Jokung Tears

There isn’t much to say. Scratch that. There isn’t much to say out loud. Have you ever been at a loss for words? I mean a total loss for words where even the slightest sigh wouldn’t suffice. Where there are so many thoughts and emotions running through your body that not one could escape in the entirely neat little comprehensive package our society so reveres? I won’t try to describe where I am right now but I will tell you. I’m on the roof of Jokung Monastery looking at the Dalai Lama’s winter palace, The Potala. Five months ago, I didn’t know what The Potala was and my best guess would have been some Asian breed of potato. My mind is swimming in its own confusion even after months of study, reading, and research, how is that I still cannot understand how cultures can clash so extensively? The Tibetans, the “most peaceful” race are undergoing a silent “genocide” as they term it. Their Buddhist roots dictate their means of dealing with the Chinese occupation which imposes religious and cultural restraints so extreme that if there wasn’t any political loyalty, or better yet, power hunger that feasts itself in politics, this means being peaceful resistance. A genuine empathy for the Chinese who are “so angry” as many Tibetans claim. So, as I stand and watch a crowd of Tibetans in their florescent purple and teal and black chupas turn their prayer wheels and pay homage to the sacred monastery I feel completely sad. It will never end.