The Tibetan: Tashi གསུམ་

My time at the camp flew by. Perhaps because every day was exactly the same. In my dormitory, with 20 other men, we’d be awoken by airhorns at 5 a.m., tidy up our bunk beds, wash up, stand upright for a roll call, then go to the canteen, eat, then go to the classroom, study Maoism, Communism, study Mandarin, study the PRC Constitution, Chinese history, and watch propaganda videos.

Every lesson would begin and end by us passionately singing patriotic songs. Our teachers were police officers; all of them old, cagey, and having serious, sunken, grim facial features, with loads of bluish spots around their thin, jagged faces.

Then, after classes, we’d have lunch, which was the biggest meal of the day. It was standard Chinese fare, rice, noodles, meats, fried everything ... I must admit that the food at the camp was surprisingly tasty. This was undoubtably due to the kitchen staff receiving specialized culinary training in preparation for posts at 5-star hotels, high-end restaurants, and military bases throughout China.

Following lunch, afternoons were spent doing light labor around the camp- cleaning, landscaping, farming. Everyone had an assigned task. Some were assigned to a factory on the site that produced children’s toys.

After dinner, we’d take evening exercise, usually running, walking, or marching in place. This was followed by nightly assemblies, where speakers, generally police or low-ranking party members, would deliver motivational speeches or we’d be shown propaganda films. Afterward, we’d return to our bunks and wash up before lights out.

Most there, including myself, followed the program. I told them what they wanted to hear. I read the propaganda with gusto. There were few who resisted. I only saw one who talked back to a guard, in the canteen, and he was beaten severely by that guard and the guard’s guard comrades. The guards made a point of beating him in front of us, kicking and lashing the man, who’d crumpled up and sobbed into a defensive ball on the canteen’s white linoleum floor.

There were “points” we could earn for informing on a fellow prisoner, points which could help us possibly get released early. But I never saw or heard of anybody doing anything suspicious or subversive. And I don’t think I’d tell if I did, although I might have had to, because if I didn’t, there were also penalties you could receive if you didn’t tell the guards about suspicious or illegal, immoral behavior.

So I kept quiet and avoided any unnecessary interactions with my fellow prisoners. I kept my head down. I followed orders.

Now and then, at night, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d lie in my bunk and would reflect on what my grandfather had said, about this being karma, Tibet’s punishment for abandoning the dharma. Would this be atonement? Keeping quiet? Shouting Chinese slogans? I hoped so. But most of the feelings, ideas I had soon died. My mind went quiet. My soul was numb, like my back and shoulders had turned when I was beaten. I stopped having feelings and allowed my place, my spot in the universe to be whatever it would be. I surrendered...

At my release hearing, I was praised as a model prisoner. I was assigned a job as a tour guide, which shocked me, because it was nothing I’d ever done before. But I realized that if they feared the foreigners receiving bad news about Tibet, I would be the perfect person to not spread bad news, since I was fully aware of bad news’ and rumors’ consequences.

Once I’d returned home, my family, my wife, and young daughter, were overjoyed to see me. Springing at me with soft puppy dog eyes when I walked in the door of my home, they hugged me tightly. We cried tears of joy and anguish. I hadn’t seen them in three years.

We’ve never once discussed why I was gone. There’s no need. Others in my village have had the same experience. Many remain in the camps. I know how lucky I am to return. Buddha is merciful...