap iron. The process was notoriously slow and mired in bureaucracy.

• Logistical Constraints: Koderma, being landlocked and relatively remote, posed major transportation challenges. Moving heavy raw materials in and finished goods out was costly and time-consuming. Road and rail infrastructure in many parts of Bihar at the time was underdeveloped.

• Market Access: Penetrating the market for cast iron pipes was difficult without existing distribution networks or sales relationships. Most buyers were government bodies undertaking public works—contracts that often required established reputation, political access, and experience.

• Market Competition: Gayday was entering a field dominated by major players such as:

  • Tata Iron and Steel Company (TISCO) — now Tata Steel.

  • Indian Iron & Steel Company (IISCO) — a state-owned enterprise that later merged into SAIL.

  • Numerous smaller foundries and manufacturers concentrated in industrial hubs like Howrah, Jamshedpur, and Calcutta.

Challenges Unique to Gayday:

• Lack of Industrial Experience: Neither the Tibetan leadership nor the Tibetan exile workforce had prior experience managing or operating a large-scale manufacturing venture of this nature.

• Political Sensitivities: As a project associated with the Tibetan government-in-exile, it may have encountered subtle resistance or limited cooperation from certain bureaucratic and political quarters.

• Limited Management Capacity: The project suffered from cost overruns, delays in implementation, and poor financial controls. There was inadequate institutional oversight, and the leadership lacked the capacity and experience required to steer a venture of this scale.

Paljor Tsarong, in his account of his father’s work, identifies many of the challenges Gayday faced—including additional issues. These included the Belgian partner, Hore Fornue, failing to send its engineers as promised, regional instability caused by the communist insurgency in West Bengal, and the wider geopolitical and economic effects of the 1962 Sino-Indian war.

Even powerful Indian industrial families struggled to enter the iron and steel sector in that era. The Birla Group, for instance, launched the Birla Iron and Steel Company (BISCO) with ambitious plans to set up a major steel plant in Bokaro, Bihar. Despite its vast resources, BISCO was unable to make the project viable. It was eventually absorbed into the public sector, and the Bokaro plant was later developed by the Steel Authority of India Limited (SAIL), inaugurated in the 1970s.

Gayday Iron & Steel Company—backed by an exile government with limited industrial experience—faced an uphill battle from the outset. After years of operating under difficult conditions, the factory was forced to cease operations in 1978. Around 1982, the company appears to have entered liquidation following a Supreme Court ruling transferring the plant to the Bihar Industrial Development Corporation (BIDC). However, BIDC was also unable to do much. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, the plant was rebranded as Magadh Spun Pipes Pvt. Ltd. and operated sporadically until the late 2000s.

Today, the factory site remains sealed and caught in a web of legal disputes. Multiple parties have laid claim to ownership, and the case has been pending before the National Company Law Tribunal in Kolkatta for over a decade5. There is no publicly available record of any financial recovery by the Dalai Lama’s Trust, and for most investors—including monasteries and ordinary families—it was a total loss.

As the initial excitement faded, Gayday became a cautionary tale within the Tibetan community. A satirical song that circulated at the time captures the public sentiment:

དགེ་བདེ་ལྕགས་ཀྱི་བཟོ་གྲྭའི་ནང་།།
ལྕགས་ཀྱི་བོང་བུས་སྒོ་ཞིག་བརྡུངས།།

In Gayday’s iron factory,
A donkey’s head of iron was forged.

In Tibetan, བོང་བུས་ (bong bu) can mean both “donkey” and “bankrupt,” making the verse a metaphorical jab at the project’s failure—suggesting that nothing useful came out of it.

Even decades after the factory’s closure, the memory of Gayday still surfaces—especially during Indian election seasons.6 Local politicians continue to invoke the promise of reviving the factory to win votes, despite the near-zero likelihood of its reopening. Every few years, the media picks7 up the story, often linking it back to His Holiness the Dalai Lama, giving it renewed visibility—if not renewed credibility.8

Broader Reflections

Gayday’s failure was not isolated. Most businesses funded by the Trust—including those in paper, wood, plastics, etc.—collapsed. The Trust reportedly recovered only a small portion of its investments. Individuals like Jetmull Bhojraj, who owed substantial sums, evaded accountability. The བར་ཆད་ (bar ché - karmic impediment) from Gayday perhaps continues to cast a pall on the community. To date, the Tibetan government-in-exile has yet to establish a single large-scale, sustainable for-profit enterprise.

Instead, in 2001, remaining Tibetan government-owned businesses and assets—including prime real estate—were hastily and controversially privatized or transferred to the Federation of Tibetan Cooperatives in India. The lack of a clear economic vision continues to hamper efforts at self-reliance.

The Tibetan exile government’s failure to establish an enduring, large-scale for-profit institution stands in stark contrast to other refugee success stories. The Tibetan carpet industry in Nepal, for example, was once estimated to contribute up to 80% of Nepal’s foreign exchange earnings in the 1990s. Or consider Majnu-ka-Tilla in Delhi, now a thriving commercial and culinary hub in India’s capital city— a commercial lotus that bloomed from the dust and sludge of the sliver of land on the banks of the Yamuna. Additional evidence of thriving Tibetan entrepreneurship includes anecdotal reports of some Tibetan-run hotels and restaurants in Dharamsala generating daily revenues exceeding ₹500,000 (approx. US$5,750).

Despite decades of rhetoric from Tibetan leaders about the importance of economic self-reliance, there has been little by way of a coherent economic strategy or plan. An exception might have been the brief existence of Gangchen Bank—but that is a story for another day and will be posted on The Nomad Chronicles.

Conclusion

Looking back, one might ask: What if that US$6 million had been invested in prime real estate in Indian cities, with proper documentation and title? Perhaps the exile government wouldn’t be as reliant on external aid today. This post, however, is not about hindsight or hypothetical what-ifs. It is, instead, a small tribute to the Tibetans who invested in Gayday not for personal gain, but out of a deep sense of responsibility to a fledgling government in exile. These were people who had lost almost everything—homes, land, livelihoods—since fleeing to exile and yet, when asked to contribute to the building of a new Tibetan future, they did so with quiet courage and unquestioning trust.

It is also an acknowledgment of individuals like Kungo Dundul Namgyal Tsarong, Kungo Gyalo Thondup and others who bore immense responsibility under extraordinary circumstances. Without a blueprint, with limited support, and under intense pressure, they forged ahead. Their work unfolded in a context of political sensitivity, logistical complexity, and bureaucratic barriers—challenges that would have tested even the most experienced. While the outcome was unsuccessful, their efforts reflect the formidable challenges of creating large-scale ventures in exile.

Gayday is more than a story of a failed factory. It is a window into the aspirations, missteps, and resilience of a displaced people trying to rebuild from nothing. I hope the full history of this bold experiment is explored and documented more fully in the years to come. For all its shortcomings, Gayday offers valuable lessons in leadership, planning, and institutional capacity—lessons that remain deeply relevant as the Tibetan community in exile continues its journey toward genuine economic self-reliance.

It was Sunday, October 6, 2013. I was aboard United Flight 3573, flying from Newark to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. The two-and-a-half-hour journey was smooth, but my thoughts drifted between nervous anticipation and quiet reflection.

The previous months had been both sorrowful and transformative. My father had passed away on Christmas Day after a brief illness. Not long after, I was informed that I would serve as the next Representative of His Holiness the Dalai Lama to North America. By early August 2013, I had relocated to the United States and officially assumed the role by the end of the month.

Now, just weeks into my new post, I was headed to Atlanta to receive His Holiness and take on the responsibility of coordinating a fourteen-day official visit that would take him through Atlanta, Mexico, and New York City - the first of many I would help organize during my term as the Representative.

The Magnitude of a Dalai Lama Visit

A visit by the Dalai Lama to North America is a massive undertaking, typically requiring one to two years of planning. Each tour spans multiple cities, with local host organizations managing logistics on the ground. As Representative, my role spanned three phases: pre-visit, during the visit, and post-visit.

The pre-visit phase meant traveling to host cities to inspect venues and meet with event organizers. I reviewed hundreds of requests for audiences, managed media inquiries, and ensured ceremonial protocols were properly followed. Security was paramount: a joint threat assessment prepared by the Central Tibetan Administration’s (CTA) Department of Security and my office was submitted to the U.S. State Department, which directed the Diplomatic Security Service (DSS) to provide protection. His Holiness is among the few spiritual leaders and public figures who receives a level of security that is close to a visiting head-of-state.

The standard procedure for His Holiness’ visits involves DSS designating two or more Agent in Charge (AIC) with each AIC responsible for one or more cities. Security detail is a big operation involving dozens of agents from the DSS bureau’s DC and field offices plus the participation of local law enforcement officers.

During the visit, I served as the primary aide and liaison, working closely with the AIC and hosts to ensure everything ran smoothly. The post-visit phase involved extensive debriefing and follow-up, ensuring that insights were preserved for future visits.

The Night Before

For the Atlanta leg, Emory University served as host and had reserved the Ritz-Carlton in Buckhead (now The Whitley) for His Holiness and the entourage. The bed was supremely comfortable, but I didn’t sleep well. I felt like a rookie pitcher on the eve of his first World Series start—wide awake, nerves tingling, fully aware of the gravity of what lay ahead.

Arrival: October 7, 2013

His Holiness was flying from Delhi via Frankfurt, on Lufthansa flight LH444, scheduled to arrive in Atlanta at 4:00 p.m. on October 7. I arrived early at the airport with my predecessor, Lobsang Nyandak Zayul—a senior CTA civil service official whose guidance was helpful in my transition.

We were joined by Special Agent Chris Berry, the DSS AIC for Atlanta. Per the protocol, Lobsang and I were designated greeters. Our vehicle, accompanied by a police escort, was cleared to drive onto the tarmac. The plan was to welcome His Holiness at the jetway, while his nine-member entourage—consisting of personal and religious assistants, translator, secretaries, and security officers—would deplane at the regular exit, pass through an expedited customs lane, and join us at the motorcade staging area.

Our office had filed an Expedited Port Clearance Request weeks in advance with the State Department, ensuring swift and seamless processing on arrival.

Right on schedule, flight LH444 touched down. When the cabin door opened, His Holiness stepped out—calm, luminous, and radiant, as though emerging from the clouds. Lobsang and I stood on either side of the airstairs, bowed deeply, offered khatas (Tibetan scarves), and said, “Tashi Delek, Your Holiness, and welcome to Atlanta and America.” He smiled and placed the scarves over our shoulders.

The Sacred Journey

The motorcade configuration for such visits is highly organized:

• Lead Car: Police or security vehicle

• VIP Car: His Holiness, AIC, Representative

• Follow-Up Car: DSS Security Vehicle

• Staff Car 1: Security, Secretary, Host

• Staff Car 2: Security, Personal Assistants

• Staff Car 3: Security, Translator, Local Staff

The U.S. government provided a black armored Cadillac XTS sedan—equipped with bullet-resistant glass, reinforced suspension and other safety features—for His Holiness. The AIC and driver sat up front; His Holiness and I shared the back seat. I had anticipated this ride for weeks, imagining every detail. The normal drive time to the hotel was 45 minutes, but with state and local police support—including a dozen motorcycle units and most unexpectedly two helicopters flying parallel to the motorcade—we made it in about 25 minutes.

It was the fastest ride of my life—and the longest.

A Moment of Grace

Between 2009 and October 2013, more than 115 Tibetans had self-immolated inside Tibet in protest of Chinese rule—a number that has since risen to 159. Almost all had called for the return of His Holiness to Tibet. For the 99% of Tibetans who live inside Tibet, even a glimpse of him remains a dream beyond reach. They can’t even openly place the Dalai Lama’s portrait in the altar as that would land them in trouble with the authorities. As I sat inches from His Holiness, I was struck by the weight of that moment: the privilege of proximity, the responsibility of service, the quiet miracle of being in his presence.

I knew His Holiness didn’t sleep well on planes and dislikes long flights. After 18 plus hours of travel, he still looked composed and clear-eyed. I had rehearsed this moment endlessly—how much to say, with what tone, the proper choice of words, etc. But before I could speak, he broke the ice. Reaching into his signature maroon cloth bag, he offered me a piece of candy, smiling. The Dalai Lama was once known for his sweet tooth, and he often carried chocolates or sweets with him.

He then mentioned my late father, who served him for decades—including ten years as his chief security officer. The candy and the single gesture of remembrance eased my nerves. I used the rest of the ride to brief him on the schedule for Atlanta, Mexico, and New York, sprinkled in facts about the city and current developments in Washington, D.C. As the motorcade moved swiftly through Atlanta, people paused on sidewalks and bridges, watching as flashing lights and whirring helicopters marked the arrival of one of the world’s most beloved spiritual leaders.

After that first ride, I was blessed with many more. Over three years, I accompanied His Holiness on 9 visits to North America, across 26 cities. Each journey—whether from an airport to a hotel or from one event to the next—felt sacred. I never once took it for granted. I sat upright, on the edge, attentive, quietly grateful. I would have sat at his feet if I could.

Looking back, those rides were sacred miles. They were intimate encounters between student and teacher, follower and leader. Our conversations ranged from geopolitics and China to Tibetan history, the challenges of exile and His Holiness’ efforts and priorities. We discussed community affairs and his hopes for the future. Those moments—fleeting, quiet, yet filled with wisdom—remain among the most treasured of my life.

Gratitude

I am profoundly grateful for the chance to serve—and to ride beside—my teacher.

མང་གཙོའི་བཅོས་སྒྱུར་དང་དཀའ་ཁག

༧གོང་ས་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་བཞི་པ་ཆེན་པོ་མཆོག་གི་མཛད་རྗེས་ཆེ་ཤོས་ཤིག་ནི་ཁོང་གིས་བོད་མིའི་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་འདི་བཞིན་སྔ་མོའི་སྐུ་དྲག་དང་བླ་ཆེན། ཚོ་ཁག་གི་འགོ་པ་སོགས་ཀྱིས་དབང་བསྒྱུར་བའི་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་ཤིག་ནས་བཙན་བྱོལ་གྱི་མང་གཙོའི་སྒྲིག་འཛུགས་ཤིག་ཏུ་བསྒྱུར་གནང་བ་དེ་ཡིན། ཁོང་གི་དབུ་ཁྲིད་འོག་བཙན་བྱོལ་བོད་མིའི་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་སུ་མང་གཙོའི་རིན་ཐང་གཏིང་ཟབ་རྒྱས་པའི་གྲུབ་འབྲས་ཆེན་པོ་ཐོབ་ཡོད། དེ་ནི་ཞི་ཅིན་ཕིང་གི་དབང་འོག་ནས་སྔར་ལས་ལྷག་པའི་དབང་ཆ་གཅིག་སྡུད་ཅན་དང་། མུན་ནག་ཅན། དམ་བསྒྲགས་རང་བཞིན་ཅན་དུ་འགྱུར་བཞིན་པའི་རྒྱ་ནག་དང་བསྡུར་ན་གནམ་ས་ལྟ་བུའི་ཁྱད་པར་ཡོད།

ཡིན་ན་ཡང་བོད་མིའི་མང་གཙོ་འདི་ནི་བྱིས་པ་ཆུང་ཆུང་ཞིག་དང་འདྲ་བར་ད་དུང་གཉོམ་ལག་རྒྱས་མེད་པས་ཧ་ཅང་ཞིག་སླ་བ་ཡིན། ད་ལྟའི་ཆར་༧གོང་ས་སྐྱབས་མགོན་ཆེན་པོ་མཆོག་དགུང་ལོ་དགུ་བཅུར་སོན་ཞིང་། བཙན་བྱོལ་བོད་མི་འབུམ་གཉིས་མ་ཟིན་ཙམ་ལས་མེད་པ་དེ་ཡང་འཛམ་གླིང་གི་ཤར་ནུབ་གང་སར་འཐོར་བཞིན་ཡོད། མ་ཟད་ནང་ཁུལ་ཆབ་སྲིད་ཀྱི་ཕྱོགས་རིས་དང་ཆོས་ལུགས་འཐེན་འཁྱེར་འབྱུང་བ་དང་། སྒྲིག་འཛུགས་ཀྱི་ནུས་སྟོབས་ཞན་པ་སོགས་ནི་ཤིན་ཏུ་ཉེན་ཁ་ཆེ་བའི་གནས་ཡིན། དེར་བརྟེན་སླར་ཡང་ཆོད་སེམས་བརྟན་པོས་དུས་མཐུན་གྱི་བཅོས་སྐྱོང་མ་བྱས་ཚེ་འདས་པའི་མི་ལོ་དྲུག་བཅུ་ལྷག་གི་རིང་དཀའ་ལས་བརྒྱབ་ནས་མང་གཙོའི་གྲུབ་འབྲས་གང་བྱུང་དེ་དག་རིམ་གྱིས་ཡལ་ནས་བོད་དོན་དང་མང་གཙོ་གཉིས་ཀ་ཉེན་འཕྲང་གི་གནས་སུ་ལྷུང་རྒྱུའི་ཉེན་ཁ་ཆེ།

