Selections From

 Sorrow Mountain: The Journey of a Tibetan Warrior Nun

 by Ani Panchen and Adelaide Donnelley

Ani’s father was the chieftain of their village and the area immediately surrounding it.  When trouble arose, people came to him both to inform him and to ask his advice.  The following is a conversation Ani witnessed between her father and a Tibetan traveler:

“In Kyiedo, just two days ago, I saw a terrible thing,” the old man said when he was able to speak.  “I had come to the monastery to pray with Lama Dhondun when four Chinese soldiers broke in.  They dragged him out of the temple.  In front of a large group of monks and townspeople he was forced to kneel.  His face kept its radiant calm, and he looked up into the eyes of the soldiers with a look of compassion, his eyes soft and caring.

“That seemed to unsettle one of the soldiers.  Coming closer to Lama Dhondun, he raised his foot and brought it down several times on my poor Lama’s head.  When Lama Dhondun continued to look patiently at him, blood beginning to flow from his mouth, the soldier kicked him again and again, this time in the ribs.  Lama Dhondun let out a soft moan and fell to his hands.

“At that, the soldier mounted him, put a cord around his neck and pretended to ride him as if he were a horse.  He held the cord tightly, jerking it back several times.  As he was doing this another soldier came over, unbelted his trousers, and urinated over my Lama’s poor battered head.  The other soldiers doubled over with laughter and gestured to the nearby monks as if this would be their fate too, if they continued their religious practices.  Oh Pomdha Gonor … words cannot tell … it was awful!”  His voice broke off again into sobs.

Page 106-107

The following is a story about the bombing of Lithang monastery recounted by a messenger who arrived at Ani’s home out of breath and half crying:

“The Chinese surrounded the monastery and, in an attempt to lure the men out, made a proposal.  In exchange for the surrender of men and monks, they would agree to postpone the creation of any more collectives for two years.  If the men refused to surrender they would be bombed.”

            At this point in the story, the young man burst into tears.  My father leaned over and, laying his hand once again on a shoulder, gave it a gentle pat.  After a cup of chang, the man continued.

            “You know, Pomdha Gonor,” he said, still sniffling a bit, “our men hadn’t any idea what the Chinese were threatening.  They didn’t understand the consequences of their actions, and they refused.  Then out of the sky came something we’d never seen before.  Flying machines with wings like birds swooped down.  The air was filled with thunder, buildings exploding, people screaming inside.  Six thousand people were inside the monastery at the time … four thousand of them died … Men, women, children … four thousand were killed.”

Page 110

After her arrest, Ani and the other people arrested with her were held for questioning before receiving their sentences.  The following passage is Ani’s first interrogation about her involvement with the fighting in eastern Tibet.  They were particularly interested in the Tibetans who had been trained by the CIA and dropped from American planes with food and other supplies.

“You are a commander of enemy forces, trying to ruin the work of the Motherland.  You are responsible for the crimes you have committed, and the crimes of your father.  We have a report he killed a Tibetan interpreter and you will be punished for his crime.  But, if you admit all your faults, we will agree to spare your life.”  The words rolled from the mouth of the Tibetan with no intonation.

I felt angered at the mention of my father’s name, and before I had time to think, I responded.

“My father didn’t kill your interpreter.  The man was passing through our area on his way to Same with food for your troops when he was shot.  No one ever found out who did shoot him, but it wasn’t my father.”  Realizing I should have stayed silent, I closed my mouth, but too late.

The officer leaned toward me, his eyes bulging even further, and spit out more words.

“Which hometown are you from?  How many men were fighting under you? Who were the men who were dropped from the plane?  What hometown were they from?”

The questions came at me so quickly, I felt dizzy.  I didn’t know what to say.

“Do you know Yeshe Rushodtshang, the Tibetan who was dropped from the plane?  Who did he meet?  What did he tell you?  What are his plans?”

I looked down at my hands in my lap, not opening my mouth.  I knew Yeshe Rushodtshang had been on a secret mission.  Even if I’d wanted to, I had nothing to say.

