TIBET - Part I: A religious people

The sound alone was overwhelming. The sight of it was even more breathtaking. Like sandpaper being rubbed methodically against concrete, hundreds of pieces of sandpaper, of wood, of rock, it was a rustling, an ocean wave of continuous blocks knocking against each other. And the sight of it; hundreds of pilgrims endlessly prostrating themselves, raising their hands into the air above their heads so they can bend down and lie completely flat on the cold concrete, percussion-creating bricks strapped to their hands so they do not cut themselves, sometimes an inch-thick matt beneath them so they do not freeze after hours of this painstaking, strenuous, and tiring activity. Hardly an “activity,” though; this was their life.

Thousands of men and women, mostly elderly, wearing brightly, naturally colored clothing with yak fur to keep them warm and yak leather shoes to keep them moving, bearing the wrinkles of old age and a strong sun and the eyes of a life of stories to tell, migrate every morning to Lhasa to circumambulate one of four holy locations (the city, itself, being one of them). They carry prayer beads in one hand by their side, methodically pushing them down the string as they recite mantra after mantra, and a prayer wheel in the other hand, some six inches long, others four feet tall, rocking it back and forth as the wheel on top spins, continuously “reciting” the prayers and mantras written on the scrolls inside.


Some of the most devout religious people, and usually the younger of the bunch and those not carrying a child roped to their back, will prostrate themselves completely onto the ground every three steps or so, making even one lap around the Potala Palace (another path) an inconceivable journey, though one that many people take every morning, every day, and every year. Some come from afar (a weeks long journey away), others from down the block, but all come because it is their duty, it is their religion, and it is their life.

Inside the Joakhan Temple, the holiest place in all of Tibet, pilgrims line up alone or in families with children dragged along or roped to a mother’s (or an older child’s) back. Monks walk around chanting or keeping people in line while others take the white scarves donated to the temple, placing them in a pile in front of a stupa, Buddha, or statue, while others oversee the thousands of people everyday who bring yak butter to donate to the butter lamps that light up every room in the temple with an eerie, spiritual glow. People donate money, barley, oil, and other possessions as a means of ensuring a promising future or auspicious afterlife.

And as I removed my cap and sunglasses, put my camera to rest at my side, obeying the “no pictures” signs displayed on every wall and column, and slid past the droves of religious devotees as if I held some special VIP pass, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Like I didn’t belong. Like I was not worthy to be here, listening to our tour guide as he took us through this holiest of holy places like a curator at a museum, observing the people and their dress and devotion in the same vain as the thousand year old glass-encased Buddha statues they came to worship. Like a living history museum, the people and the statues, the lines and the lamps, the beads and the Buddhas all created this world, this experience, and the emphasis of every other experience throughout our trip. Religion was of utmost importance, and some things have never changed.