རྒྱ་བལ་འབྲུག་གསུམ་དང་། ཕྱི་རྒྱལ་ཡུལ་གྲུ་གང་སར་གནས་པའི་བཙན་བྱོལ་བོད་མི་རྣམས་ཀྱིས་ལོ་ལྔ་རེའི་མཚམས་ནས་རྡ་རམ་ས་ལར་བརྟེན་གཞི་བྱས་པའི་བཙན་བྱོལ་བོད་མིའི་མང་གཙོའི་སྒལ་ཚིགས་ལྟ་བུའི་སྲིད་སྤྱི་གཉིས་ཀྱི་འོས་བསྡུ་བྱེད་བཞིན་ཡོད། ཡིན་ན་ཡང་། འོས་བསྡུ་ཆེན་མོ་དེའི་བརྒྱུད་རིམ་ཁྲོད་དུ་འོས་མི་ཚོའི་ལོ་རྒྱུས་དང་བྱ་གཞག་སོགས་ཀྱི་སྐོར་ལ་རྒྱུས་ལོན་ལེགས་པོ་བྱ་སའི་མཐུན་རྐྱེན་བློ་འཁེལ་འོས་པ་ཞིག་མེད་པས་འོས་འཕེན་མཁན་མང་པོས་རང་གིས་བདམས་པའི་འོས་མི་དེའི་ཆ་རྐྱེན་དང་། རྒྱབ་ལྗོངས་ལོ་རྒྱུས་སོགས་ལ་གོ་རྟོགས་གསལ་པོ་གང་ཡང་མེད་པར་འོས་ཤོག་འཕེན་བཞིན་ཡོད་པ་མ་ཟད་འོས་མིའི་སྐོར་ལ་བློ་འཁེལ་འོས་པའི་གནས་ཚུལ་རྒྱུས་ལོན་བྱ་སའི་མཐུན་རྐྱེན་གང་ཡང་མེད་པར་བརྟེན་འོས་འཕེན་མཁན་མང་པོས་མི་གཞན་གྱིས་དྲྭ་ལམ་དུ་སྔོན་ནས་བཀྲམས་ཟིན་པའི་གྲངས་ཐོར་བལྟས་ནས་འོས་བླུག་པ་དང་འགའ་ཤས་ཀྱིས་ཆོལ་ཁ་དང་ཆོས་བརྒྱུད་ཀྱི་འཐེན་འཁྱེར་འོག་འོས་ཤོག་བླུག་བཞིན་པའི་གནས་ཚུལ་མང་པོ་འབྱུང་བཞིན་ཡོད།

དཀའ་ངལ་དེ་ནི་འོས་བསྡུ་ཙམ་མིན། བོད་མིའི་བཅའ་ཁྲིམས་ཀྱིས་སྲིད་སྐྱོང་ལ་ལས་ཡུན་གཉིས་ཀྱི་མཚམས་ནས་བསྐྱར་དུ་བསྟུན་མར་འོས་གཞིར་ལངས་མི་ཆོག་པའི་ཆ་རྐྱེན་བཟོས་ཡོད་ཀྱང་བོད་མི་མང་སྤྱི་འཐུས་རྣམ་པར་ལས་ཡུན་ཚད་བཀག་གང་ཡང་བཟོས་མེད། དེར་བརྟེན་ད་ལྟའི་ཆར་བོད་མི་མང་སྤྱི་འཐུས་ཀྱི་ཁྲོད་དུ་ལས་ཡུན་གསུམ་པ་ནས་ལྔ་པ་བར་(བསྟུན་མར་སྤྱི་འཐུས་བྱས་ནས་ལོ་བཅོ་ལྔ་ནས་ཉི་ཤུ་རྩ་ལྔ་བར་)འགྲོ་བཞིན་པའི་སྤྱི་འཐུས་མི་ཉུང་བ་ཞིག་ཡོད་ཀྱང་དེ་དག་གི་ཕྱག་ལས་དང་། འོས་ཀྱི་གྲངས་ཐོ། ཚན་ཁག་གི་སྙན་ཐོ་སོགས་གང་ཡང་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཏུ་སྟོན་རྒྱུ་མེད། དེ་བཞིན་སྲིད་སྐྱོང་གིས་འོས་བསྡུའི་སྐབསསུ་མི་མང་ལ་ཁས་ལེན་དམ་བཅའ་བཞག་པའི་ལས་འགན་དག་ཚུལ་བཞིན་ལག་བསྟར་བྱེད་ཀྱི་ཡོད་མེད་དང་ཕྱག་ལས་ཡག་པོ་གནང་གི་ཡོད་མེད་སོགས་རྟོག་ཞིབ་བྱེད་ཐབས་ཀྱི་བརྒྱུད་རིམ་གང་ཡང་མེད།

འདིར་ལྟར་མི་མང་ཚོར་རང་གིས་བདམས་པའི་འཐུས་ཚབ་ཀྱི་ལས་དོན་བྱེད་ཕྱོགས་ཐད་རྟོག་ཞིབ་བྱ་རྒྱུའི་ཆ་རྐྱེན་འདང་ངེས་ཤིག་མེད་པ་དེས་བོད་མིའི་མང་གཙོའི་གནས་བབ་དང་རྩིས་ཐང་ལ་དོ་ཕོག་ཆེན་པོ་ཐེབས་བཞིན་ཡོད།

དཀའ་ཁག་སེལ་ཐབས།: གཞུང་གི་གཞི་གྲངས་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་བཟོ་བ།

བཙན་བྱོལ་བོད་མིའི་མང་གཙོ་སྲ་བརྟན་ཡོང་སླད་དུ་བོད་མིའི་སྒྲིག་འཛུགས་ཀྱིས་འོས་མི་ཚོའི་འོས་ཆོས་དང་། རྒྱབ་ལྗོངས་ལོ་རྒྱུས། ཁྲིམས་འབྲེལ་ལས་དོན། འོས་ཀྱི་གྲངས་ཐོ། འོས་བསྡུའི་སྐབས་ཀྱི་ཁས་ལེན་དམ་བཅའ་སོགས་མི་མང་གིས་གསལ་པོར་ལྟ་ཀློག་ཐུབ་པའི་དྲྭ་ཚིགས་བསྐྲུན་རྒྱུ་གལ་ཆེ། མ་ཟད་མི་མང་ལའང་གོང་གསལ་གནས་ཚུལ་ཁག་རྒྱུས་ལོན་བྱེད་པར་དགོས་ངེས་བརྡ་འཕྲིན་གྱི་ཤེས་བྱ་དང་མཐུན་རྐྱེན་ཚུལ་བཞིན་མཁོ་སྤྲོད་བྱ་རྒྱུ་གལ་ཆེ།

དེ་ལྟར་བྱུང་ན་འོས་འཕེན་མཁན་ཚོར་འོས་མིའི་སྐོར་ལ་རྒྱུས་མངའ་ལེགས་པོ་ཐོབ་ཐུབ་པ་མ་ཟད་འོས་ཀྱི་ཐག་གཅོད་ཀྱང་ཡང་དག་པ་ཞིག་བྱ་རྒྱུ་ཕན་ཐོགས་ཆེན་པོ་འབྱུང་། དེ་ལྟར་ཕྱི་གསལ་ནང་གསལ་བྱུང་ན་སླད་མར་འོས་འཕེན་མཁན་ཚོས་ཕྱོགས་རིས་འཐེན་འཁྱེར་གཙོ་བོ་མི་འཛིན་པར་འོས་མིའི་འཇོན་ནུས་དང་སྤྱི་སེམས་གཙོ་བོར་བརྩི་བའི་འདུ་ཤེས་ཤིག་རྒྱུད་ལ་འཇགས་པར་བྱ་བར་ཕན་ངེས་ཡིན།

སྲ་བརྟན་མེད་པའི་མང་གཙོའི་ལམ་ལུགས་ཤིག་ལ་མཚོན་ན་མི་མང་གི་གོ་རྟོགས་ཤིན་ཏུ་གལ་ཆེན་ཡིན་ལ་གཞུང་ཕྱོགས་ཀྱི་གཞི་གྲངས་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་བཟོ་རྒྱུ་དེ་ནི་སྲ་བརྟན་ཡོང་ཐབས་ཀྱི་ཐབས་ལམ་ལེགས་ཤོས་དེ་ཡིན།

ཅིའི་ཕྱིར་གཞུང་གི་གཞི་གྲངས་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་བཟོ་རྒྱུ་གལ་ཆེའམ།

གཞུང་གི་གཞི་གྲངས་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་ Open Government Data (OGD) ཟེར་བ་ནི་གཞུང་འབྲེལ་གནས་ཚུལ་རྣམས་ཚད་བཀག་མེད་པར་མི་མང་བྱིངས་ཀྱིས་འཕྲུལ་ཆས་སོགས་ཀྱི་ལམ་ནས་སྟབས་བདེའི་ངང་བལྟ་ཀློག་ཐུབ་པ་དང་། བེད་སྤྱོད་ཐུབ་པ། བརྒྱུད་འགོད་ཐུབ་པ་སོགས་ཀྱི་མཐུན་རྐྱེན་བསྐྲུན་པ་དེ་ལ་གོ་བ་ཡིན།

ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༢༠༠༧ ལོར་ཨ་རིའི་ཁེ་ལི་ཧྥོར་ནི་ཡའི་ལས་དོན་རུ་ཁག་ཅིག་གིས་གཞུང་གི་གཞི་གྲངས་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་བཟོ་བར་རྩ་འཛིན་དོན་ཚན་བརྒྱད་ཚང་དགོས་པ་གཏན་འབེབས་བྱས་ཡོད།

• ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་བཟོས་པའི་གནས་ཚུལ་རྣམས་མགོ་མཇུག་བར་གསུམ་ཆ་ཚང་བ་དང་། ཁུངས་དག་པ། དུས་དང་མཐུན་པ་སོགས་ཀྱི་ཁྱད་ཆོས་ལྡན་དགོས་པ།

• གནས་ཚུལ་རྣམས་སྟབས་བདེའི་ངང་ནས་ལྟ་ཀློག་ཐུབ་པ་དང་འཕྲུལ་ཆས་ཀྱི་ལམ་ནས་སྤྱོད་བདེ་པོ་དགོས་པ།

• གནས་ཚུལ་རྣམས་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་རང་བཞིན་ཅན་དང་། བདག་དབང་ཅན་མ་ཡིན་པ། བཀོལ་སྤྱོད་གཏོང་རྒྱུར་བཀག་རྒྱ་མེད་པ་སོགས་ཀྱི་ཁྱད་ཆོས་ཚང་དགོས་པ་གསལ།

བོད་མིའི་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་ལ་མཚོན་ན་དེ་ལྟ་བུའི་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་གྱི་གཞི་གྲངས་ལམ་ལུགས་ཤིག་བྱུང་ན་དེས་སྤྱི་པའི་སྒྲིག་འཛུགས་དང་བདམས་ཐོན་ལས་བྱེད་རྣམས་ལ་མི་མང་གིས་ཡིད་ཆེས་འཕེར་ཐུབ་པ་ཡོང་བར་རམ་འདེགས་བྱེད་ཐུབ།

བོད་མིའི་གཞི་གྲངས་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་ཡོང་བའི་འཆར་སྣང་།

ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་གྱི་བོད་མིའི་གཞི་གྲངས་བཟོ་བར་གཙོ་བོ་དབྱིན་བོད་སྐད་གཉིས་ཀྱི་ནང་དུ་གཞུང་འབྲེལ་གྱི་དགོས་ངེས་གནས་ཚུལ་ཆ་ཚང་བ་འཁོད་པའི་དྲྭ་ཚིགས་ཤིག་བཟོ་དགོས། ད་ལྟའི་ཆར་གནས་ཚུལ་ཉུང་ཤས་ཤིག་ཡོད་པ་དེ་དག་ཕལ་མོ་ཆེ་བོད་ཡིག་རྐྱང་པའི་ནང་དུ་ཡོད། གཞི་གྲངས་དེ་ཡང་་བོད་མི་ཡོད་དོ་ཅོག་དང་ལྷག་པར་དུ་མི་རབས་གསར་པར་སྙོབ་ཐབས་སུ་དབྱིན་བོད་སྐད་གཉིས་ཐོག་བཟོ་དགོས་པ་གལ་འགངས་ཆེ།

དྲྭ་ཚིགས་དེར་ནང་དོན་གཙོ་བོ་འདི་དག་བཀོད་ན་ལེགས།

(དཔེ་མཚོན།)

སྤྱི་འཐུས་ཀྱི་གནས་ཚུལ།

• འདས་པ་དང་ད་ལྟའི་སྤྱི་འཐུས་ཚོའི་གནས་ཚུལ་ཆ་ཚང་མིང་ངམ་ཡང་ན་ཐོབ་ཁུངས་བརྒྱུད་འཚོལ་སྟབས་བདེ་པོ་ཡོད་པ།

• སྤྱི་འཐུས་སོ་སོའི་འོས་ཀྱི་གྲངས་དང་། གྲོས་གཞི་འདོན་སྤེལ་དང་ཐག་གཅོད་སྐོར་གྱི་ལས་དོན་དང་། ཚོགས་ཆུང་ནང་དུ་ལས་དོན་གཉེར་ཚད། འོས་བསྡུའི་སྐབས་ཀྱི་ཁས་ལེན་དམ་བཅའ། འབྲེལ་གཏུག་བྱ་ཡུལ། ལས་ཡུན་ག་ཚོད་སོང་མིན་སོགས་ཀྱི་གནས་ཚུལ་རྒྱས་པར་འཁོད་ཡོད་པ།

ཁྲིམས་འབྲེལ་ལས་དོན་རྟོག་ཞིབ།

• མ་མཐའ་ཡང་ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༢༠༡༡ ལོར་༧གོང་ས་མཆོག་གིས་སྲིད་དབང་ཡོངས་རྫོགས་རྩིས་སྤྲོད་མཛད་པའི་རྗེས་ཚུན་ཆད་ནས་གྲོས་ཚོགས་སུ་ཁྲིམས་འཆར་དང་གྲོས་གཞི་ག་ཚོད་སོང་མིན་དང་། གྲོས་ཐག་ག་ཚོད་ཆོད་མིན་གྱི་ཡིག་ཚགས་ཡོད་པ།

• འགོ་བརྗོད་དང་། སྤྱི་འཐུས། གྲོས་ཚོགས་ཀྱི་སྐབས་དང་ཚེས་གྲངས་སོགས་གང་རུང་སྤྱད་དེ་གནས་ཚུལ་ཞིབ་ཚགས་འཚོལ་ཞིབ་ཐུབ་པ།

འོས་ཀྱི་གྲངས་ཐོ།

• གྲོས་ཚོགས་ཚོགས་དུས་སྐབས་སོ་སོའམ་འོས་འཕེན་སའི་གནད་དོན། སྤྱི་འཐུས། ཐོབ་ཁུངས་སོགས་སྤྱད་དེ་གྲོས་ཚོགས་སུ་སྤྱི་འཐུས་ཚོས་འོས་ཕངས་པའི་གྲུབ་འབྲས་གསལ་པོ་བལྟ་ཐུབ་པ།

• རེའུ་མིག་དང་རི་མོ་སོགས་ཀྱི་ལམ་ནས་གྲོས་ཚོགས་ནང་གི་འོས་བསྡུའི་འགྱུར་འགྲོས་དང་འོས་ཀྱི་ཐོབ་གྲངས་གཤིབ་བསྡུར་བྱ་སའི་མཐུན་རྐྱེན་ཡོད་པ།

(དཔེ་མཚོན)