My silence angered the officer and he shouted to the soldiers sitting at his side.  Each stood up and took willow sticks from a bucket of water at the side of the room.  They came toward me around either side of the table, waving the willow sticks in front of them as they walked.  Before they reached me I felt the drops of water flicking off the sticks.  Then they were on me.  The lashed my face, my hands, my back, my feet, my head.  Om Mani Peme Hum, I whispered under my breath.  Guru Rinpoche.

“What was your connection with the American planes?  What were the names of the men?  What did they tell you?”  The questions were spat out.

“I had no connection with the American planes,” I whispered, barely audible.  “I have nothing to say.”

My ears were beginning to ring, and my face was burning.  My previous karma, I thought.  The pain will eliminate my sins.  The soldiers grabbed at my hands and pulled me to my feet.  I stood unsteadily as they tied my hands behind my back.

“What were their names?  What did they tell you?”

I swayed but didn’t answer.  The men tossed the rope up over the wooden beams running across the ceiling.

“Answer!  What were their names?”

I was mute.  The men gave a sharp tug on the rope and my arms yanked behind me and twisted up.  Pain like a burning iron shot through my shoulders.  A bitter liquid came out of my mouth.

I hung, suspended by my wrists.  They hit my face with a board, and the room became dark.

…

Every day for the next seven days the soldiers came to my room.  They came after breakfast and the questioning went on until lunch.  There was a half-hour break, then again the questions continued until evening.  They tied my hands and hoisted me into the air, then beat me.  There was no part of my body they didn’t beat.  When I lost consciousness, they poured water over me to wake me.  And every day, Mama and Ani Rigzin cried.

Pages, 167-170

After several weeks in the place of her arrest, Ani and the other prisoners were transported to a larger holding area where they would spend some time before sentencing.  They were forced to walk and sustained more beatings if they had trouble on the high passes.  Ani was the only woman.  The following is a description of the monastery used to house the thousands of political prisoners waiting for sentencing.

After we had been searched, we were led down the corridor to Sheja Hall, the huge main assembly hall.  We were no longer treated with courtesy, but pushed and shoved by the soldiers who were leading us.  Inside the hall, more than two thousand of us sat in lines, as if we were a congregation of lamas.  We had to sleep in the space we were seated in.  At times I was able to curl on the bar floor using my boot as a pillow.  At other times, when more were added, it was so congested we had to sleep sitting, back to back.

In the crowded conditions, without even a palmful of water to wash our face, we were soon infested with lice.  The lice were so bad that I could see them crawling all over the heads in front of me.  So thick I could sweep them off with my hand and make no difference in their numbers.

For the next ten months we lived like this.  Lamas, tulkus, abbots, kings, chieftains, commanders, and other leaders of the Khampa resistance, treated worse than dogs.  Except for the daughter of one of the prisoners, who was allowed to go in and out to care for her ailing father, I was the only woman.

Page 175

While being held at the monastery, Ani was again questioned, along with all of the other prisoners.  The beatings continued along with false accusations and demands for confessions about crimes never committed.

            “The time has come,” the officer said through a Tibetan interpreter, “to confess your crimes.  How you fought the Chinese army.  Your plans, your organizations, your alliances.”

            He was a short, round man.  His face reminded me of a rat; his eyes, tiny, thin slits.  He was rumored to be an important official, “one of the top,” someone told me.

            “If you cooperate by confessing and handing over your possessions,” he continued, his voice coming out in sharp little squeaks, “amnesty will be granted.  No punishment will be inflicted.

            “However –“ He stopped even after the translator had spoken.  I leaned forward to hear what he would say next.  “However,” he said again, seeming to enjoy the suspense, “if you refuse”—he paused, and for a moment his eyes widened—“there is no option but death.”  He shot the last words out, then turned and left.

            The day after the officer addressed us we were divided into sections, or “tsugs” as the Chinese called them.  Section one, section two, section three.  Each section was composed of ten or twenty people, and each was told to form a circle, with one Chinese official sitting on a chair, conducting questions.  One Tibetan was ordered to draw up a list of  “confessions,” which was handed to the official.  After scrutinizing the list, the official sent those with the highest “crimes” to a room upstairs, and the sessions began once again.

