Testimony from Tibet

Dharamsala, Thursdag 28 September 2006.

The Dalai Lama lives since 1959 in Dharamsala, in the mountains of North-India. That year he fled from his homeland Tibet. The country had been occupied by China since 1950, though officially the Chinese government refers to this occupation as the liberation of Tibet.

The traveller with the hat strolls around in the small complex in Dharamsala, the home of the Dalai Lama when he is not abroad. It is build on the slopes of a hill. On top is a temple with three manhigh statues of Buddha.

Two floors down is the Tibet Museum. A small exhibition of photo's and a video showing Tibet before and during the Chinese occupation. Most images are more or less neutral in itself; the deeper impact only becomes clear in the context of knowig what's happening in Tibet. Sometimes though a picture or a report speaks for itself. Like this nun's testimony:


"On 22 November 1989 I participated in a peaceful demonstration in Lhasa with five other nuns from my nunnery. We were immediately arrested and taken to a detention center.

I was interrogated for two months. We were hung from the ceilings, cigarettes were stubbed on our bodies, and we were beaten severely with metal wires. Some female prisoners had electric batons inserted in their private parts.

I was then sentenced to seven years imprisonment and moved to Drapchi Prison. Conditions there were hard - there was never enough food nor other basic necessities and all prisoners were made to work.

We were not allowed to practice any of our religious duties. Nevertheless, we secretly made rosaries out of bread and prayed together. We staged protests against our guards and some of us even recorded a cassette of freedom songs, wich was smuggled out of prison. The punishment for those caught carrying all these things were severe.

After I was released from the prison I was not allowed to rejoin my nunnery and my movements were restricted. Most of my relatives and friends were too scared to maintain contact with me. I then decided to escape to India."

Rinzin Choeny, nun, formerly of Shungseb Nunnery, Tibet.

The visitor with the hat reads the testimony a second time. And even a third, only this time he tries to look at the testimony from the other side, from a Chinese point of view. Because, no matter how poignant a story is, there's always an other side to it. He can't do it however. Not now anyway, maybe later.

He who has an eye for it can see this type of exhibitions throughout the world. At Robben Island near Capetown in South-Africa it is shown how Nelson Mandela was kept prison for 27 years. In Umtata in the Transkei a museum is dedicated to his life, with a prominent appearance of those 27 years. In same Sout-Africa, in Pretoria, is the Voortrekkersmonument. Erected by the white Afrikaanders from Dutch origin it shows the history of that people, including all the hardships they endured partly on the count of nature partly on the count of other people..

There are numerous places in Sout America that have testimonies in one way or another of human atrocities. In Chile or Argentina for instance. Who hasn't heard of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo?

In different places in India monuments have been erected to commemorate tragedies in the far or near past. Like the one in Amritsar. In 1919, in a park named Jalianwallah Bagh, the British generaal Dyer thought he had to set an example and had over 300 people killed, leaving over a thousand wounded.

If you like, you can go to places in the US and in Australia, to see how white immigrants treated the native inhabitants of those lands. Not a pleasant story. Since a few years there's a monument in New York on the spot that till recently had two giant towers.

In Europe too it's not difficult to visit places that depict the devilish way humans treat eachother from time to time. Auschwitz in Poland and Dachau near Munich are freely accessible, both to go in and out. So are the numerous torture-rooms in fortresses and castles dating from the middle ages, the times of the inquisition or later dates. That free accessebilty hasn't always been the case, especcially not going out.

At the end of the modest exhibition in the Tibet Museum the visitor with the hat comes to the guestbook. Curious as he is he flips through the pages. Mostly messages of thanks and support and ecouragements to go on with the strugle for a Free Tibet. Now and then a message to ponder over. Like this one:

"In the Boer War many, many Afrikaander women and children were detained in British concentration camps. Many died.
Some 50 years later, as that same Afrikaander people had rose to power in South Africa, they themselves detained many, many black people and had them tortured. Many died or lived on with unerasable scars on their souls.

In the 1930's en 40's the Chinese people suffered dearly from Japanese occupation and its gruelsome regime. Within 10 years, as they had overcome the Japanese cruelties, this same Chinese people occupied a foreign country and started inflicting misery upon its people themselves.

In the 1940's many Jewish people were detained and massmurdered in German concentration camps.
Less than 60 years later, within two generations, after having overcome the gruelsome horrors of the Nazi-era and after having established a state of their own, this same Jewish people inflicted suffering ad injustice upon others.