འཛིན་སྐྱོང་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན།

• སྲིད་སྐྱོང་གིས་འོས་བསྡུའི་སྐབས་ཁས་ལེན་དམ་བཅའ་བཞག་པའི་དོན་ཚན་རྣམས་ཞིབ་ཚགས་ཡོད་པ།

• དམ་བཅའ་ལག་བསྟར་བྱས་པ་དང་སྲིད་ཇུས་རྒྱུན་སྐྱོང་བྱས་པའི་ལས་དོན་ཐད་དུས་ཐོག་ཏུ་སྙན་ཐོ་སྟོན་རྒྱུ་ཡོད་པ།

སྲིད་ཇུས་གསལ་སྟོན།

བོད་མིའི་རང་དབང་སླར་གསོ་བྱ་རྒྱུ་དང་མང་གཙོ་གོང་འཕེལ་གཏོང་ཐབས་དང་འབྲེལ་བའི་གཤམ་གསལ་གཞུང་འབྲེལ་གྱི་ལས་དོན་གཙོ་ཁག་དྲུག་པོའི་ཐད་སྲིད་སྐྱོང་དང་བཀའ་ཤག་གི་ངོས་ནས་ཐབས་ཇུས་གང་འདྲ་ཞིག་ལག་བསྟར་བྱེད་ཀྱི་ཡོད་མེད་ཐད་གནས་ཚུལ་རྒྱས་འགྲེལ་ཡོད་པ།

• བོད་རྒྱ་གྲོས་མོལ་བསྐྱར་གསོ།

• འཛམ་གླིང་ཡོངས་ལ་བོད་དོན་ཁྱབ་སྤེལ།

• བཙན་བྱོལ་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་ཁྲོད་མཐུན་ལམ་ཁྱབ་སྤེལ།

• ཤེས་ཡོན་གོང་སྤེལ་དང་བརྡ་འཕྲུལ་ཤེས་སྤྱོད་གོང་སྤེལ།

• བོད་ཀྱི་སྐད་ཡིག་དང་རིག་གཞུང་རྒྱུན་འཛིན།

• དཔལ་འབྱོར་སྲ་བརྟན་དང་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་རང་མགོ་རང་ཐོན།

ཁྲིམས་ཞིབ་ཀྱི་བྱ་བ་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་དུ་བསྒྱུར་བ།

• ཆེས་མཐོའི་ཁྲིམས་ཞིབ་ཁང་གིས་ཉན་ཞིབ་བྱས་པའི་གྱོད་དོན་ཆ་ཚང་གི་ཡིག་ཚགས་སྟོན་རྒྱུ་ཡོད་པ།

• ཁྲིམས་ཞིབ་ཁང་གི་ཉན་ཞིབ་དང་ཐག་གཅོད། ཁྲིམས་ཡིག་གསེད་བཀྲོལ་དང་། འབྲེལ་ཡོད་ཡིག་ཆ་ཁག་ཡོད་པ།

• བོད་མིའི་སྒྲིག་འཛུགས་ཀྱི་ཁྲིམས་ཞིབ་ལས་དོན་ཚགས་ཚུད་ཡོང་སླད་དུ་ཁྲིམས་ཞིབ་པ་རྣམས་ཀྱི་ཕྱག་ལས་གནང་ཕྱོགས་ཀྱི་གནས་ཚུལ་སྟོན་རྒྱུ་ཡོད་པ།

(དཔེ་མཚོན)

ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་གྱི་བོད་མིའི་གཞི་གྲངས་བཟོ་ཐབས་ཀྱི་རིམ་པ།

ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་གྱི་བོད་མིིའི་གཞི་གྲངས་བཟོ་བར་གཤམ་གསལ་བརྒྱུད་རིམ་རྣམས་ལག་བསྟར་བྱ་དགོས།

རིམ་པ་དང་པོ། ཉམས་ཞིབ་དང་ཡིག་འགོད།

• གཞུང་འབྲེལ་གྱི་ལས་བསྡོམས་སྙན་ཐོ་དང་། གྲོས་གཞི་གྲོས་ཆོད། འོས་བསྡུའི་སྐབས་ཀྱི་དམ་བཅའ། འོས་བསྡུའི་གཞི་གྲངས་སོགས་ཕྱོགས་བསྒྲིགས་བྱ་རྒྱུ།

• གཞི་གྲངས་སྤུས་ཀ་གང་ལེགས་དང་ཁུངས་དག་ར་སྤྲོད་ཐུབ་རྒྱུའི་བརྒྱུད་རིམ་བསྐྲུན་རྒྱུ།

རིམ་པ་གཉིས་པ། ཡིག་སྒྱུར་དང་སྟབས་བསྟུན།

• གཞི་གྲངས་སུ་བཀོད་རྒྱུའི་གནས་ཚུལ་ཆ་ཚང་དབྱིན་བོད་གཉིས་ཀར་ཕབ་རྒྱུ།

• སྐད་ཡིག་དང་རིག་གཞུང་མི་འདྲ་བའི་མི་ལ་འཕྲོད་པའི་བཟོ་བཀོད་ཀྱང་བསྒྲིག་རྒྱུ།

རིམ་པ་གསུམ་པ། གཞི་གྲངས་བཀོད་ལེགས།

• ཡིག་ཆ་ཐམས་ཅད་གློག་རྡུལ་གཞི་གྲངས་ཅན་དུ་བསྒྱུར་ནས་དེ་དག་ལ་འཚོལ་མིང་ལེགས་པོ་འདོགས་རྒྱུ།

• ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་འགྲེམ་སྤེལ་མ་བྱས་གོང་ངེས་པར་དུ་སྤུས་ཚད་ལེགས་པར་འཇལ་རྒྱུ།

རིམ་པ་བཞི་བ། དྲྭ་ཚིགས་བཟོ་བསྐྲུན།

• དྲྭ་རྒྱའི་བདེ་འཇགས་ལྡན་ལ་སྤྱོད་བདེ་བའི་དེང་རབས་རང་བཞིན་ཅན་གྱི་དྲྭ་ཚིགས་ཤིག་བསྐྲུན་རྒྱུ།

• སྐད་ཡིག་གི་གདམ་ག་ཡོད་ཅིང་ཁ་པར་ནང་དུའང་སྤྱོད་བདེ་བ་བཟོ་རྒྱུ།

རིམ་པ་ལྔ་པ། འགྲེམ་སྤེལ་དང་ཁྱབ་རྒྱ་བསྐྱེད་པ།

• དྲྭ་ཚིགས་དེ་ཉིད་འགྲེམ་སྤེལ་ཟིན་རྗེས་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་དྲྭ་རྒྱ་སོགས་ནས་ཁྱབ་སྤེལ་བྱ་རྒྱུ།

• བོད་མི་འདུས་སྡོད་ཆེ་སར་དེ་འབྲེལ་གྱི་ཁྱབ་བསྒྲགས་བྱེད་སྒོ་སྤེལ་རྒྱུ།

• སྤྱོད་མཁན་ལ་ལམ་སྟོན་རྒྱུ་ཆ་མཁོ་སྤྲོད་བྱ་རྒྱུ།

རིམ་པ་དྲུག་པ། རྒྱུན་སྐྱོང་གོང་སྤེལ།

• གཞི་གྲངས་ལ་དུས་ལྟར་གནས་ཚུལ་ཁ་སྣོན་དང་དྲྭ་རྒྱའི་བདེ་འཇགས་ཐད་དུས་ལྟར་དོ་ནན་བྱ་རྒྱུ།

• དྲྭ་ཚིགས་ཀློག་མཁན་ཚོའི་ལྟ་ཚུལ་དང་བསམ་ཚུལ་ལ་བསྟུན་ནས་དགོས་ངེས་ཀྱི་ལེགས་བཅོས་བྱ་རྒྱུ།

• བོད་མིའི་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་ཀྱི་དགོས་མཁོ་དང་བསྟུན་ནས་ནང་དོན་ཁ་སྣོན་བྱ་རྒྱུ།

རང་དབང་ལྡན་པའི་འཛིན་སྐྱོང་།

ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་གྱི་བོད་མིའི་གཞི་གྲངས་འདི་ཉིད་ལ་མི་ཀུན་གྱི་ཡིད་ཆེས་བློ་འཁེལ་ཡོང་བ་དང་ལས་གཞི་ཚགས་ཚུད་པོ་ཡོང་སླད་དུ་འདི་ཉིད་ཆབ་སྲིད་ཕྱོགས་ཁག་གང་ལའང་མི་གཏོགས་པའི་བོད་མིའི་སྤྱི་དམངས་ཚོགས་པའམ་གཞུང་འབྲེལ་མ་ཡིན་པའི་ཚོགས་པ་ཞིག་གིས་བཟོ་བསྐྲུན་དང་འཛིན་སྐྱོང་བྱ་རྒྱུ་ཤིན་ཏུ་གལ་ཆེ། དེ་ལྟར་བྱུང་ན་མི་ཚང་མས་དེར་བཀོད་པའི་གནས་ཚུལ་རྣམས་དྲང་པོ་དང་། ཁུངས་དག་ཡིན་པར་ངོས་འཛིན་ཐུབ་ངེས་རེད་ལ་དྲྭ་ཚིགས་འཛིན་སྐྱོང་ཐད་ཆབ་སྲིད་ཕྱོགས་ཁག་གང་གི་དབང་དུ་མ་སོང་བར་དེ་ལྟ་བུའི་རང་དབང་ལྡན་པའི་ལམ་ནས་འཛིན་སྐྱོང་ཐུབ་ཚེ་ལྟ་བ་ལངས་ཕྱོགས་མི་གཅིག་པའི་བོད་མི་ཚང་མས་དེར་ཡིད་ཆེས་བློ་འཁེལ་ཐུབ་པ་ཡོང་ཐུབ།

བོད་མིའི་གཞི་གྲངས་ལས་གཞི་ཚགས་ཚུད་ཡོང་སླད་དུ་བོད་མིའི་སྒྲིག་འཛུགས་ཀྱི་ལས་འགན་ནི་ལས་གཞི་དེའི་ཆེད་དུ་གསང་རྒྱ་མི་དགོས་པའི་ཡིག་ཚགས་དང་རྒྱུ་ཆ་ཡོངས་རྫོགས་དུས་ལྟར་མཁོ་སྤྲོད་བྱ་རྒྱུ་དེ་ཡིན།

མཇུག་བསྡོམས།

བཙན་བྱོལ་བོད་མིའི་མང་གཙོའི་ཕུགས་མདུན་ནི་མང་གཙོའི་སྒྲིག་འཛུགས་བརྟན་པོ་ཞིག་འཛུགས་ཐུབ་མིན་གཅིག་པོ་མ་ཡིན་པར་མི་མང་གིས་མཉམ་ཞུགས་ཅི་ཙམ་བྱེད་མིན་ལའང་ཆེས་ཆེར་རག་ལས་ཡོད། འདི་ལྟ་བུའི་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་གྱི་བོད་མིའི་གཞི་གྲངས་བསྐྲུན་རྒྱུ་དེ་ནི་རྒྱུས་སྤྲོས་ཀྱི་ལོངས་སྤྱོད་ཅིག་ཏུ་བལྟ་མི་རུང་བར་དེ་ཉིད་ནི་བོད་མིའི་མང་གཙོ་ཡུན་གནས་གོང་འཕེལ་ཡོང་ཐབས་སུ་དགོས་ངེས་ཅན་གྱི་མཐུན་རྐྱེན་ཞིག་ཡིན་པ་ཤེས་དགོས། གཞུང་འབྲེལ་གྱི་གཞི་གྲངས་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་དུ་བསྒྱུར་བ་ཡིན་ན་དེས་བཙན་བྱོལ་བོད་མིའི་མང་གཙོ་འདི་བཞིན་ཕྱི་གསལ་ནང་གསལ་དང་། འགན་ཁུར་ལྡན་པ། སྣ་མང་མཉམ་འདུས་ཅན་ཅན་ཞིག་ཏུ་འགྱུར་བར་ཕན་ཐོགས་ཆེན་པོ་ཡོད་ཅིང་དེས་བསླུ་བྲིད་ཀྱི་དྲིལ་བསྒྲགས་དང་དབང་ཆ་གཅིག་སྡུད་དར་བཞིན་པའི་དེང་གི་འཛམ་གླིང་ལ་དོན་དམ་པའི་དྲང་བདེན་སྐྱོང་ལུགས་ཀྱི་དཔེ་བཟང་ཞིག་ཀྱང་ཏན་ཏན་སྟོན་ཐུབ་པར་ངེས།

སྔ་མོ་བོད་མིའི་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་ཀྱི་ལམ་ལུགས་རྙིང་པ་དེ་ནས་རང་དབང་མང་གཙོའི་ཕྱོགས་སུ་བསྒྱུར་བ་ནི་༧གོང་ས་མཆོག་གིས་བོད་མི་ཚོར་བསྩལ་བའི་གསོལ་རས་རྩ་ཆེན་ཞིག་ཡིན་ལ་ད་ནི་མང་གཙོའི་གསོལ་རས་འདི་རྒྱུན་སྐྱོང་དར་སྤེལ་བཏང་ནས་མི་རབས་རྗེས་མར་རྩིས་སྤྲོད་ལེགས་པོར་བྱ་རྒྱུ་ནི་བོད་མི་ཚོའི་དོར་དུ་མི་རུང་བའི་འགན་འཁྲི་ཉག་ཅིག་ཡིན། འགན་འཁྲི་དེ་འགྲུབ་པར་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་གྱི་གཞི་གྲངས་ལམ་ལུགས་ཤིག་བསྐྲུན་ནས་བོད་མིའི་མང་གཙོ་འདི་བཞིན་ཕྱི་གསལ་ནང་གསལ་དང་འགན་ཁུར་ལྡན་པ་ཞིག་ཏུ་འགྱུར་བར་བྱ་དགོས།

ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༢༠༢༦ ལོའི་ཕྱི་ཟླ་གསུམ་པ་ཟིན་པར་ཟླ་བ་ཁ་ཤས་ལས་མེད་ཀྱང་ད་དུང་ཕྱི་དྲགས་མེད། བོད་མིའི་མང་གཙོ་དར་སྤེལ་ཆེད་ཤིན་ཏུ་དགོས་གལ་ཆེ་བའི་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་ཅན་གྱི་བོད་མིའི་གཞི་གྲངས་ལམ་ལུགས་འདི་འདྲ་ཞིག་བསྐྲུན་རྒྱུའི་ལས་གཞི་འདི་ལག་བསྟར་ཐུབ་མཁན་སུ་ཞིག་ཡོད་དམ། ལས་གཞི་འདི་འདྲ་ཞིག་སྤེལ་རྒྱུའི་མ་རྩའི་ཆེད་མི་མང་གིས་ཞལ་འདེབས་བསྡུ་རུབ་ཐུབ་ཚེ་དགོས་ངེས་ཀྱི་རྒྱུ་ཆ་མཁོ་འདོན་ཐུབ་པར་ཕན་ཐོགས་ཆེན་པོ་ཡོད་པ་གདོན་མི་ཟ།

The Democratic Transformation and Its Challenges

One of the most profound legacies of the 14th Dalai Lama is the transformation of Tibetan society from an ancient civilization ruled by aristocrats, monks, and chieftains into a functioning democracy in exile. Under his moral and spiritual leadership, democratic values took root in the fabric of the Tibetan diaspora—a remarkable achievement that stands in stark contrast to the digital authoritarianism of Xi Jinping's China, where the state has grown increasingly opaque, centralized, and repressive.

Yet this democratic experiment remains young and fragile. His Holiness the Dalai Lama recently turned 90. The exile population, scattered across continents, numbers fewer than 200,000. Political divisions, sectarian tensions, and institutional weaknesses compound the risks. Without renewed commitment and innovative tools, the democratic gains of the past six decades could wither, placing both the Tibetan cause and its democratic integrity at risk.

Every five years, Tibetans across South Asia and the wider diaspora elect their Sikyong (President) and Members of the Tibetan Parliament-in-Exile (TPiE). These institutions—the executive and legislative branches of the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA), headquartered in Dharamsala—form the democratic backbone of Tibetan governance in exile.

However, this electoral process suffers from a critical flaw: the absence of reliable, accessible information about candidates and their performance. Voters often cast ballots with little publicly available data on candidates' qualifications, records, or legislative history. In this information vacuum, many rely on pre-circulated endorsement lists or vote along regional or sectarian lines.