            Again, the questions were spat out.  “What guns did you use?” “How many did you have?” “Who was involved?”  “What help did you give Lingkha Shipa and Derge?”  Again I was beaten.

Pages 176-177

In 1960 Ani was officially in prison, no longer the great assembly hall of a monastery.  Having not confessed any crimes, she was, again, interrogated and beaten.

            “Neither of you have confessed your crimes against the Motherland.  Unfortunately,” he said, narrowing his eyes and slowly inhaling, “if you don’t confess immediately, there is no possibility of release.”  His words poured out surrounded by smoke.

            As he was speaking, one of the soldiers brought a long iron bar and threw it on the floor in front of us.  It was a long flat metal bar, stretched between two round bands.  As it hit the stone floor the metal made a sharp clank, and for a moment there was no other sound except its echo and the barely audible inhaling and exhaling of smoke.

            “If you don’t confess,” he continued after he was sure he had time to study the irons, “you will wear these leg irons until you change your mind.”

            “Now,” he said leaning forward toward us, “shall we begin?”

            “Have you known Tamdin Choekyi before?” he asked me.

            “She is famous for her bravery,” I said somewhat curtly.  “Of course I have heard of her.”

            The officer scowled, but continued.

            “Who else was with you in Shothalhosum?”

            “My mother,” I said stubbornly, not wanting to give other names, “and my two elder relatives.”

            The officer looked annoyed.  Without changing his expression he snapped his fingers at one of the soldiers by the door.  The soldier stepped forward.  I saw his hand rise above me.  Whack!  The palm of his hand burned my face, and my head jerked back.  One, two, three times he hit.

            “Perhaps your memory is better?” the officer said with a slight smile, when the soldier was done.

            “I have answered your question, there is nothing else to say.”

            His face reddened, and in frustration he turned to Tamdin Choekyi.  “Where is your husband hiding?” he asked.

            “My husband is not hiding,” she answered defiantly, “he is away on business.”  She too was hit.

            The leader put his cigarette out in anger.  He gestured to the leg irons.  The soldiers by the door came over and snapped them around our ankles.  The metal was cold.  It was difficult to stand with my legs held apart, and for a moment I almost fell forward, but determined not to give them the pleasure of seeing me fall, I tensed my knees and stood still.

            “Until you confess,” the leader said as he got up to leave, “you will remain as you are, with your legs hobbled, like dumb animals.”

Pages 182-183

In Silthog Thang, the prison where Ani was being held, she and the other prisoners were forced to witness the executions of other prisoners.  In this passage she is recounting the execution of a young Lama she had known when fleeing from the Chinese.  He had left a lasting impression on her because of his determination to defend Tibet.

            But it wasn’t until his name was called out that I realized who he was; his face was black and blue from beating.  He was told to stand in front of us, without speaking or looking up.  An officer stood beside him.  “He is a traitor.”  The officer coughed the words out in a guttural voice.  “He is an imperialist spy.  He is a tool of the revisionist forces.”

            As the officer was speaking, Gyalwa Yungdrung raised his head with effort, and thrusting one arm in the air he shouted, “May I take on the suffering of all prisoners!  Long life to the Dalai Lama!  There is a free Tibet!”

            The officer leaped at him and stuffed cloth in his mouth.  Two soldiers walked up to him.  They raised their guns.  Gyalwa Yungdrung looked straight ahead.  His eyes gazed far away.  I thought I saw his lips moving in prayer.  “Pray to the Lord Buddha,” I said under my breath.  Two shots rang out.  Gyalwa Yungdrung slumped to one side.  Pieces of his brain splashed onto the prisoner beside him.  I closed my eyes.

            Pages 192-193

Every year prisoners were forced to participate in “Early Winter Education.”  The program lasted one or two months and was essentially an awards and punishments session in which prisoners were forced to confess their crimes as well as their fellow prisoners’ crimes.