In 2001 in New York the Amican people suffered a major shock when 3.000 innocent people died in just one day.
Within three years, after gettig hold of oneself again, that same American people had killed, apparently without even a blink of an eye, countless innocent people themselves, or at least supported it.

Since 1950 the Tibetan people suffer from Chinese domination, cruelty and injustice in their own land.
Hopefully that same Tibetan people will one day be master in their homeland again. Hopefully they will then not make the same mistakes so many peoples did before them."

It doesn't take much to suffer from injustice or cruelty inflicted by others.
It does take a lot to overcome those injustices and cruelties.
However, that's still nothing compared to what it takes not to inflict injustices or cruelties to others, after having suffered and overcome one's own.


Greetings, ton.

Humor and respect in America

What is humor? Something to laugh about, you'ld say. But what is worth laughing about? And when does humor stop to be laughing about? When does humor cease being humor? At what point does humor become so ridiculous, that it's no longer laugh-able? And even if you come to know that, what does 'sense of humor' mean?


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Wednesday 14 september 2005, day 3 of Listen-and-Tell in America
Rebecca's cafe, Boston, Massachusetts, United States

The man with the hat reads on the wall of the restroom of the cafe on Trenton Street: "Show some respect for the customers. Fix the toilet".
Typically humor for a restroom. You know.

Underneath is written: "Show some respect for the workers. Tell them about it". 'Tell' underlined.
Typically humor for a restroom. You know.

Again someone else wrote next to the first remark: "You should be glad there is one".
Typically a one-liner for a restroom. You know. A bit sarcastic, but stil laughable to the man with the hat.

Yet again someone else wrote next to that: "You're right, motherfucker!". Well, is that stil humor?

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Saturday 10 september 2005, two more days to go before Listen-and-Tell in America starts
Cafe De Knuistboom, Oisterwijk, the Netherlands

The taxidriver stops around the corner, as not to hinder traffic on the road to Tilburg. Not yet out of his minivan a woman approaches him. French fries in one hand, a hotdog in the other.
"You're goin' to Tilburg?". Barely understandable because of her dialect, not to mention two fries in her mouth.
"Yes, I'm to pick up two people here". Not yet has he spoken these words she shouts: "You're cummin for us. Gotta go to Kruidenlaan. Anda we ain't got more then twenty euris. So that's your problem.".

'Oh no', the driver thinks to himself. 'again one of those halfdrunk people thinking they're funny'. Thinking it's a good laugh to kid around a cabby. He estimates it to be 30 euro to the street she mentioned in Tilburg-west. By the shortest route that is. The fastest is more expensive, because longer, measured in kilometers.


They get in. She upfront, he in the back.

"Hey Joe, we only have twenty euro, so you gotta do with what you gonna get". 'Oh no. He too', the driver again thinks to himself. 'How come drunk people have such a funny sense of humor'. Though neither appears to be really drunk. Gay, and a lot of verbal noise, okay. Actually a whole lot of verbal noise, especially she. But not really drunk. Let's just say tipsy.

Horrofied he watches the spectacle next to him. The woman sits with both plates of junkfood on her lap in the van. His horror comes from the yet newly state of the van. Just one year old, stil both inside and outside clean and wholesome. That might well be different after a ride Oisterwijk-Tilburg combined with alcohol, mayonaise and ketchup.

"It's not allowed to eat inside the van. Would you be so kind to eat your fries and hotdog outside? I'll wait for you".
"Uh. I'll decide for me self when to eat these. I've waited a damned three quarters for it. And hurry up, will ya? We ain't got whole day. Did we tell yu yet that we ain't got more than twenty euri?".
"No worries about the money. I'll bring yu home for 20 euro". The driver can't help going along speaking Tilburg-dialect. The ongoing nagging about the 20 euro is beginning to annoy him. It's wrong, he knows, but stil.

Had he thougt his promise would have silenced the dull joke, he was sourly mistaken. The entire drive they keep nagging about the 20 euro. Now, is that humor?

Also in other respects the two have a different sense of humor than the driver. At a certain point he's getting enough of the woman's big mouth and arrogance. Especially as she start interfering with his way of driving, extra careful untill she woman has finished eating her food. And the both of them complain about the route, the shortest therefore the cheapest. As if he's not familiar with Tilburgs streetplan.

In return he starts foulmouthing her too. The language becomes more vulgar, the words more coarse and the volume louder. Shouting and screaming they're heading for Tilburg. With a detour, because he decided to give them their way.