The problem extends beyond elections. While the Tibetan Charter limits the Sikyong to two consecutive terms (with a five-year cooling-off period before re-eligibility), no such term limits apply to MPs. Some current parliamentarians have served three to five consecutive terms, yet there are no public archives documenting their parliamentary activity, voting records, or committee work. Similarly, there is no systematic tracking of whether a Sikyong fulfills campaign promises or delivers on policy commitments.

This persistent lack of performance-based information leaves community members with few tools to evaluate their elected representatives or make informed choices—undermining the health and credibility of Tibetan democracy in exile.

The Solution: Open Government Data

To safeguard and deepen democratic governance, the Tibetan exile community and the CTA should embrace open government data and civic technology tools. Creating a centralized, publicly accessible platform that tracks candidates' qualifications, legislative activity, voting records, and campaign promises would empower voters with the information they need to make informed decisions. Such transparency would foster a political culture based on merit, performance, and public service—rather than patronage or identity politics.

In a fragile democracy, information is power, and open data is its most durable defense.

Why Open Government Data Matters

Open Government Data (OGD) refers to the proactive publication of government information in accessible, machine-readable, and reusable formats—available to all, without restrictions. The eight foundational principles of OGD, developed at a working group in Sebastopol, California (2007), emphasize that data must be:

• Complete, primary, and timely

• Accessible and machine-processable

• Non-discriminatory, non-proprietary, and license-free

Applied to the Tibetan context, OGD offers a powerful, nonpartisan tool to bolster democratic governance and restore trust in public institutions and elected officials.

A Vision for Tibetan Open Government Data

At its heart, a Tibetan OGD initiative would involve developing a bilingual digital portal—in Tibetan and English—to serve as a transparent, centralized information hub. The bilingual nature of the platform is essential, as much of the limited information currently available exists primarily in Tibetan—making it inaccessible to many in the global diaspora, especially younger generations. Key features could include:

Parliamentary Overview

• Clear explanations of the structure, rules, roles, and procedures of the Tibetan Parliament-in-Exile (TPiE)

• Descriptions of executive and various committees, legislative timelines, oversight mechanisms and activities of the MPs and the committees.

MP Directory

• A searchable database of current and past MPs, filterable by name, constituency, or region

• Comprehensive profiles including voting records, motions and resolutions introduced, committee service, election manifestos, contact information, and term histories

Legislative Tracker

• Archived bills, motions, and resolutions introduced at least since 2011—the year His Holiness formally devolved political authority to elected leadership

• Advanced search filters by topic, MP, session, or date

Voting Records

• Detailed vote results by parliamentary session, issue, MP, or constituency block

• Intuitive visualizations showing legislative alignment and divergence patterns

Executive Accountability

• Comprehensive record of campaign promises made by the Sikyong

• Regular updates on implementation progress and policy outcomes

Policy Dashboard

A structured assessment of key initiatives by the Sikyong and Kashag, measured against the following 6 priority benchmarks:

• Resuming dialogue with China

• Elevating Tibet's global profile

• Fostering unity across the exile and diaspora community

• Advancing education and digital readiness

• Preserving language and culture

• Promoting financial sustainability and community self-reliance

Judicial Transparency

• Archive of all cases heard by the Tibetan Supreme Justice Commission

• Public access to rulings, judicial opinions, and relevant documents

• Activities and efforts of the Commission to strengthen the work of the judiciary branch of the CTA

Implementation Roadmap

The successful launch of a Tibetan OGD platform will require a phased approach which could include the following:

Phase 1: Research & Documentation

• Compile official records, resolutions, motions, campaign manifestos, and voting data

• Establish data quality standards and verification processes

Phase 2: Translation & Localization

• Ensure all content is available in both Tibetan and English

• Adapt user interface for cultural and linguistic accessibility

Phase 3: Digitization & Curation

• Digitize materials and implement consistent tagging systems

• Conduct quality assurance before publication

Phase 4: Portal Development

• Build a modern, secure, and intuitive web platform

• Implement multilingual navigation and mobile optimization

Phase 5: Launch & Engagement

• Promote through social media and targeted outreach

• Organize in-person events across major Tibetan diaspora hubs

• Develop user education materials

Phase 6: Maintenance & Evolution

• Establish regular data updates and cybersecurity protocols

• Continuously adapt the platform based on user feedback

• Expand features based on community needs

Governance and Independence

To maintain credibility and effectiveness, the Tibetan Open Government Data platform should be developed and managed by a nonpartisan Tibetan civil society organization or NGO. The project must remain free from political affiliations, with an unwavering commitment to impartiality, accuracy, and public service.

This independence is crucial for building trust across the diverse Tibetan community and ensuring the platform serves all citizens rather than particular political interests.

The CTA’s role in this initiative would be to ensure regular and timely access to all publicly available and non-classified data and materials.

Conclusion

The future of Tibetan democracy in exile depends not only on the strength of its institutions but on the quality of public participation. Open government data is not a luxury—it is a necessity for democratic survival and growth.

By making government data accessible, trackable, and trustworthy, the Tibetan community can build a more transparent, accountable, and inclusive democracy. Such a system would serve as a beacon of resilience and integrity in a world increasingly defined by misinformation and autocracy.

The transformation of old Tibetan society to democracy was His Holiness the Dalai Lama's gift to the Tibetan people. Now, it falls to the community to protect and strengthen this democracy for future generations. Open data offers a path forward—one that honors the past while building a more transparent and accountable future.

The clock is ticking between now and March 2026 - but there’s still time to act. This is a critical window to build the tools Tibetan democracy needs. Is there anyone ready to take on this community service and community-driven project? A crowdfunding initiative could mobilize the necessary resources to make this vision a reality

(Credit: Courtesy Barack Obama Presidential Library)

His Holiness the Dalai Lama and President Obama met 4 times in the White House.

The Obama Presidential Library has hi-resolution digital reproductions of all the image photos ready. The cost for a high-resolution reproduction is $17 per digital image. Pictures from all the four meetings are available at: https://www.obamalibrary.gov/

In order to request images, you have to have the file name and send an email to: obama.photos@nara.gov or call 847-252-5731 with your credit card and billing information.

Once they receive payment, they will email you a copy of your receipt and a link where you may view, print, and/or download the image(s). The link will be available for 14 days, after that, the file will be automatically deleted.

ཉེ་ལམ་ཡེ་ཤུའི་ཆོས་དཔོན་པོབ་ལིའུ་བཅུ་བཞི་པ་ Pope Leo XIV མཆོག་ཡེ་ཤུའི་ཆོས་དཔོན་ཁྲི་ཐོག་ ༢༦༧ པར་བདེ་བླག་ངང་འོས་འདེམས་བྱུང་བ་དེ་ནི་ཆོས་དཔོན་སྔ་མ་པོབ་ཧྥ་རན་སི་སི་ Pope Francis མཆོག་གིས་སྔོན་ནས་ཞིབ་ཚགས་ངང་འཆར་གཞི་བཀོད་སྒྲིག་གནང་བའི་བཀའ་དྲིན་ལ་བརྟེན་ནས་བྱུང་བ་ཞིག་ཡིན། བདམས་ཐོན་ཆོས་དཔོན་པོབ་ལིའུ་བཅུ་བཞི་པ་མཆོག་གིས་གཙོས་ཆོས་དཔོན་ལྷན་ཚོགས་cardinals (འདི་ནི་ཡེ་ཤུའི་ཆོས་དཔོན་གྱི་སློབ་སྟོན་ལྷན་ཚོགས་ཤིག་ཡིན་ཞིང་ཆོས་དཔོན་གཙོ་བོ་འོས་འདེམས་བྱ་རྒྱུ་སོགས་ཀྱི་འགན་དབང་ཡོད།)ཀྱི་ཚོགས་མི་བརྒྱ་ཆ་༨༠ ཙམ་སྔོན་མ་ནས་ཆོས་དཔོན་པོབ་ཧྥ་རན་སི་སི་སྐུ་ངོ་མས་འདེམས་སྒྲུག་བྱས་པ་ཤ་སྟག་ཡིན། ད་ལོ་དགུང་གྲངས་དགུ་བཅུར་སོན་པའི་༧གོང་ས་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་བཞི་པ་ཆེན་མོའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ནི་མ་འོངས་པར་འཛམ་བུ་གླིང་གི་ཆོས་ཕྱོགས་ཀྱི་གནད་དོན་ཆེ་ཤོས་ཤིག་ཏུ་འགྱུར་བར་ངེས་ཤིང་ཡེ་ཤུའི་ཆོས་དཔོན་དང་མི་འདྲ་བར་མ་འོངས་པར་༧གོང་ས་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་བཞི་པའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་གྱི་བརྒྱུད་རིམ་ནི་ཧ་ཅང་རྙོག་འཛིང་ཅན་ཞིག་ཏུ་འགྱུར་བའི་ཉེན་ཁ་ཆེ།

བོད་ས་ཡོངས་རྫོགས་ལ་ལུགས་གཉིས་ཀྱིས་མངའ་དབང་སྒྱུར་མཁན་༧གོང་ས་ལྔ་པ་ཆེན་པོ་ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༡༦༨༢ ལོར་སྐུ་གཤེགས་པའི་རྗེས་ནས་བརྩིས་ན་༧གོང་ས་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་བཞི་པ་ཆེན་པོའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ཀྱི་གནད་དོན་ནི་མ་འོངས་པར་བོད་ཀྱི་ལོ་རྒྱུས་ཁྲོད་ཀྱི་གནད་འགག་ཆེ་ཤོས་ཤིག་ཏུ་འགྱུར་བར་ངེས། རྒྱ་ནག་གིས་བོད་ཡོངས་སུ་དབང་བསྒྱུར་བྱེད་ཐུབ་ཡོད་ཀྱང་བོད་ཀྱི་སྟོབ་ཤུགས་ཤིག་ནི་པེ་ཅིང་གི་ལག་ཏུ་ཚུད་མེད། དེ་ནི་རང་དབང་ལུང་པར་བཞུགས་ཤིང་འཛམ་གླིང་ཡོངས་ལ་སྙན་གྲགས་རྒྱས་པའི་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་བཞི་པ་ཆེན་པོ་མཆོག་རེད།

ཉེ་ལམ་ཟླ་འདིའི་ཚེས་༢ ཉིན་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་མཆོག་གིས་མ་འོངས་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་དང་འབྲེལ་བའི་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་བསྒྲགས་གཏམ་མཛད་པའི་ནང་དུ་མ་འོངས་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་མུ་མཐུད་དུ་ཕེབས་རྒྱུ་ཡིན་པ་དང་། ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༢༠༡༡ ལོའི་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་བསྒྲགས་གཏམ་བཞིན་མ་འོངས་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་གནང་རྒྱུ་ཡིན་ཞིང་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱེད་པའི་འགན་དབང་དགའ་ལྡན་ཕོ་བྲང་ལ་ཡོད་ཚུལ་སོགས་བཀོད་གནང་མཛད་ཡོད། ཆབ་སྲིད་ཀྱི་འགོག་རྐྱེན་ཤིན་ཏུ་ཆེ་བའི་དུས་འདིར་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་རིམ་བྱོན་གྱི་ཆོས་ཕྱོགས་ཀྱི་ཐོབ་དབང་དང་ངོས་འཛིན་གང་ཡོད་མ་འོངས་པར་མུ་མཐུན་རྒྱུན་སྐྱོང་ཐུབ་མིན་ནི་མགོན་པོ་གང་ཉིད་དང་དགའ་ལྡན་ཕོ་བྲང་གིས་མ་འོངས་ཡང་སྲིད་ཀྱི་གནད་དོན་ཇི་ལྟར་ཐག་གཅོད་གནང་མིན་ལ་ཆེས་ཆེར་རག་ལས་ཡོད།

ལོ་ཉིས་སྟོང་ཙམ་གྱི་ལོ་རྒྱུས་ལྡན་པའི་ཡེ་ཤུའི་ཆོས་དཔོན་ཁྲི་རབས་ཀྱི་ལམ་ལུགས་དང་བསྡུར་ན་དུས་རབས་བཅུ་བཞིའི་མཇུག་ཙམ་ནས་དར་བའི་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་སྐུ་ཡི་ཕྲེང་བ་ནི་དུས་ཀྱི་ཆ་ནས་ཅུང་ཕྱི་པོ་ཡིན། ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་ཞེས་པའི་མཚན་གནས་ནི་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་གསུམ་པ་བསོད་ནམས་རྒྱ་མཚོ་མཆོག་ལ་ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༡༥༧༨ ལོར་སོག་པོའི་རྒྱལ་པོ་ཨལ་ཏན་ཁཱན་གྱིས་ཕུལ་བ་ཞིག་ཡིན། ༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་རིམ་བྱོན་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱེད་པ་དེ་ནི་བོད་བརྒྱུད་ནང་བསྟན་གྱི་སྤྲུལ་སྐུའི་ལམ་ལུགས་ཁྲོད་ཀྱི་ལག་ལེན་གལ་ཆེ་ཤོས་ཤིག་ཡིན། ལྷག་པར་དུ་དུས་རབས་བཅུ་བདུན་པ་ནས་བཟུང་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་རིམ་བྱོན་གྱིས་བོད་སོག་མཆོད་ཡོན་གྱི་འབྲེལ་བར་བརྟེན་ནས་བོད་ཆོས་སྲིད་གཉིས་ཀྱི་དབུ་ཁྲིད་མཛད་ཅིང་དགུང་ན་ཕྲ་བའི་སྐབས་སུ་ཆེད་བསྐོས་རྒྱལ་ཚབ་རྣམ་པས་འགན་དབང་བཞེས་ནས་བོད་དུ་ཐུན་མོང་མ་ཡིན་པའི་ཆོས་སྲིད་ལུགས་གཉིས་མཉམ་སྐྱོང་གི་ལམ་ལུགས་ཤིག་བསྐྲུན་ཡོད།

གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་མཆོག་ལ་འཛམ་གླིང་ཡུལ་གྲུ་གང་སར་དད་ལྡན་རྗེས་འབྲངས་བ་ས་ཡ་མང་པོ་ཡོད་ཅིང་ཁོང་ནི་འཚེ་མེད་ཞི་བའི་འཐབ་རྩོད་ཀྱི་སྟོབས་ཤུགས་ཤིག་དང་བོད་མིའི་ངོ་བོ་ལྟ་བུར་གྱུར་ཡོད་པས། ཁོང་གི་མ་འོངས་ཡང་སྲིད་ཀྱིས་འཛམ་གླིང་གི་ཡུལ་བབས་སྲིད་ཇུས་དང་རྒྱལ་སྤྱིའི་ཕྱི་འབྲེལ་སོགས་ཀྱི་སྟེང་ནས་ཤུགས་རྐྱེན་ཆེན་པོ་སྤྲོད་ངེས་པ་མ་ཟད། དེས་བོད་མིའི་མདུན་ལམ་དང་བོད་ཀྱི་ཆོས་རིག་རྒྱུན་འཛིན་དང་བོད་ཀྱི་རང་དབང་སླར་གསོ་སོགས་ཀྱི་ཐད་ལའང་ཤུགས་རྐྱེན་ངེས་ཅན་ཞིག་འབྱུང་བ་གདོན་མི་ཟ་བ་ཡིན།

ཕྱི་ལོ་༢༠༢༥ ལོའི་ཟླ་གསུམ་པར་བཏོན་པའི་༧གོང་ས་མཆོག་གི་ཕྱག་དེབ་གསར་ཤོས་“བོད་དང་བོད་མིའི་མགྲིན་ཚབ་”(Voice for the Voiceless) ཅེས་པ་དེར་ཁོང་གིས་ཡོངས་ཁྱབ་བསྒྲགས་གཏམ་གལ་ཆེན་གཉིས་སྤེལ་ཡོད་པའི་ནང་ནས་གཅིག་ནི་“སྐུ་ཕྲེང་སྔ་མའི་མཛད་རྒྱུན་སྐྱོང་བར་”༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅོ་ལྔ་པ་བྱོན་རྒྱུ་ཡིན་པ་དང་། གཉིས་པ་ནི་“༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་རང་དབང་ལུང་པར་འཁྲུངས་རྒྱུ་ཡིན་”པར་གསལ་བས་དེས་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་བཞི་པ་ཆེན་པོ་མཆོག་གིས་རང་གི་མ་འོངས་ཡང་སྲིད་བཙན་བྱོལ་བོད་མིའི་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་སམ་བོད་དང་རྒྱ་ནག་མ་ཡིན་པའི་བོད་བརྒྱུད་ནང་བསྟན་དར་སའི་སྤྱི་ཚོགས་ཤིག་ཏུ་འཁྲུངས་རྒྱུའི་ཐུགས་འདོད་ཡོད་པ་བསྟན།

