| Summary/Abstract |
It was a Chinese face that seemed most familiar to me. Dressed in the green uniform of PLA and holding a black and cold pole, the expressionless soldiers are beating the Tibetan protesters with his foot stepping down on their bodies. Shouts and moaning immersed the city of gray, and the crowd of irresistible hatred, spilling from the screen. Then I saw an older man, wise and solemn, wearing a red robe that slightly thaws my tightened heart. It’s the Dalai Lama, I realized, the spiritual backbone of the Tibetans and the evil splitter according to what I have been taught since a little girl. Looking into his eyes, I saw a lake ruffled by the breeze, disturbing and unsettling. It is the unease of bearing violence as a non-violent leader, the frustration of witnessing his people being tortured, and the pain of serving as the original sin of other’s sufferings. For the very first time, I saw the Dalai Lama as an ordinary person, someone who cries for his trauma instead of containing all misfortunes and unfairness.
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