            “First you must confess your own crimes.  Then you must speak about others.  What crimes did you see them commit?  Were they hoping for the revival of the old Tibet?  If you don’t have at least a word or two to say about others”—he stopped and narrowed his eyes—“then that, in itself, will be considered a crime.”

            After he had finished speaking we were sent back to our respective rooms and made to sit in a circle.  Then the struggle sessions began.  First they asked for confessions.  “I confess I took an extra ball of tsampa.”  “I confess I carried less than my share of stones.”

            Then the discipline.  The taunting, the beating.

            …

            When the sessions were done they gave us a copy of the newspaper Tibet Daily.  “Do you have any suggestions or complaints?” they asked.  “Read the article about America, and how it exploits the masses.  They are ruthless imperialists.  It is they whom the Dalai Lama has gone to for help.”

Page 195

During Early Winter Education the prisoners were forced to denounce the old ways, this included everything from customs to dress, but, most importantly, Tibetans were expected to denounce their religion and the Dalai Lama.  If a prisoner refused to denounce the old ways, he or she was beaten or worse.

            They singled me out during this program, accusing me of not changing my beliefs and faith, of being stubborn and “old minded.”  They accused me of “suppressing the progressive forces of the country,” which meant I was critical of those Tibetans who were working for the Chinese.  But no matter what they did, I refused to say what they wanted me to.  I wouldn’t be like the insect Bu Nyima, who always turned his head in the direction of the sun, in whichever way was most comfortable.

            “How can you call this education?”  I shouted one day as they were taunting me.  “We can’t receive education in prison.  It is indoctrination, not education!”

            That day, the beatings were more severe than usual.  After the “teachers” finished beating me, they brought out an iron clamp for my feet and threw it in front of me.  I thought they were going to chain me again, but they didn’t.  “Your prison term has been increased by three years,” the short, fat officer told me, “and you will spend the next nine months in isolation.”

Ani spent the next nine months in solitary confinement in a tiny room, just large enough for her to prostrate.  The room had no windows and she never even saw the face of the guards who brought her food every other day.  She had no idea what time of day it was or what the room looked like.  She spent her time prostrating, praying and sleeping.

Pages 196-200

From 1965 to 1980 Ani was in Drapchi prison near Lhasa.  Drapchi was (and still is) the largest prison in Tibet.  Drapchi is used for the most serious political prisoners – in the early years, the highest lamas and government officials were imprisoned there, now the prison is home to the new wave of young protesters.  When Ani first arrived there she had never seen electricity and was not used to the efficient, military structure of prison life.

· Wear only the clothes that are issued to you, nothing else. Head must be shaved.
· When talking to officers and guards, speak from a distance of five steps, never in front or close by.
· No prisoner is allowed to care for another prisoner. If such an incident occurs, report it to the Chinese officials.
· Work tools must be treated with care. Complete more than is required in your quota of work.
· Accept that Tibet is an integral part of China.
· Reform your thoughts.
· Obey the authorities.
· Follow these rules.

Page 211

Prisoners were generally forbidden to talk to one another, when they did so it was in whispers far away from guards or suspected informants.  Prisoners would get to know and trust each other, usually after carefully testing each other’s loyalties.  Shortly before Mao Zedong’s death Ani had a dream that she interpreted as the impending death of Mao.  She shared this dream with a person she considered a friend.

            Several nights later at a “meeting,” one of the leaders turned to me.  “Pachen,” she said, “we hear that you are predicting the death of chairman Mao.  This is a major offense.  You will be punished.”  A guard stepped forward and hit me across the face, three sharp blows.  But the pain I felt was from betrayal, not beating.  I had trusted, and the trust was broken.

            Later I saw my friend carrying Mao’s red book tied to her waist.  “Aren’t you ashamed of what you are doing?”  I asked her.  But I realized she was helpless, and must have reported me to the guards under great pressure, or in hopes of an early release.  I didn’t speak badly of her to others, but after that, I watched what I said.