རྒྱ་ནག་གིས་སྔོན་མན་ཇུའི་རྒྱལ་པོས་སྲིད་བཟུང་བའི་ཆིན་རྒྱལ་རབས་ཀྱི་སྐབས་ནས་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་མཆོག་དང་བོད་ཀྱི་བླ་ཆེན་ཁག་གི་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་གྱི་བྱ་བར་ཐེ་གཏོགས་བྱེད་བརྩམས་ཡོད། ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༡༧༩༢ ལོར་ཆིན་གོང་མའི་ཁྲིམས་ཁང་གིས་བོད་མི་ཚོས་གསེར་འབུམ་དཀྲུག་འདོན་གྱི་ལམ་ནས་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱེད་དགོས་ཚུལ་བསྒྲགས་ཡོད། གསེར་བུམ་དཀྲུག་འདོན་གྱི་ལམ་ལུགས་དེའི་ནང་དུ་སྤྲུལ་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ཀྱི་འོས་མི་རྣམས་གསེར་བུམ་ནང་དུ་བཅུག་ནས་དཀྲུག་པ་ལས་འོས་མི་གང་གི་མཚན་ཕྱིར་ཐོན་ན་དེ་ཉིད་ཡང་སྲིད་དངོས་སུ་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱེད་དགོས་པ་ཡིན། ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༢༠༡༡ ལོའི་༧གོང་ས་མཆོག་གི་བསྒྲགས་གཏམ་ནང་དུ་གསེར་བུམ་དཀྲུག་འདོན་གྱི་ལམ་ལུགས་དེ་ཉིད་༧རྒྱལ་དབང་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་གཅིག་པ་ཁོ་ནར་མ་གཏོགས་སྤྱོད་མྱོང་མེད་པ་གསལ་ཡོད།

རྒྱ་ནག་གཞུང་གིས་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ཐག་གཅོད་ཀྱི་བདག་དབང་གཙོ་བོ་ཁོང་ཚོར་ཡོད་ཚུལ་བརྗོད་བཞིན་ཡོད་པས་གོང་གི་བསྒྲགས་གཏམ་གཉིས་པ་དེས་རྒྱ་ནག་ལ་ཐད་ཀར་ཁ་གཏད་བཅག་ཡོད། སྲོལ་རྒྱུན་གྱི་སྤྲུལ་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱེད་པར་ཡང་སྲིད་རྩད་གཅོད་ཚོགས་ཆུང་གིས་སྤྲུལ་སྐུ་དེའི་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་སྔ་མའི་ཞལ་གདམས་དང་ལྷ་བླའི་ལུང་བསྟན། ཡང་སྲིད་གསར་པ་འཁྲུངས་རྗེས་ཀྱི་རྟགས་དང་མཚན་མར་བརྟག་པ་སོགས་ཆོས་ལུགས་ཀྱི་བྱེད་སྒོ་རིམ་པ་བརྒྱུད་དེ་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱེད་པ་ཡིན།

ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༢༠༢༣ ལོར་རྒྱ་ནག་དམར་ཤོག་ཚོགས་པས་“ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་དང་པཎ་ཆེན་བླ་མའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ངེས་པར་དུ་རྒྱལ་ནང་ནས་འཚོལ་དགོས་པ་དང་། གསེར་བུམ་དཀྲོག་འདོན་བྱས་ཏེ་རྒྱ་ནག་དབུས་གཞུང་གི་ཆོག་མཆན་འོག་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱེད་དགོས་”ཚུལ་བསྒྲགས་ཡོད།

ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༡༩༩༥ ལོར་༧པཎ་ཆེན་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་པའི་ཡང་སྲིད་རྒྱ་གཞུང་གིས་བཙན་ཁྲིད་བྱས་པའི་གནད་དོན་ལ་བལྟས་ན་རྒྱ་ནག་གཞུང་དང་ལྷན་དུ་གཉིས་མོས་ཀྱི་ཡང་སྲིད་རྩད་གཅོད་བྱེད་པའི་ཐབས་ལམ་ཞིག་རེ་བ་མེད་པ་གསལ་པོར་གྱུར་ཡོད། ༧པཎ་ཆེན་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་པའི་ཡང་སྲིད་༧པཎ་ཆེན་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་གཅིག་པ་མཆོག་དགུང་ལོ་དྲུག་ཙམ་ནས་བཟུང་རྒྱ་གཞུང་གིས་བཙན་ཁྲིད་བྱས་ཏེ་ཚབ་ཅིག་བསྐོས་ཡོད་པས་༧པཎ་ཆེན་རིན་པོ་ཆེ་སྐུ་ངོ་མ་ད་བར་དུ་གར་ཡོད་ཆ་མེད་དུ་གྱུར་ནས་མི་ལོ་སུམ་བཅུ་འཁོར་ཡོད།

༧པཎ་ཆེན་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་པའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་སྐབས་ཀྱི་བྱེད་ཐབས་དེ་དང་འདྲ་བར་རྒྱ་ནག་གཞུང་གིས་ཡང་བསྐྱར་རང་ངོས་ནས་༧ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ཡིན་ཟེར་བ་ཞིག་བདམས་ནས་བོད་མི་ཚོ་དང་ཕྱིའི་རྒྱལ་ཁབ་ཁག་ལ་དེ་ཉིད་ངོས་ལེན་དགོས་པའི་གནོན་ཤུགས་སྤྲོད་རྒྱུའི་ཉེན་ཁ་ཤིན་ཏུ་ཆེ། རྒྱ་ནག་གཞུང་གིས་རང་དང་འབྲེལ་ལམ་བཙུགས་པའི་རྒྱལ་ཁབ་ཚོར་“རྒྱ་ནག་གཅིག་གི་སྲིད་ཇུས་”ལ་ངོས་འཛིན་དགོས་པའི་ཆ་རྐྱེན་བཏོན་པ་ནང་བཞིན་མ་འོངས་པར་“ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་གཅིག་གི་སྲིད་ཇུས་”ལ་ངོས་ལེན་དགོས་པའི་ཆ་རྐྱེན་ཞིག་ཀྱང་འདོན་སྲིད་པ་ཡིན། མ་ཟད་རྒྱ་ནག་གི་སྲིད་འཛིན་ཞི་ཅིན་ཕིང་གིས་ཐབས་ལམ་དེ་ནི་ལོ་རབས་མང་པོར་རྙོག་འཛིང་གི་གནས་སུ་ལྷུང་བའི་བོད་ཀྱི་སྟེང་ནས་རྒྱ་ནག་གཞུང་ལ་རྩོད་ཡ་མེད་པའི་བདག་དབང་ཞིག་ཐོབ་རྒྱུའི་གོ་སྐབས་རྩ་ཆེན་ཞིག་ཏུ་མཐོང་བཞིན་ཡོད་པ་རེད།

༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ཀྱིས་ཡུལ་བབས་སྲིད་ཇུས་ལའང་ཤུགས་རྐྱེན་ངེས་ཅན་ཞིག་ཐེབས་སྲིད། གལ་ཏེ་༧གོང་ས་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅོ་ལྔ་པ་རྒྱ་གར་གྱི་མི་སེར་ཞིག་ཏུ་འཁྲུངས་ཚེ་དེས་རྒྱ་དཀར་ནག་གཉིས་ཀྱི་འབྲེལ་ལམ་ལ་ཤུགས་རྐྱེན་ངེས་ཅན་ཞིག་འབྱུང་ངེས་ཤིང་། ཡང་སྲིད་རིན་པོ་ཆེས་རྒྱ་གར་གཞུང་ལ་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་དང་བོད་མིའི་རང་ཐག་རང་གཅོད་ཀྱི་ཐོབ་ཐང་ལ་ཕྱི་གསལ་ནང་གསལ་གྱིས་རྒྱབ་སྐྱོར་དགོས་པའི་གནོན་ཤུགས་སྤྲོད་ཐུབ་ངེས་ཡིན། རྒྱ་གར་གཞུང་གིས་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་མཆོག་དང་དབུས་བོད་མིའི་སྒྲིག་འཛུགས།(བཙན་བྱོལ་བོད་གཞུང་།) དེ་བཞིན་བོད་མི་སྐྱབས་བཅོལ་བ་ ༨༥༠༠༠ ཙམ་ལ་ད་བར་དུས་ཡུན་རིང་པོར་གནས་ས་དང་མཐུན་རྐྱེན་མཁོ་སྤྲོད་བྱས་ཡོད་ཀྱང་གཞུང་འབྲེལ་ཐོག་བོད་དེ་རྒྱ་ནག་གི་ཆ་ཤས་ཡིན་པར་ཁས་བླངས་ཡོད་ཅིང་རྒྱ་ནག་ལ་ཁ་གཏད་ཀྱི་སྦྱོར་བ་ཤུགས་ཆེར་སྤེལ་བར་བཀག་འགོག་བྱས་ཡོད། མ་ཟད་ཚོར་བ་སྐྱེན་པའི་༧སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ཀྱི་གནད་དོན་ཐད་ནས་རྒྱ་གར་གཞུང་གིས་ད་བར་དུ་མི་སྨྲ་བའི་རྟུལ་ཞུགས་བཟུང་ནས་བསྡད་ཡོད།

བལ་ཡུལ་དང་སོག་ཡུལ་གཉིས་ནི་དཔལ་འབྱོར་གྱི་སྟེང་ནས་རྒྱ་ནག་ལ་ཧ་ཅང་བསྟུན་ཆེ་བས་གལ་ཏེ་༧གོང་ས་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་རྗེས་མ་རྒྱལ་ཁབ་དེ་གཉིས་གང་རུང་གི་མངའ་ཁོངས་སུ་འཁྲུངས་ཚེ་རྒྱ་ནག་གཞུང་གིས་གནོན་ཤུགས་ཆེས་ཆེར་འབྱུང་བར་ངེས། ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༢༠༡༦ ལོར་༧གོང་ས་མཆོག་སོག་ཡུལ་ལ་གདན་འདྲེན་ཞུས་པའི་རྐྱེན་གྱིས་རྒྱ་ནག་གཞུང་གིས་རྒྱ་སོག་ས་མཚམས་ཀྱི་འགག་ལམ་བཅད་པ་མ་ཟད། གཞུང་ཕྱོགས་ཀྱི་འབྲེལ་ལམ་བཅད་དེ་གནོན་ཤུགས་ཆེས་ཆེར་སྤྲད་ཡོད།

ཡང་ཨ་རི་ལ་མཚོན་ན་སྲིད་འཛིན་ཌོ་ནལ་ཊམ་ཕིས་ལས་ཡུན་དང་པོའི་སྐབས་སུ་མཚན་རྟགས་བསྐྱོན་པའི་བོད་ཀྱི་སྲིད་ཇུས་དང་རྒྱབ་སྐྱོར་ཁྲིམས་ཡིག་ Tibetan Policy and Support Act ནང་དུ་ཨ་རི་གཞུང་ངོས་ནས་“རྒྱ་ནག་མི་དམངས་སྤྱི་མཐུན་རྒྱལ་ཁབ་ཀྱི་སྲིད་གཞུང་དང་དམར་ཤོག་ཚོགས་པའི་མཐོ་རིམ་ལས་བྱེད་”སུས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་ཡང་སྲིད་རྩད་གཅོད་ལ་ཐེ་གཏོགས་བྱས་ཚེ་འབྲེལ་ཡོད་ལས་བྱེད་དེ་ཐེར་འདོན་བྱ་རྒྱུའི་འགན་དབང་སྤྲད་ཡོད་པར་བརྟེན་རྒྱ་ནག་གཞུང་གིས་ཡང་སྲིད་ཀྱི་བདག་དབང་འཕྲོག་བཅོམ་བྱས་ཚེ་དེས་ཨ་རིའི་ཁྲིམས་ཡིག་གི་བརྩིས་ཐང་དང་ལག་ལེན་ལའང་དོགས་སྣང་ཆེན་པོ་བསླང་བར་ངེས།

ཨ་རིའི་ཊམ་ཕི་སྲིད་གཞུང་གིས་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ཀྱི་གནད་དོན་ཐད་ལན་འདེབས་ཅི་འདྲ་བྱེད་པ་ཚོད་དཔག་ཐུབ་རྒྱུ་དཀའ་ན་ཡང་། ཕལ་ཆེར་རྒྱ་ནག་གིས་བསྐོས་པའི་ཡང་སྲིད་རྩིས་མེད་གཏོང་བའམ་ངོས་ལེན་བྱ་རྒྱུ་མ་རེད། དེས་རྒྱ་ནག་དང་ཨ་རི་གཉིས་ཀྱི་འབྲེལ་ལམ་སྤྱི་དང་ལྷག་པར་དུ་འགྲོ་བ་མིའི་ཐོབ་ཐང་དང་། ཆོས་དད་རང་དབང་གི་གནད་དོན་ཐད་འགལ་འདུ་ཇེ་ཆེར་ཡོང་བར་ངེས།

རྒྱ་ནག་གཞུང་གིས་བོད་མིའི་ཆོས་རིག་གི་ངོ་བོ་རྩ་གཏོར་གཏོང་རྒྱུའི་ཐབས་ཤེས་ཡོད་རྒྱུ་རྩལ་སྤྲུགས་གཏོང་བཞིན་ཡོད། ༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་མཆོག་གིས་མ་འོངས་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་འཁྲུངས་རྒྱུ་ཡིན་པ་དང་ཡང་སྲིད་དེ་ཉིད་བོད་ཀྱི་ཕྱི་ལོགས་སུ་འཁྲུངས་རྒྱུ་ཡིན་ཚུལ་གསུངས་ཡོད་པས་ད་ནི་༧གོང་ས་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་བཞི་པ་སྐུ་ངོ་མས་མ་འོངས་ཡང་སྲིད་རྩད་གཅོད་ཀྱི་བརྒྱུད་རིམ་གསལ་པོ་ཞིག་གཏན་འབེབས་གནང་ཐོག་ཡང་སྲིད་རྩད་གཅོད་ཀྱི་ལམ་ལུགས་ལ་གནས་བབ་དང་འཚམ་པའི་དགོས་ངེས་ཀྱི་ལེགས་བཅོས་མཛད་དེ་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་སྒྲིག་འཛུགས་འདི་བཞིན་ཡུན་གནས་ཕུགས་བརྟན་ཐུབ་པ་མཛད་རྒྱུ་དེ་ནི་ཁ་ཚ་དགོས་གཏུག་གི་མཛད་འགན་གལ་ཆེན་ཞིག་ཡིན།

༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་མཆོག་ལ་ཡེ་ཤུའི་ཆོས་དཔོན་པོབ་ཧྥ་རན་སི་སི་ནང་བཞིན་གྱི་ཁྲི་རབས་རྗེས་མ་འདེམས་མཁན་གྱི་ཆོས་དཔོན་ཚོགས་ཆུང་ལོགས་སུ་མེད་ནའང་། བོད་བརྒྱུད་ནང་བསྟན་གྱི་སྤྲུལ་སྐུའི་ལམ་ལུགས་ཁྲོད་སྤྲུལ་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱེད་པར་བརྒྱུད་ལམ་གཏན་འཁེལ་བ་གཅིག་མ་གཏོགས་མེད་པ་དེ་འདྲ་མིན་པར་དུས་མཐུན་གྱི་ཐབས་ལམ་གཞན་དག་སྤྱོད་ཆོག་པའི་ཆ་རྐྱེན་ཡོད། ལྷག་པར་དུ་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་མཆོག་གིས་གཙོས་བསྟན་འཛིན་གྱི་སྐྱེས་ཕྲེང་འཛིན་པ་རྣམས་ནི་ཡུལ་གང་དུ་འཁྲུངས་བ་དང་དུས་ག་དུས་འཁྲུངས་བ། ཚུལ་ཇི་ལྟར་དུ་འཁྲུངས་བ་སོགས་ལ་རང་དབང་ཐོབ་ཡོད།

