His Holiness the of Tibet won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989. He is the author of two memoirs and numerous books
on Buddhism, including The Way to Freedom and Awakening the Mind, Lightening the Heart--the first
two volumes of the landmark Library of Tibet series.
Sample Chapter
Chapter One: Holder of the White Lotus
I fled Tibet on 31 March 1959. Since then I have lived in exile in India. During the period 1949-50, the People's
Republic of China sent an army to invade my country. For almost a decade I remained as political as well as spiritual
leader of my people and tried to re-establish peaceful relations between our two nations. But the task proved impossible.
I came to the unhappy conclusion that I could serve my people better from outside.
When I look back to the time when Tibet was still a free country, I realise that those were the best years of my
life. Today I am definitely happy, but inevitably the existence I now lead is very different from the one I was
brought up to. And although there is clearly no use indulging in feelings of nostalgia, still I cannot help feeling
sad whenever I think of the past. It reminds me of the terrible suffering of my people. The old Tibet was not perfect.
Yet, it is true to say that our way of life was something quite remarkable. Certainly there was much that was worth
preserving that is now lost for ever.
I have said that the words Dalai Lama mean different things to different people, that for me they refer only to
the office I hold. Actually, Dalai is a Mongolian word meaning 'ocean' and Lama is a Tibetan term corresponding
to the Indian word guru, which denotes a teacher. Together, the words Dalai and Lama are sometimes loosely translated
as 'Ocean of Wisdom'. But this is due to a misunderstanding I feel. Originally, Dalai was a partial translation
of Sonam Gyatso, the Third Dalai Lama's name: Gyatso means ocean in Tibetan. A further, unfortunate misunderstanding
is due to the Chinese rendering of the word lama as huo-fou, which has the connotation of a 'living Buddha'. This
is wrong. Tibetan Buddhism recognises no such thing. It only accepts that certain beings, of whom the Dalai Lama
is one, can choose the manner of their rebirth. Such people are called tulkus (incarnations). Of course, whilst
I lived in Tibet, being Dalai Lama meant a great deal. It meant that I lived a life far removed from the toil and
discomfort of the vast majority of my people. Everywhere I went, I was accompanied by a retinue of servants. I
was surrounded by government ministers and advisors clad in sumptuous silk robes, men drawn from the most exalted
and aristocratic families in the land. My daily companions were brilliant scholars and highly realised religious
adepts. And every time I left the Potala, the magnificent, 1,000-chambered winter palace of the Dalai Lamas, I
was escorted by a procession of hundreds of people.
At the head of the column came a Ngagpa, a man carrying a symbolic 'wheel of life'. He was followed by a party
of tatara, horsemen dressed in colourful, traditional costumes and carrying flags. Behind them were porters carrying
my songbirds in cages and my personal belongings all wrapped up in yellow silk. Next came a section of monks from
Namgyal, the Dalai Lama's own monastery. Each carried a banner decorated with sacred texts. Behind them followed
musicians mounted on horseback. Then followed two groups of monk officials, first a subordinate section who acted
as bearers, then monks of the Tsedrung order who were members of the Government. Behind these came a posse of horses
from the Dalai Lama's own stables, all nicely turned out, caparisoned and led by their grooms.
There followed another troop of horses which carried the seals of state. I myself came next, carried in a yellow
palanquin, which was pulled by twenty men, all officers in the army and dressed in green cloaks with red hats.
Unlike the most senior officials, who wore their hair up, these had a single, long pigtail running down their backs.
The palanquin itself, which was yellow in colour (to denote monasticism), was supported by a further eight men
wearing long coats of yellow silk. Alongside it rode the four members of the Kashag, the Dalai Lama's inner Cabinet,
attended by the Kusun Depon, head of the Dalai Lama's bodyguard, and the Mak-chi, Commander-in-Chief of Tibet's
tiny army. Both of these marched carrying their swords sternly at the salute. They wore a uniform comprised of
blue trousers and yellow tunic covered with gold braid. On their heads they wore a tasselled topi. Surrounding
this, the main party, there was an escort of sing gha, the monastic police. These terrifying-looking men were all
at least six feet tall and wore heavy padding, which lent them an even more impressive appearance. In their hands
they carried long whips, which they did not hesitate to use.
Behind my palanquin came my two Tutors, Senior and Junior (the former being the Regent of Tibet before I attained
my majority). Then came my parents and other members of my family. They were followed by a large party of lay officials,
both nobles and commoners, marshalled according to rank.
Invariably almost the entire population of Lhasa, the capital, came to try to catch a glimpse of me whenever I
went out. There was an awed silence and often there were tears as people lowered their heads or prostrated themselves
on the ground when I passed.
It was a life very different from the one I had known as a small boy. I was born on 6 July 1935 and named Lhamo
Thondup. This means, literally, 'Wish-Fulfilling Goddess'. Tibetan names of people, places and things are often
picturesque in translation. For example, Tsang-po, the name of one of Tibet's most important rivers--and source
of India's mighty Brahmaputra--means 'The Purifier'. The name of our village was Taktser: Roaring Tiger. It was
a small and poor settlement which stood on a hill overlooking a broad valley. Its pastures had not been settled...
Review
"A simple and powerful autobiography. The Dalai Lama's story of exile must serve, of course, as a vital
historical witness, not only to inhumanity but to compassion as well, not only to betrayal and treachery but to
generosity and faithfulness."
-- Los Angeles Times Book Review
"Compelling...fascinating....eye-opening."
-- Washington Post Book World
"The prose is clear and engaging, full of subtle implication and humor. His observations of Western culture
are poignant."
-- San Francisco Chronicle
"Forthright...often amusing...he has retained much of the freshness of the child's view of what was happening
to him, and his account is moving."
-- New York Times Book Review
"An earnest, inspiring, and wholly captivating classic tale of spiritual adventure. With candor, great
charm, and good humor, the winner of last year's Nobel Peace Prize tells his life story."
-- Kirkus Reviews
"His autobiography was waited for, and is worth waiting for."
-- Chicago Sun-Times
"Throughout his story, told with great humility, the Dalai Lama reveals his obligation both to address
the time-honored spiritual needs of his people and to help them deal with the practical considerations of their
disrupted lives. Anyone wanting to understand Tibet today will do well to read this priest-king's tale of coping
with the ancient and modern worlds that have shaped him."
-- Chicago Tribune
HarperCollins Publishers Web Site, April, 2000
Summary
In this astonishingly frank autobiography, the Dalai Lama reveals the remarkable inner strength that allowed
him to master both the mysteries of Tibetan Buddhism and the brutal realities of Chinese Communism.