Pages 225-226

            In front of me a Chinese doctor was standing with a tray full of bottles.  He told me to hold out my arm and took a tube with a long, pointed needle out of his pocket.  He wound a cloth around my arm, above my elbow.  “Stay still,” he said, and with a jab pushed the needle into a vein in the crook of my arm.  A red liquid rushed into the tube, filling up one, two, three bottles.  My blood, I thought without feeling, as if watching water pouring out of a pot.  After many bottles had been filled, we were led back to the truck and driven back to our cell.  Only then could we talk.

Page 227

Prisoners were forced to do hard labor – building their own cells, growing food they were not allowed to eat and various other similar jobs.

            On the third day I was sent with others in the fifth division to water the fields.  Because of several famines, the Chinese were trying to cultivate land that was undeveloped.  We were sent to dig up human waste from the toilet to use as manure.  One woman was sent into the toilet tank to shovel the waste into a can, another lifted the can up.  We formed a long line so the can could be passed from one hand to another, and the woman at the end poured it into the field.  In the process of passing it, waste from the can often splashed on us.

Page 230

After her release from prison Ani spent some time on a religious pilgrimage.  She then moved to Lhasa (illegally, her permit only allowed her to live in her former village) and became heavily involved in the Tibetan freedom movement, helping to organize demonstrations as well as participating in them.  Because of her past political record, Ani relied heavily on the support of others to keep her safe.  She did not have her own home or neighborhood; she traveled from home to home, relying on other people’s hospitality and integrity.

            As I visited my neighbors’ homes, rich and poor alike, I thought of the Chinese propaganda I’d heard in prison.  “The Feudal Lords treat the people like animals,” they said.  But how is one to explain the open display of affection and loyalty to a chieftain like me?  I wondered.  Even after so much coercion and so many material incentives, their loyalty hasn’t wavered.  It heartened me that after years of oppression the people had not lost their faith in the leadership of His Holiness.  They remained steadfast as ever in their loyalty to him, and to the cause of a free Tibet.

Page 245

In the late 1980’s Tibetans started protesting.  The protests usually turned violent as a result of Chinese soldiers brought in to crush the demonstrations.  In September and October of 1987 some of the most violent protests took place in Lhasa.  Ani, and thousands of other Tibetans and even some foreigners, participated in the September protest.  It started peaceful but ended extremely violently.  A few days later the monks of Sera monastery (one of the oldest and most important in Tibetan history) protested.

            Four days later, on October 1, the monks of Sera circled the Jokhang, chanting proindependence slogans, waving Tibetan flags and demanding that those arrested be released.  “The monks have been arrested,” a woman said, putting her head in the door of the house where I was staying.  “They were beaten with clubs and rocks and shovels, and taken inside the police station across from the Jokhang.  Come!  A group is forming.”

              I put on my shoes and ran after her.  A huge crowd had assembled at the police station, maybe two or three thousand.  They were angry and shouting for the release of the protesters held inside.

            “They are beating the monks!” someone shouted.  I thought I heard cries coming from inside the building.

            The troops began to push in on us.

            Several people in the crowd tuned over Jeeps and motorcycles that were parked outside the station, then set them on fire.

            Suddenly the police station was on fire.  “Get the monks out.”  someone cried.  “They are in danger of burning!”

            “Stay back!” the police shouted over the noise.

            People screamed.  Flames shot up inside the station.

            “There is a window at the back of the station,” I said to a friend.  “If we break it the monks can get out.”  I picked up an iron rod lying on the side of the street and ran to the back of the building.  My friend followed.

       I struck the boards covering the window ten, fifteen times, but couldn’t get through.  Two youths came from behind, took the rod, and broke through the wood.  Others hurled rocks at the door beside it. 

            The fire was spreading further into the building.  “They’ll soon be burned.”  I cried.

            “Everyone stop!” the police shouted.  “Anyone who moves will be shot.”

            A monk inside the building came to the window.  His eyes were wild with fear.  Flames rose right up at his back.  He put his leg through the window, but before he could get out, he was shot.

            Seeing his body slump over and fall, I sat down on the ground and cried.  It happened so quickly.

Pages 264-265

Selections gathered by Allison Ebbets