འཕགས་པ་སྤྱན་རས་གཟིགས་མིའི་ཤ་ཚུགས་སུ་བྱོན་པའི་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་མཆོག་ལ་སྤྲུལ་བ་མང་དུ་བཞེས་རྒྱུའི་མཐུ་ནུས་ཡོད་པ་གདོན་མི་ཟ་བས་བོད་བརྒྱུད་ནང་བསྟན་གྱི་ཆོས་རྒྱུད་རྙིང་མ་དང་ས་སྐྱ་སོགས་སུ་དར་སྲོལ་ཡོད་པ་བཞིན་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་བཞི་པ་ཆེན་པོ་མཆོག་གིས་མི་རིང་བར་དགུང་ལོ་བཅུ་གསུམ་ཡས་མས་ཡིན་པའི་རང་གི་མ་འདས་ཡང་སྲིད་ཅིག་ངོས་འཛིན་གནང་བ་ཡིན་ན་དེས་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་སྐོར་གྱི་ཕྱི་ནང་གི་འགོག་རྐྱེན་ཡོངས་རྫོགས་སེལ་ཐུབ། དེ་ལྟར་བྱུང་ན་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་སྔ་རྗེས་བར་མཛད་འགན་བརྒྱུད་སྤྲོད་མཛད་པར་དུས་ཚོད་ཀྱི་སྟོང་ཆའང་མེད་པར་འགྱུར་བས་ཡང་སྲིད་རིན་པོ་ཆེས་༧རྒྱལ་དབང་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་བཅུ་བཞི་པ་ཆེན་པོའི་མཛད་འགན་མུ་མཐུད་རྒྱུན་སྐྱོང་གནང་རྒྱུར་སྟབས་བདེ་པོར་འགྱུར་བར་ངེས།

སྐུ་ཕྲེང་སྔ་ཕྱི་གཉིས་ཀྱི་བར་དུ་དུས་ཚོད་ཀྱི་སྟོང་ཆ་མེད་པར་གྱུར་ན་དགེ་མཚན་ཆེན་པོ་ཡོད། དེ་མིན་བོད་ཀྱི་ལོ་རྒྱུས་ཁྲོད་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་སྔ་མ་འདས་ནས་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་ཕྱི་མ་སྐུ་ན་མ་སོན་བར་གྱི་དུས་ཚོད་དེའི་རིང་དཀའ་རྙོག་མི་ཉུང་བ་འཕྲད་མྱོང་། དཔེར་ན་༧གོང་ས་ལྔ་པ་ཆེན་པོ་དགོངས་པ་རྫོགས་ནས་ལོ་དྲུག་གི་རྗེས་སུ་༧གོང་ས་སྐུ་ཕྲེང་དྲུག་པ་མཆོག་ད་ལྟའི་རྒྱ་གར་གྱི་མངའ་སྡེ་ཨ་རུ་ན་ཅལ་དུ་འཁྲུངས་བ་རྙེད་སོན་བྱུང་ཡང་མི་ལོ་བཅོ་ལྔ་ཙམ་གྱི་རིང་སྡེ་སྲིད་ཀྱིས་༧གོང་ས་ལྔ་པ་ཆེན་པོ་དགོངས་པ་རྫོགས་པ་སྦས་གསང་བྱས་ཏེ་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་མ་ཐུབ་པར་ལྷག་མྱོང་། བར་སྐབས་དེ་འདྲར་ནང་ཁུལ་འཐབ་རྩོད་དང་། རྒྱུ་རྫས་ལོག་སྤྱོད། དབང་ཚད་ཉམས་རྒུད་དང་། ཆབ་སྲིད་གཡོ་འཁྲུག ཕྱིའི་གནོན་ཤུགས་ཆེས་ཆེར་འབྱུང་བ་སོགས་ཀྱི་ཉེན་ཁ་ཧ་ཅང་ཆེ།

ད་ལྟའི་ཆར་མ་འོངས་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་ཇི་ལྟར་བྱ་དགོས་མིན་གྱི་བརྒྱུད་རིམ་ཞིབ་ཕྲ་གསལ་པོ་གང་ཡང་མེད་པར་བརྟེན་མ་འོངས་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་བདེ་བླག་ངང་ངོས་འཛིན་ཐུབ་ཐབས་ཀྱི་ཐབས་ལམ་གཞན་ཞིག་ནི་༧གོང་ས་མཆོག་སྐུ་ངོ་མས་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱ་ཚུལ་ཐད་ལམ་སྟོན་ཕྱག་བྲིས་མཛད་དེ་དེ་ཉིད་ཚུལ་བཞིན་ལག་བསྟར་གནང་མཁན་གྱི་ལྷན་ཚོགས་ཤིག་བསྐོ་འཛུགས་བྱུང་ན་དགེ་མཚན་ཆེ། ལྷན་ཚོགས་དེ་ནི་ས་དགེ་བཀའ་རྙིང་བཅས་བོད་ཀྱི་ཆོས་རྒྱུད་ཆེན་པོ་བཞི་དང་གཡུང་དྲུང་བོན་དང་བཅས་པའི་འཐུས་ཚབ་ལས་གྲུབ་པར་བྱས་ཏེ་དེའི་འགན་དབང་གང་ཡིན་ཁ་གསལ་བཀོད་ནས་དགའ་ལྡན་ཕོ་བྲང་ལ་དེ་ཡིས་ལས་དོན་ཐད་སྙན་འབུལ་ཚུལ་བཞིན་ཞུ་དགོས་པ་སོགས་ཀྱི་ཆ་རྐྱེན་བཟོས་ན་ལེགས། དེ་ལྟར་བྱུང་ན་མ་འོངས་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱེད་པའི་ལས་དོན་མཐའ་དག་ཕྱི་གསལ་ནང་གསལ་དང་། ཡིད་ཆེས་འཕེར་བའི་ལམ་ནས་སྒྲུབ་ཐུབ་པར་ཕན་ཐོགས་ཆེ་ལ་རྒྱ་ནག་གི་གནོན་ཤུགས་ལའང་གདོང་ལེན་ཤུགས་ཆེར་སྤྲོད་ཐུབ་པར་འདོད།

༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མ་མཆོག་ནི་ལོ་རྒྱུས་ཀྱི་འགག་མཚམས་གལ་ཆེན་ཞིག་ན་བཞེངས་ཡོད། ཁོང་ཉིད་ལ་རང་གི་མ་འོངས་ཡང་སྲིད་ཀྱི་གནད་དོན་ཐག་གཅོད་མཛད་རྒྱུའི་འགན་དབང་ཆ་ཚང་ཡོད་པ་མ་ཟད་ཆོས་དང་རིག་གཞུང་གཉིས་ཀའི་ཐད་ནས་དབང་ཐོབ་ཆེན་པོ་མངའ་བའི་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་སྒྲིག་འཛུགས་ཀྱི་མ་འོངས་པའི་གནས་བབ་ཀྱང་ཐག་གཅོད་མཛད་རྒྱུའི་འགན་དབང་ཡོད། མགོན་པོ་གང་ཉིད་ནི་འཛམ་གླིང་ཁྱོན་ལ་ཞི་བདེ་དང་བྱམས་བརྩེ་སྤེལ་མཁན་གྱི་དེད་དཔོན་ཞིག་ཡིན་པ་མ་ཟད་སྲོལ་རྒྱུན་གྱི་ལམ་ལུགས་དེང་རབས་ཀྱི་དུས་དང་མཐུན་པའི་ལེགས་བཅོད་མཛད་ཐུབ་མཁན་གྱི་སྐྱེ་བུ་རླབས་ཆེན་ཞིག་ཡིན་པ་རྩོད་མེད་རེད། ཁོང་ཉིད་ལ་མ་འོངས་སྐུའི་ཡང་སྲིད་ངོས་འཛིན་བྱེད་ཐབས་ཀྱི་བརྒྱུད་རིམ་གང་ཡིན་གནས་བབ་དང་འཚམ་པའི་ལམ་ནས་གཏན་འབེབས་ཐག་གཅོད་མཛད་རྒྱུའི་མཛད་འགན་གལ་ཆེན་ཞིག་ཡོད་པ་ཡིན། དེ་ནི་ཕྱིའི་གནོན་ཤུགས་དང་ཐེ་གཏོགས་འགོག་རྒྱུའི་ཐབས་ལམ་ཉག་ཅིག་དེ་ཡིན་པ་མ་ཟད་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་སྒྲིག་འཛུགས་མི་རབས་ནས་མི་རབས་བར་སྲ་བརྟན་ཡུན་གནས་ཐུབ་པའི་ལམ་བུ་གལ་ཆེན་དེ་ཡང་ཡིན་ནོ།

(དབུ་དཀར་ཚང་སྐལ་བཟང་རྡོ་རྗེ་ལགས་ནི་ཨེཊ་ལན་ཊིག་ལྷན་ཚོགས་ཀྱི་རྒྱ་ནག་གི་གནས་ཚུལ་ Atlantic Council’s Global China Hub ཉམས་ཞིབ་གནང་མཁན་རྒན་པ་ཡིན་ཞིང་སྔོན་ཆད་༧གོང་ས་ཏཱ་ལའི་བླ་མའི་སྐུ་ཚབ་དང་ཕྱི་ལོ་ ༢༠༢༡ ལོའི་བོད་མིའི་འོས་བསྡུ་ཆེན་མོའི་དངོས་གཞིའི་སྲིད་སྐྱོང་འོས་མི་ཡིན།)

(གོང་གི་རྩོམ་ཡིག་འདི་ནི་ ༢༠༢༥ ལོ་ཟླ་ ༧ ཚེས་ ༢ ལ་ཕྱི་རྒྱལ་སྲིད་བྱུས་དུས་དེབ་ནང་དཔར་བསྐྲུན་བྱས་པའི་དབྱིན་ཇི་སྐད་ཀྱི་རྩོམ་ཡིག་གཞི་མའི་བོད་སྐད་དུ་བསྒྱུར་བ་ཞིག་ཡིན། The above article is a translation of the original English article published in Foreign Policy magazine on July 2, 2025.)

The smooth election of Pope Leo XIV as the 267th pontiff reflected the careful groundwork laid by Pope Francis, who appointed 80 percent of the cardinals eligible to vote in the papal conclave—including the new pope himself. The next succession of a major religious leader is likely to be that of the 14th Dalai Lama, who turns 90 years old on July 6. It is unlikely to be as smooth.

Not since the Fifth Dalai Lama—who died in 1682, leaving behind a unified Tibetan plateau—has a succession carried such weight for the future of Tibetan identity and leadership. Today, the stakes are different but no less profound. China exercises absolute control over Tibet itself, yet one force remains beyond Beijing’s grasp: the current Dalai Lama. He lives freely in exile but still commands global reverence.

On July 2, the Dalai Lama issued a statement reaffirming that the institution of the Dalai Lama will continue after his death. He also reiterated that his 2011 statement outlines the process for recognizing his successor and that his office, the Gaden Phodrang Trust, will hold sole authority over the succession. How the Dalai Lama and his office manages this transition will be pivotal in determining whether this ancient lineage retains its spiritual legitimacy amid growing political interference—or risks fracturing under external pressure.

While the Catholic papacy traces its lineage to Saint Peter nearly 2,000 years ago, the Dalai Lama institution—established in the late 14th century —is relatively young by comparison with the first two Dalai Lamas being awarded the title posthumously. The title itself, meaning “Ocean of Wisdom,” was bestowed on the third Dalai Lama by Mongolian ruler Altan Khan in 1578. The position operates within Tibetan Buddhism’s reincarnation tulku system, where there are different levels of rebirth and high lamas or tulkus are believed to consciously choose rebirth to continue their spiritual mission. The Dalai Lama represents the most revered of these reincarnated lineages. From the 17th century onward, successive Dalai Lamas—or their appointed regents when the lama was a minor—maintained political power in Tibet through a “patron-priest” (Cho-yon) relationship with the Mongols and subsequent Chinese dynasties through the Qing period, and succeeded in creating a distinctive theocratic system that merged absolute religious authority with temporal power.

As the spiritual leader of Tibetan Buddhists, the Dalai Lama commands unquestioned authority and deep loyalty from millions worldwide, standing as an enduring symbol of nonviolent resistance and Tibetan identity. His successor will inherit his moral and diplomatic influence, while the succession process and outcome will determine the future of Tibetan Buddhism and the Tibetan struggle for freedom and self-determination. For China, controlling this succession offers the ultimate prize: legitimizing decades of occupation by transforming Tibet’s greatest symbol of resistance into an instrument of state authority.

In his March 2025 book Voice for the Voiceless, the current Dalai Lama made two significant declarations: First, reversing earlier suggestions that the lineage might end with him, he confirmed there will be a 15th Dalai Lama “to carry on the work of the predecessor”; second, he declared that “the new Dalai Lama will be born in the free world.” This signals his intention to ensure the next Dalai Lama emerges from among Tibetan exiles or the broader Tibetan Buddhist community outside Tibet and China.

This second declaration sets the stage for a direct confrontation with China, which claims the sole right to choose the next Dalai Lama. The traditional process of recognizing a reincarnated lama involves search teams interpreting spiritual signs and performing sacred rituals to identify a child born around the time of the predecessor’s death. This elaborate process typically follows instructions left by the deceased lama, combined with consultations with oracles and senior monks, prophetic visions, and a series of tests designed to confirm the child’s authentic identity.

Chinese efforts to control the selection of the Dalai Lama and other high Tibetan religious figures stretch back to the Manchu rulers of the Qing dynasty. In 1792, the Qing court proposed that Tibetans use the “golden urn” method to select reincarnations of senior religious leaders. Under this system, candidates’ names were placed in an urn and selection occurred through drawing lots. According to the Dalai Lama’s 2011 statement, only the 11th Dalai Lama was actually recognized using this method. In 2023, the ruling Chinese Communist Party (CCP) announced that the reincarnation of the “Dalai Lamas and Panchen Rinpoches, must be looked for within the country, decided through the practice of lot-drawing from the golden urn, and receive approval from the central government.”

Any possibility of finding common ground with the Chinese leadership on the issue of succession was shattered in 1995, when China hijacked the reincarnation process of the 10th Panchen Lama, the second-ranking religious figure in Tibet. The Chinese government abducted the legitimate 11th Panchen Lama, then just 6 years old, and his family, installing a state-approved replacement. The real Panchen Lama has been missing ever since, making 2025 the 30th year of his enforced disappearance.

Following this trend, Beijing will likely appoint its own candidate as the 15th Dalai Lama and pressure both Tibetans and foreign governments to accept its choice. Just as China insists that other countries adhere to its “One China” policy regarding Taiwan, it will likely demand a “One Dalai Lama” policy—recognition of only the Chinese-appointed Dalai Lama—in its bilateral relations. China’s president, Xi Jinping, would view such an outcome as the crowning achievement in the country’s centuries-long quest to assert control and legitimacy over Tibet.

The Dalai Lama’s succession also carries significant geopolitical implications both regionally and globally. Should the 15th Dalai Lama be born in India and hold Indian citizenship, it would introduce a complex new dimension to the already strained India-China relationship. An Indian-born Dalai Lama could increase pressure on New Delhi to adopt a more openly supportive stance toward the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan people’s right to self-determination. India has long served as a host to the Dalai Lama, the Central Tibetan Administration (the Tibetan government-in-exile), and nearly 85,000 Tibetan refugees. While providing sanctuary and support, India maintains an official policy that recognizes Tibet as part of China and prohibits overtly anti-China political activities on its soil. New Delhi has remained conspicuously silent on the sensitive question of the 14th Dalai Lama’s succession.

Mongolia and Nepal—both economically dependent on China—would face immense pressure from Beijing if a reincarnation of the Dalai Lama were discovered within their borders, especially if they did not recognize the Chinese-appointed candidate. Ulaanbaatar has already experienced the consequences of defying Beijing. When the Dalai Lama visited Mongolia in 2016, China responded by closing a key border crossing and freezing bilateral diplomacy.

The United States’ Tibetan Policy and Support Act, signed by U.S. President Donald Trump during his first term, authorizes the U.S. government to “take all appropriate measures to hold accountable senior officials of the Government of the People’s Republic of China or the Chinese Communist Party” who interfere in the Dalai Lama’s succession process. If China attempts to hijack the succession, it will threaten the credibility and enforcement of U.S. law.

It is difficult to predict how the Trump administration might respond, but it could choose to reject or withhold recognition of a Chinese-appointed Dalai Lama—adding yet another layer of complexity to already tense U.S.-China relations, particularly on issues related to human rights and religious freedom.

