Free In Exile From the Land of Snows by John Avedon Page B

Army. That evening a sumptuous banquet was held in the Purple Light Pavilion in central Peking, officially welcoming the Tibetans “back to the motherland.” Two days later the Dalai Lama met Mao Zedong.
    The Dalai Lama’s reaction to Mao was not unfavorable. He found him forthright, kind and dedicated. Among other details he observed that the leader of the revolution and Chairman of the Party never wore polished shoes, dressed in frayed cuffs, smoked incessantly and panted a lot. He seemed to be in poor health, but when he spoke, his unusual powers of analysis shone through. “Chairman Mao did not look too intelligent,” noted the Dalai Lama. “Something like an old farmer from the countryside. Yet his bearing indicated a real leader. His self-confidence was firm, he had a sincere feeling for the nation and people, and also, I believe, he demonstrated genuine concern for myself.”
    Mao, in fact, was quite taken with the young leader. He spent long hours offering advice on how to govern, going so far as to admit that Buddhism was a good religion—the Buddha having cared considerably for the common people. Invariably, though, political conviction outweighed personal taste. On one occasion, in the middle of an intimate talk, Mao leaned over and whispered in the Dalai Lama’s ear, “I understand you very well, but of course religion is poison.” During a New Year’s celebration given by the Tibetans, he watched his hosts throw small pieces of pastry in the air as an offering to the Buddha, whereupon, taking two pincheshimself, he threw one upward and then, with a mischievous smile, dropped the other onto the floor.
    In their first private meeting together, Chairman Mao informed the Dalai Lama that a new committee was to govern Tibet. Known as PCART—Preparatory Committee for the Autonomous Region of Tibet—it would be comprised of five groups—four Tibetan, one Chinese—whose task it was to prepare the country for assimilation into the administrative framework of the People’s Republic. Ironically, the news came as a blessing. As Mao disclosed, until meeting the Dalai Lama he had intended to govern Tibet directly from Peking. The Tibetan’s conciliatory attitude, he indicated, had softened his stance. This had been Tenzin Gyatso’s prime goal: creating sufficient trust in himself to deflect unconditional Chinese rule. “We had to realize that our country was backward, it needed progress,” related the Dalai Lama. “The Chinese claimed that the very purpose of their coming to Tibet was to develop it. So here, you see, there was no need for argument; we enjoyed a common principle.”
    During his remaining seven months in China, the Dalai Lama’s optimism was dampened by what he learned of Peking’s deeper intent. Taking copious notes at political meetings, touring factories and schools, he and his Cabinet finally comprehended the full array of motives underlying the invasion of Tibet.
    China’s foremost objective was strategic. Since the days of the Tibetan invasions a millennia and a half before, all Chinese governments had looked warily to their western border. The Communists, fearful of losing their newly acquired hold on the country, saw, in the 1904 British incursion to Lhasa and its resulting ties, the basis of a new threat. Despite New Delhi’s apparent refusal to fulfill the terms of the 1914 Simla Convention, the spirit of which clearly placed it as broker in relations between China and Tibet, Peking was convinced of an “imperialist” menace in the west. Defensively then, China, by annexing Tibet, desired to permanently shut its “back door.” But no less important were offensive considerations. In possession of the Tibetan Plateau the People’s Republic stood at the apex of the Orient. In the event of conflict with either of Asia’s other giants—India and the Soviet Union—Tibet, as the central and highest ground, would prove an invaluable platform from which to launch an assault.