The CCP will do everything it can to co-opt the religious and cultural identity of the Tibetan people. Now that it is clear the institution of the Dalai Lama will continue—with a 15th Dalai Lama to be born outside of Tibet—the most urgent task before the current Dalai Lama is to define the precise method of succession and implement reforms that ensure the continuity and integrity of the lineage.

The Dalai Lama may not have Pope Francis’s College of Cardinals to choose a successor from, but helpfully, the Tibetan Buddhist doctrine of reincarnation allows for considerable flexibility. There is no single, fixed mechanism for recognizing reincarnations, and enlightened beings such as the Dalai Lamas are believed to possess the agency to determine the time, place, and manner of their rebirth.

One promising path to protect the succession, and also explained in the Dalai Lama’s September 2011 statement, is the concept of “emanation”—whereby high-level bodhisattvas, enlightened beings like the Dalai Lamas, can manifest in multiple bodies simultaneously. One analogy would be a cloud-computing server running multiple applications in different locations. Under this scenario, the next Dalai Lama could be found during the current one’s lifetime. There have been notable instances of recognized emanations in recent times within the Nyingma and Sakya schools of Tibetan Buddhism. The 14th Dalai Lama could recognize a 13- or 14-year-old, transmit his wisdom, and ensure continuity in spiritual leadership. This would also resolve the long-standing issue of an interregnum—the often decades-long gap between the death of a Dalai Lama and the maturity of his recognized reincarnation.

Interregnums are often precarious; throughout Tibetan history, regents of young Dalai Lamas have faced challenges in maintaining authority. The most well-known example involved the regent who concealed the death of the Fifth Dalai Lama for 15 years even though a successor had been identified just six years later in what is now Arunachal Pradesh, India. Such gaps in leadership have historically led to factional infighting, financial mismanagement, weakened central authority, political instability, and increased vulnerability to external threats.

Another important reform for consideration is the creation of a council charged with implementing the Dalai Lama’s written instructions on succession. This body should include representatives from the four major schools of Tibetan Buddhism—Nyingma, Kagyu, Sakya, and Gelug—as well as Bon, Tibet’s indigenous, pre-Buddhist tradition. By establishing such a council and clearly outlining its mandate, the Dalai Lama would address a critical gap, as there is presently no formal mechanism to ensure that his succession guidelines are carried out, or by whom. This council should report to the Gaden Phodrang Trust. A diverse, credible council would offer both transparency and expertise for what is likely to be a complex and contested process as well as guard against mounting efforts by the CCP and Xi to co-opt this sacred tradition for political ends.

The 14th Dalai Lama stands at a pivotal moment in history, uniquely positioned to shape both his own succession and the future of an institution that carries deep spiritual and cultural significance. His legacy will not only be defined by his lifelong commitment to peace and compassion, but also by his visionary efforts to adapt ancient traditions to meet the demands of a changing world. One final, urgent responsibility remains: to proactively redefine the reincarnation process on his own terms—safeguarding it from political interference and ensuring the institution’s integrity, relevance, and spiritual legitimacy for generations to come.

Kelsang Aukatsang is a nonresident senior fellow in the Atlantic Council’s Global China Hub. He was formerly the 14th Dalai Lama’s North America representative and a presidential candidate in the 2021 Tibetan election.

(The above piece appeared in Foreign Policy on July 2, 2025)

May 23, 2025: I first met Sebastião in 2001 in San Francisco, where I managed a fund he and his wife, Lélia, had established at the Tides Foundation for Instituto Terra, their environmental NGO in Brazil. I never imagined that meeting would mark the beginning of a profound journey—one that included my role as the U.S. Representative for Instituto Terra and several visits to Aimorés, where Sebastião and Lélia transformed a barren stretch of land into thriving Atlantic rainforest.

Instituto Terra is a non-profit civil organization founded in April 1998 and based in the town of Aimores, Brazil. It focuses on environmental restoration and sustainable rural development in the Rio Doce Valley. The region was originally covered by the Atlantic Forest and encompasses municipalities in the states of Minas Gerais and Espírito Santo. Since its founding, the organization has planted close to 3 million trees which includes over 300 species native to the Atlantic Forest. The organization’s nursery has cultivated over 7 million native seedlings.

In a world where truly inspiring figures are rare, I was fortunate to cross paths with Sebastião. He radiated a quiet, spiritual strength, and our conversations—whether about reforestation in Brazil or the stories behind his photography—felt like lessons from a wise teacher. He was deeply human, yet also transcendent, bearing witness to both the suffering and resilience of humanity and our planet through his lens.

Though Sebastião has left us, his legacy will endure. I am grateful for the privilege of knowing him, learning from him, and calling him a friend. My thoughts and prayers are with Lélia, Juliano, Rodrigo, and everyone at Instituto Terra.

Rest in peace, sir.

New York Times Obituary

CHINA AND HUMAN RIGHTS POLICIES UNDER TRUMP 2.0

There is a wide range of opinion and much speculation on how Trump might deal with China in his second term. The Trump 2.0 team includes both longtime China hawks such as Marco Rubio as well as people like Elon Musk who have significant business interests in China. Trump’s freezing of foreign aid is already causing major problems for various communities working on human rights, religious freedom and democracy in China. These civil society organizations depend on the U.S. government for funding. What would a Trump 2.0 policy towards China and human rights in China look like? What are the key issues for Chinese, Hong Kong, Mongolian, Taiwanese, Tibetan and Uyghur communities?

Speaker:

Kelsang D. Aukatsang

NonResident Senior Fellow, Global China Hub

Atlantic Council

Moderator: Producer and Editor:

Sakina Batt Kelsang D. Aukatsang

Host, Freedom Hour, AFI

This report is an edited transcript of a podcast streamed on February 26, 2025. The complete podcast is available on Asia Freedom Institute’s YouTube channel.

Asia Freedom Institute promotes democracy, human rights and religious freedom in China and Tibet; and strengthens Tibetan democracy in exile. It works towards educating the public and strengthening the community of people and organizations working on democracy and human rights issues related to China and Tibet.

May 2025

©Asia Freedom Institute

1. Can you put President Trump’s reelection in perspective and what Trump 2.0 would mean for China?

If you look at the arc of the U.S.-China relations since normalization of relations between the U.S. and China initiated by President Nixon in the early seventies, there are some clear milestones. There was the pre-1989 Tiananmen Square massacre and the years immediately following the massacre. This phase was characterized by international condemnation of China's brutal suppression of its citizens who were demanding more freedom, democracy and an open China. The years immediately following theTiananmen Square Massacre brought China's gross violation of human rights under scrutiny. But given China's emerging economy, its vast market, and how businesses began to see China as the source of cheap manufacturing, we started seeing the emergence of more pro-business, pro-trade voices. President Clinton de-linked human rights and trade. We had three successive U.S. presidents - Clinton, Bush and Obama - who served a combined period of twenty four years where the U.S. policy towards China shifted to one called engagement. Essentially this policy made the argument that the international community should bring China into the international economic system and that trade and economic relations would lead to a more free and open China.

I was in Washington DC in the early nineties and as a young staffer at the International Campaign for Tibet I had a front row seat to the debate unfolding in the U.S. Congress, the State Department and in Washington. The pro-human rights faction wanted to make human rights an integral part of US-China relations, while the trade and pro-business people advocated for more business with China. The policy of engagement benefited China in many ways. It helped China transition from a poor developing country to one that had the fastest growing economy in the world. But on the issue of political reforms, the engagement policy was a massive disaster. The policy instead helped solidify the rule and control of the Chinese Communist Party. China essentially got to enjoy all the upside of this policy without having to give anything in return. President Obama in the latter half of his presidency did begin to see the flaws in America’s China policy and initiated a pivot to Asia policy, but it was a bit too little too late.

It wasn't until President Trump arrived on the scene that we began to see a noticeable shift in both the tone as well as the underlying dynamics of the US-China relations. If there's one thing that the Chinese leadership respects and fears is strength and that was what President Trump in his first term was able to project. It was clear by then that the U.S. began to view China as a clear threat. The policy of engagement and welcoming China's rise came to an end and this was replaced by an America first policy.

President Trump’s return to the White House comes at a challenging time for Xi Jinping as China is facing challenges on multiple fronts. Economic growth has stalled and no one believes the official GDP growth numbers that China puts out. China is experiencing the biggest youth unemployment today. There is low birth rate and a declining population. People with the means and resources are leaving China. Its industrial policy of manufacturing things on a massive scale and exporting it overseas is drawing growing backlash because Chinese goods are flooding other countries. So, the return of President Trump is happening at a time when things are less than stable for China. Trump’s emphasis on an America first approach will take US China relations into uncharted territory. Things are going to be unpredictable and unpredictability is exactly what Xi Jinping and the Chinese Communist Party do not want.

2. Where do you see the U.S.-China relations heading under Trump 2.0?

It would be an understatement to say that President Trump has unleashed massive disruption in how the U.S. government operates and conducts its foreign policy. The disruption is being felt sharply by the American citizens, neighboring countries and the international community. We are all struggling to keep up and adjust to this massive disruption. But as the dust begins to settle, what is emerging are a few things. Many foreign policy analysts are seeing a shift away from Europe. The Trump administration appears to move away from a Eurocentric policy as evident in the massive reversal in policy on Ukraine and statements on NATO. Many experts are of the view that American resources and attention is shifting away from Europe and the Middle East towards Asia, the Indo-Pacific and especially towards China.

We will have to see how things play out. The current team around President Trump has several people with a long-term record of hawkish position on China and the Chinese Communist Party. Secretary of State Marco Rubio at his confirmation hearing said:

“We welcome the ChineseCommunist Party into the global order and they took advantage of all its benefits and they ignored all of its obligations and responsibilities. Instead, they have repressed and lied and cheated and hacked and stolen their way into global superpower status. And they have done so at our expense and at the expense of the people of their own country.”

Rubio’s nomination was supported unanimously by 99 senators. The National Security Advisor, Michael Waltz, wrote an op-ed in The Economist right before the U.S.presidential election in November 2024 where he said:

“The next president should act urgently to bring the conflicts in Ukraine and the Middle East to a swift conclusion and finally focus strategic attention where it should be, countering the greater threat from the Chinese Communist Party.”

Michael Waltz also opposed the U.S. participating in Beijing's Winter Olympics in 2022 when he was a member of the U.S. Congress from Florida. He compared the Beijing Olympics to the summer Olympics held in Nazi Germany.

There are also China watchers who have speculated on whether Trump is attempting a “reverse Nixon policy” on China. President Trump might try to normalize relations with Russia and isolate China. This is the reverse of what President Nixon did back in the seventies, when at the height of the Cold War, he normalized relations with Deng Xiaoping and China as a way to take China away from its alliance with the Soviet Union. The defining characteristic of U.S.-China relations under Trump 2.0 will be one of uncertainty and unpredictability. Even though there are China hawks like Rubio and Waltz on the Trump team, you also have more business-leaning people like Elon Musk who have significant business interest in China and close relations with Chinese leaders. The combination of people with such different philosophical positions and interests could all lead to an incoherent China policy.

The biggest X factor and wild card, however, is President Trump himself. He is someone who does not conduct foreign policy in the traditional way. If you compare Trump’s positions and statements during the campaign and now, one could say there is some softening. He invited Xi Jinping to his inauguration,which was unprecedented. Xi responded by sending the Chinese vice president as his special representative. He has extended the deadline on banning TikTok. He made positive comments about Xi Jinping. This is what he said at the recent World Economic Forum at Davos: “I like President Xi very much.I've always liked him.We always had a very good relationship.” With regards to tariffs on Chinese goods, Trump said he would hit China with at least 60% additional tariff, but so far, he has only imposed an additional 10% tariff.

If one looks at Trump's past dealings with authoritarian figures like Kim Jong Un and Putin and his recent actions on Ukraine, then there's the possibility that Trump might take a similar kind of a personal, short-term and transactional approach with Xi Jinping as well. He might look to make some kind of a deal with Xi and China and offer concessions on issues like human rights and Taiwan. People like Rubio and Waltz might therefore have a limited role and influence in what they can do and say. So, a lot depends on President Trump. He is overseeing a massive shift in how the U.S. conducts its foreign policy. Everything is centered on this America First agenda. Trump is weaponizing the U.S. consumer market, the largest in the world. It would be safe to say that the direction of the U.S.-China relations will depend on President Trump and who he aligns with in his administration. Will he lean more heavily on people like Rubio and Waltz or will he align with the pro-business and pro-engagement with China members of his team?

3. What are the core issues that could dominate the bilateral relations between Washington, D.C. and Beijing?

The U.S.-China relations is the most important bilateral relation in the world. It is a complex and multifaceted relationship. The three core issues in my view are the 3 T’s: trade, technology and Taiwan.

The trade issue is front and center. President Trump based much of his campaign on the trade issue. The U.S. is the largest market in the world and every country wants access to the U.S. market either directly or through a third country. The U.S. imported around US$439 billion worth of goods from China in 2024. The trade deficit between the two countries was about US$295 billion in China’s favor in 2024. China has a trade surplus with 150 out of 181 countries that it does trade with. There are only 31 countries which have a trade surplus with China. These include Congo, Angola, Turkmenistan, Australia and Brazil, all countries that have huge mineral deposits that China needs. China is running up huge surpluses with the rest of its trading partners. For instance, China has a trade surplus of US$10 billion dollars with Nepal, a poor country. These surpluses are causing a lot of friction for China. While consumers in many countries are benefiting as they get to buy things at a much cheaper price, the net result ends up benefiting China which has based its entire economy on this export model. China is able to produce things on a massive scale at a much lower cost. The whole world is now trying to see how they can deal with this because every market - U.S., EU, India and most smaller countries - is being flooded by products made in China. The goods are now no longer just low-end consumer products, but now include electric cars, solar panels and other high-end items. President Trump is trying to make sure that the U.S. trade deficit with China is corrected, that China buys more from the U.S. and that some of the manufacturing returns to America. So, trade is going to be the number one issue between the U.S. and China and a source of great friction.

The only country that can compete with the U.S. on technology is China. There's a massive war happening between China and the U.S. on technology and it's playing out in three arenas: artificial intelligence (AI), advanced semiconductors, and outer space. This is also tied to national security and whether the U.S. is able to maintain its status as the most advanced

economy in the world. We're going to see conflict over technology visible everywhere in the bilateral relations between the two countries.

The third core issue is Taiwan. When President Biden had his final in-person meeting with Xi Jinping in November 2024 on the sidelines of the APEC summit in Lima, Peru. Xi essentially warned the U.S. on four red lines. The first one was that the U.S. will not try to undermine the power and control of the Chinese Communist Party by advocating for regime change, etc. Second, the U.S. will respect the Chinese system of government, which is essentially a one man and one party dictatorship. Implicit in the second red line is that the U.S. should not support democracy, human rights, religious freedom in China; and the rights of people like Tibetans, Uyghurs, Mongolians, and Hong Kongers. The third red line has to do with the economy. It says the U.S. will not try to contain China's economic growth, whether through trade embargoes or other tools. The fourth and final red line relates to Taiwan. It says that the U.S. will not promote Taiwan's independence.

I think all four of China’s red lines will be under the spotlight at different times in the bilateral relationship. The Taiwan issue, however, could be a major flashpoint. The U.S. essentially recognizes the one China policy, but it has also adopted a policy of strategic ambiguity. Under this policy, the U.S. is opposed to China changing the status quo by using force or invading Taiwan. However, the policy does not clarify if the U.S. will intervene militarily in the event of a Chinese invasion of Taiwan. This policy of strategic ambiguity has served as a deterrent. However, there are now people in Trump's administration advocating for a policy of strategic clarity where the U.S. makes clear that it will intervene militarily if China attacks Taiwan and the policy also calls for scaling up America's military presence in the region. Advocates of change in policy believe that the strategic ambiguity posture is not working as evidenced by Beijing’s increasing aggression towards Taiwan particularly post- Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s visit to Taiwan in August 2022. China has invaded Taiwanese airspace, fired missiles across Taiwan, undertaken naval blockade exercises, etc. It's unclear how President Trump is going to approach the issue of Taiwan. There was a small but important development in February when the U.S. State Department updated information on its website. In the new bilateral fact sheet on Taiwan, the earlier language “we do not support Taiwanese independence” was missing. This language was also taken out during President Biden's administration in 2022 but reinserted a few weeks later following strong protest by the Chinese government. It's not clear why the language has been deleted again and whether this signals any shift in the new Trump administration’s policy towards Taiwan. The removal of the language has upset Beijing while it was welcomed by the Taiwanese government. Taiwan will remain an important issue. How the war in Ukraine gets resolved and also the actions of Taiwan, now that Taiwan has a more assertive President, will also be important factors.

4. Where will human rights and democracy promotion figure on the Trump administration agenda?

President Biden defined the challenge of dealing with authoritarian regimes and figures like the one Xi Jinping represents as “the battle between democracy and autocracy.” He elevated human rights and democracy promotion in U.S. foreign policy and his administration advanced multiple policy and aid initiatives to promote democracy globally. Also, he also took a multilateral approach and brought allies along and used forums like the United Nations. The Biden administration convened for the first time a summit for democracy in 2021 where leaders from almost all democratic states came and discussed how to protect and strengthen democracy,

Even though there are people who are strong proponents of human rights in the Trump 2.0 team, the new U.S. administration will most likely not adopt a democracy versus autocracy framing. The bilateral fact sheet posted on the revised U.S. State Department website states the U.S. will “promote accountability for China's violations of human rights within China and around the globe.” So, human rights has been flagged as an important issue to the current U.S. administration when dealing with China.

If the Trump administration pursues an aggressive policy of supporting human rights and democracy in China then this would mean pushing back on China’s three red lines related to the Chinese Communist Party, the legitimacy of the current Chinese system of government, and Taiwan. So, it’s unclear at the moment how the Trump administration will proceed on the issue of human rights and democracy vis-à-vis China. We will have to wait and watch. I think a lot will

depend on how the three T's of trade, technology and Taiwan plays out as that will impact how prominently the issue of human rights figures in the bilateral relationship.

Some of the recent actions by the Trump administration: the freezing of foreign aid; withdrawing from bodies like the U.N. Human Rights Council, the World Health Organization, the Paris Accord; the dramatic reversal of policy on the Ukrainian war; and domestic policies related to immigration have diminished the U.S. standing. I hope they are not indicative of a larger shift of deprioritizing human rights, democracy and religious freedom in U.S. foreign policy as these issues have enjoyed the support of both Republicans and Democrats for decades. Again, we're all getting used to a White House doing things in ways that we haven't seen done before. We will have to wait and see to what extent Secretary Rubio, who has strong record of promoting and advocating for the human rights of the Uyghurs, the Tibetans, the Hong Kongers, and others in the Trump team like National Security Advisor Walz, can influence and shape U.S. policy of promoting human rights, democracy and religious freedom in China.

5. Can you provide your views on the context, scope and impact of the Trump administration’s decision to temporarily freeze all United States government international development aid and funding for human rights and democracy support work across the globe?

Amongst the flurry of executive orders that President Trump signed on the first day in office on January 20, 2025 was one entitled Re-Evaluating and Realigning United States Foreign Aid which ordered a ninety day pause in all U.S. government foreign aid. The administration announced it wanted to review the efficiency of this program and how well this program aligned with U.S. foreign policy. Since then the Trump administration has taken further and more drastic steps including the dismantling of USAID, the central agency through which most U.S. foreign aid is channeled. USAID was set up by President Kennedy back in the sixties. The agency has over 10,000 employees and works in sixty countries. It spent over forty billion U.S.dollars in aid in 2023.

There is a great deal of misperception and misinformation around U.S. foreign aid and how much aid the U.S. gives annually. I've seen polls conducted in the U.S.where respondents have put the number as high as 25% of the annual budget to aid. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Pew Research Center recently came up with some data where the total amount of U.S. foreign aid in 2023 was around US$72 billion. This amount is just barely over 1% of the US government's total spending in 2023 which was about US$6.1 trillion. So, foreign aid is a drop in the bucket. Also, the U.S. government’s foreign aid as a percentage of its total GDP lags far behind some of the European countries.

Another big blow was the freezing of funds to the National Endowment for Democracy (NED). This institution was set up by President Reagan and has enjoyed bipartisan support on Capitol Hill. In FY2024, the Congress gave about US$315 million to NED which supports close to 2000 grantees in almost 100 countries. Major Tibetan groups, including the CTA, important Chinese, Hong Kong and Uyghur democracy groups have all received NED funding for many years. The Trump administration has frozen NED’s access to funds in its account with the US Treasury Department. NED staff have been put on furlough, grantees have been notified of NED’s inability to meet its grant obligations, and all NED grantmaking has been paused until their access to funds is restored.

The U.S. spending towards foreign aid makes up only a tiny percentage of its total budget. However, given the size of its annual spending, the actual amount given as foreign aid translates into a massive US$70 billion annually which makes the U.S. one of the largest government donors in the world. The pause in U.S. government funding has had a devastating impact on many organizations doing development work across the globe including groups and communities working on democracy, religious freedom, and human rights promotion work related to China. Organizations like Freedom House which receives almost two thirds of its funding comes from U.S. government sources have had to lay off people and shut down temporarily some of their projects. Institutions like the National Democratic Institute (NDI) and the National Republican Institute (NDI) which are funded through NED and other U.S. government sources have had to close offices overseas and downsize. There is this massive vacuum in funding now with no clarity on when and how much of the U.S. foreign aid will be restored. Secretary Rubio, now in charge of USAID as well, has said that every US dollar spent on aid must be justified with strong evidence that it is contributing towards making the US “safer, stronger, and more prosperous.” This is almost an impossible metric to comply with. How can fund recipients prove that every dollar that the US gives will lead to those three outcomes?

Beijing, members of the Chinese Communist Party, authorities in Russia and other authoritarian societies and regimes must be thrilled with the actions of the U.S. government. China can now try to fill the vacuum and project themselves as more reliable and trustworthy.

6. During your service with the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA), you worked with both USAID and the National Endowment for Democracy (NED) - two U.S. entities that have come under intense attack from President Trump and his team. Can you share your thoughts on the work of these two organizations and what they mean for Tibetans and other communities?

During my time with the CTA from 2011 to 2020, I had the privilege of working with senior leaders in both USAID and NED. The CTA developed a very strong relationship with USAID especially after 2011. The sheer scale of the U.S. government funding and its status as the largest government donor in the world with an annual budget of over US$70 billion enables USAID to address some of the critical health and development issues in the world. USAID also serves as a platform to project America's soft power. A powerful country like the United States has multiple ways of advancing its national interests: militarily, economically and diplomatically. But there are also tools and platforms such as USAID where the agency is able to support projects and win the hearts and minds of people and demonstrate the values that America stands for. Shutting down an agency like the USAID will be a huge loss for everybody and also undermine U.S. interests.

NED is the lifeline for many organizations. It's difficult to get small grants from the USAID because large funders like the USAID are not set up to award and manage multiple small grants from an administrative and cost point of view. However, NED can support a group that needs US$10,000 to organize a campaign or US$20,000 to organize an event for instance. NED has helped sustain a whole community of organizations working on democracy, freedom, the rule of law, and other issues. It has strengthened institutions and democracy in many countries. Many

organizations count NED as their core funder where some of them have been receiving funding for many years. Also, in addition to funds NED convenes and supports research and leadership development as well.

However, one area where reform is needed is in the way foreign aid money is administered. Data shows only 12% percent of USAID funding goes directly to local groups and 80% is contracted to U.S.-based NGOs. A substantial amount of the aid money does eventually go to the end beneficiary, but the award and management process is long, costly and involves many intermediaries. The Congress approves funding; the funds are given to a government agency like USAID which takes a portion of the pie for its expenses and programs; the funds are then awarded to the prime recipient which in most cases are large U.S. based NGOs and with close ties to USAID; these NGOs in turn deduct a significant amount for both their U.S. and field office personnel and expenses; some or all of the funds are then sub-awarded to other organizations which further shrinks the pie; and finally the US NGO or one or more sub-awardee spends the funds locally for the intended communities and activities. The final amount that is available for the intended beneficiaries is significantly less than the award originally awarded by USAID.

The CTA had a challenging experience working with a large NGO based in Washington, D.C. in 2012. The U.S. government awarded the US$2 million dollars to support livelihood and sustainability programs for Tibetans living in various settlements in India and Nepal. The net amount that was actually spent on programs and activities directly benefiting the community was around 35% of the total funding. The majority of the funds was used to cover the expenses of the U.S. NGO - the prime recipient.

USAID leadership under the Biden administration did recognize the problem and established a policy goal of moving to a future where almost all the aid and development money would be directly given to the local groups. However, this remained just a goal and the actual amount of direct giving did not exceed 12% of total annual USAID aid. The whole system of calling for proposals, awarding and managing foreign aid is therefore stacked in favor of the large and established U.S. NGOs who are familiar with the system and process. This is quite unfortunate because the best way to address the problems on the ground and affect change in a cost effective manner is to give as much of the funding directly to the local groups working with the beneficiary communities. Whatever the next incarnation of USAID looks like, I hope it will be one which will award much more than 12% of its annual grant budget directly to local groups.

7. How is the pause in funding impacting the CTA and the Tibetan community both inside Tibet and in exile? How can the CTA and the Tibetan community address the challenge?

The CTA has been massively impacted by the pause and reduction in U.S. foreign aid. U.S. government funding for the CTA and the Tibetan community comes from the Congress. Annually, the USAID provides 10 million to support economic development, cultural preservation, education and environmental conservation projects in Tibet; 8 million dollars to support the resilience of the Tibetan refugee community in India and Nepal and the Tibetan diaspora community; and 3 million dollars to strengthen the CTA as an institution. There are other smaller funding from different bureaus within the State Department: Bureau for Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor (DRL); Population, Refugees and Migration (PRM); and the Education and Cultural Affairs (ECA). Total U.S. government funding for various Tibetan projects comes to around 25 million dollars annually. Most of this funding has been frozen since President Trump's executive order of January 20, 2025.

The CTA is in a difficult position. The Tibetan Parliament in Exile meets for its budget

session from March 17-31, 2025. During this session, CTA’s budget for the next fiscal year (April 1, 2025 to March 30, 2026) will be reviewed, discussed and approved. The massive disruption in U.S. funding might make it difficult for the CTA to present a normal budget. The leadership may have to present an interim budget and seek approval for more spending at a later date if some or all of the U.S. funding is restored. Almost 90 % of CTA's development projects are funded by external sources, mainly foreign government donors. I don’t know what portion of this comes from the US government, but it's really high. The U.S. government is one of CTA’s biggest donors. The next several months will be challenging for the CTA as there are questions on whether U.S. funding will be restored or permanently cut. I feel a full and permanent cut in funding is unlikely as the Tibetan funding is coming from the Congress and not the President’s office. When President Trump submits his budget to the Congress in April or May, there may be zero funds for Tibetan programs, but the Congress can add the Tibetan programs in the budgeting as the final budget is determined by the Congress. However, there are no guarantees as we are in a different environment now as President Trump has a very expansive view of the power of the White House and is trying to wrest more power from the Congress.

The pause in U.S. government funding is a wake-up call for the Tibetan community. Tibetans should now take a serious look at how long they can afford to be so reliant on foreign funding. Every CTA leadership mentions wanting to be self-reliant and putting CTA on a path of self-reliance. But actions and programs to achieve this goal have been lacking. Current and all future CTA Sikyongs (presidents) should make fundraising and resource mobilization as a key responsibility. Each Sikyong should set a certain financial goal and raise the amount during their term. Also, the time has come now for Tibetans to fully support their own government and its programs. There are 150,000 Tibetans outside Tibet half of whom live outside South Asia. The Tibetan community now has the capacity to take on more of the financial burden and the Tibetan community less reliant on foreign donors. Depending on foreign funding sources for 90% of the projects is not sustainable. The CTA should also look at downsizing and streamlining its operations and the entire Tibetan exile infrastructure. I shared some of my ideas in an earlier podcast and publication entitled Reimagining Tibetan Democracy and Governance. While the high level bipartisan support in the U.S. Congress for the Tibet issue and the Tibetan community makes a total cut to U.S. funding unlikely, the CTA and the Tibetan community must take current developments seriously and take some tangible actions towards becoming more self-reliant.

8. What would a second Trump presidency and current developments in Washington, DC mean for communities and people advocating for greater democracy, human rights and religious freedom in China: particularly the Chinese, Hong Konger, Mongolian, Taiwanese, Tibetan and Uyghur communities? Where do you see some of the challenges and opportunities?

Trump 2.0 will present both challenges and opportunities for the the communities working on promoting democracy, human rights and greater freedom in China and in the occupied regions

of East Turkestan, Tibet, Southern Mongolia and Hong Kong. The first thing the community needs to do is make a compelling case and advocate more strongly for the issues. This is a new administration and Congress in Washington, D.C. Many members in the House of Representatives and several in the Senate are new. So there is an opportunity to educate them on why the issues that the community is working on are so important. China is seen as a threat by many. So, the administration and the Congress will be receptive to what this community of organizations working on advancing human rights, religious freedom and democracy in China has to say.

The pause in U.S. government funding is also a wake-up call for the community. The community cannot continue to depend so much on the U.S. government for funding. Diversifying the funding base will be very important. The governments of Japan, Australia, Taiwan, the EU and India should also be approached for support. Just as in the case of the Tibetan community, the Uyghurs, Mongolians, the Hongkongers, and the Chinese should also look internally into their respective communities, both at home and in the diaspora, and encourage members to increase financial support.

The issue of religious freedom is going to be important because it resonates with many in the Trump administration and in the Congress particularly amongst Republicans. Chinese Christians, Tibetan Buddhists, Falun Gong practitioners and Uyghur Muslims should explain to the Trump administration and the Congress on how their communities are being persecuted by the CCP and seek the support of the U.S. government on the issue of religious freedom in China.

In a time of scarce resources and also for more impact, the different communities working on China should collaborate more. There could be pooling of resources in areas like research, publication, conferences, advocacy campaigns and educational outreach. The Mongolians, Tibetans and Uyghurs face a common policy of assimilation and elimination of their culture, language, religion and identity. So, there is a clear need for these three communities to collaborate and work in greater alliance. This may also be a good time for all the different communities to consider consolidating to fewer but more impactful organizations. We are in a very fluid situation with regards to U.S. foreign policy. The communities working on human rights issues related to China need to anticipate different scenarios and plan accordingly.

February 9, 2025

The President
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, DC 20500

Dear Mr. President:

In the span of short three weeks of your reassuming The Oval Office, you have disrupted the way the government of United States of America conducts business. I defer to others, far more qualified, to address how your actions and policies are impacting communities and issues across the United States and the globe. I feel most competent touching on China and U.S.-China relations.

What binds you with your predecessor and Republicans with Democrats - and as clearly expressed by your Secretary of State - is the shared view that China remains the “biggest threat” to America. During your first term as President, you changed the dynamics of the U.S.-China relations in a fundamental way. The days of appeasement, softer approach, and the illusion that engagement and more trade will make China play by the rules came to a much-needed end. President Biden and his team not only sustained but amped up the pressure on China.

Your administration’s recent action of freezing all international aid and shutting down government agencies like the USAID risks undoing much of the good work the U.S. has done in countering the threat posed by China and the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). According to a recent Pew Research Center date, “the $71.9 billion in foreign aid that the government spent in fiscal 2023 works out to 1.2% of that year’s total federal outlays, which were more than $6.1 trillion.” Furthermore, the portion going to support the courageous Chinese, Hong Kongers, Mongolians, Tibetans and Uyghurs fighting for human rights, religious freedom, democracy and countering China’s repression is even more minuscule. However, the return on this puny spending is exponential for the U.S. government because it is only these communities and organizations that are challenging Xi Jinping and his CCP cronies 24/7.

Now is NOT the time to send mixed signals to Xi Jinping and the CCP which is exactly what the pause in U.S. government aid and cut in funding does. In Xi’s unprecedented third term as China’s president, he now finds himself in an unfamiliar position of some vulnerability due to China’s ongoing and deep economic woes that have been well documented. The people and communities involved in this David and Goliath struggle against the Chinese government and its policies of gross human rights violations and repression look up to the United States for support and inspiration. In withholding funding and aid to these communities, the U.S. is harming its own core interests. These communities are in the trenches and fighting for greater human rights, religious freedom and democracy in China: all values and goals fully aligned with the foreign policy of the United States.

Sincerely,

Kelsang D. Aukatsang