At the Loon op Zand-road it gets out of hand. He by now really has had enough of her and tells her to leave the car. Obviously she refuses. A scuffy arises over the carkeys. He almost breaks her fingers as she scratches his bold head. Causing a light trail of blood.

Eventually it turns out well. Though not before a cooling-down that lasts at least fifteen minutes. What a different sense of humor can lead up to.


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Tuesday 13 september 2005, day 2 of Listen-and-Tell in America
Washington Dulles International Airport, Washington DC, United States

"We are not kidding here". Austerely and reproachful, that's how the little airport-employee with the friendly face speaks to the man with the hat. Indeed, security is a serious matter. Especially at airports. No place for humor. Therefor, the man with the hat was being serious. "I'm not kidding. I'm serious".

He stands in the long line in front of passport-control. The friendly airport-employee had attracted his attention before. A little asian man. Japanese probably, chinese maybe. Decently dressed; darkblue trousers, white shirt, darkblue necktie. Presumebly an airport-tie, maybe the American Immigration Bureau. He does all kind of small jobs. Replaces the poles with the bands, so the stream of incoming passengers is most efficiently lead to the boots. Shows the frontmost people to the appropriate boot. If neccesary allocating them to the boots for US citizens, far less croudy. What you may call someone who's capable of doing anything.

And he checks each passenger the green visa-slip. So the man with the hat.

"Where in America are you going?". The line at 'adress' shows nothing but a hyphen. As is reality.
"I don't know yet". Again as is reality.
"But surely you are going somewhere?".
"Yes. I'm on my way to Boston. Washington is just a transfer.".
"And where in Boston are you going?".
"I don't know yet.".
"But surely you have an adress to go to?".
"No. After arrival I'll make a few phonecalls, and then I'll know where I'm going.".
"You got to fill in an adress.".
"Even if I don't have one?".
"Like I said. U got to fill in an adress.".
"Okay. Does it matter what adress?"

The hat doesn't feel at ease. He understands too well the friendly japanese American is tryoing to help him. Understands too well he's not the right officer to start a discussion with. On the other hand he doesn't like to fill in just anything, knowing that's not true. Allthough is pretty well aware of the fact that's only common in these matters.

"I don't want to start a discussion with you.", the airportman says,"I'm only trying to help. You'll have difficulties at the immigration-officer if you don't fill in an adress.".
"I'll say it as it is. If the immigration-officer wants me to fill in any adress, I'll be happy to do so. But that's not the same as me doing it by my self.".
"As you wish".

A few instants later the employee picks the hat out the line and allocates him to one of the boots. It's his turn rightaway. The immigration-officer doesn/t spend much time on the man with the hat. "Look. You have to fill in an adress. Anyone entering the US has to. As for me, you write down Mainstreet, Disneyland. As long as it is not blank"
"As you wish".
The hat writes down 'Marriot Hotel, Boston'. The officer puts down a stamp and waves him to proceed.

The hat realizes the irony. It's wrong to say as it is. It's correct to be incorrect. It makes him question just how serious these security-measures are. If it doesn't matter what a visitor fills in, it might just as well not be asked.

On the other hand he realizes is own overly rigidness. Who's to say when to abide by the letter of the law, and when to bend in a little. To hassle with the truth a little.

ton

How the stranger with the hat meets friendly people in a strange city

Sydney, friday 6 may 2005
day 16 of Listen and Tell in Australia

* * *

“Good morning Sir. What would you like to have?".
"Ah, a short black please".
"That'll be two forty".

The friendly lady at Gloria Jean's Coffees smiles at the stranger with the hat. Not that he's a special customer or something: she smiles at all the guests in the coffeeshop in Cherrybrook. Looks like she's having fun in doing her job. The stranger had already noticed that a few days before.

"A good way to start the day off", she remarks.
"Yeah, you're right. It's a special moment. I only drink one coffee a day".
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Anything you have a lot of, after a while you'll find you start appreciating it less and less".

The stranger pays the two dollars and forty cents and watches his espresso being made. He offers the friendly barista his frequent sippers clubcard for the punch. She does so. Two more to go and the eleventh will be for free.

"A busy day today?". The friendly lady picks up the conversation. Just like a good barista would.
"No. I never have a busy day".
"Are you visiting here?"
"Yes. I'm in Sydney to write a book".
"What's the book on?"
"Salt".
"Salt?"
"Yes, salt. You know, that little white stuff you put on food to make it tasty. It's in your sweat and your tears as well".
"How come you're writing a book on salt?"

The stranger tells the barista about the revival of Gandhi's Saltmarch, last March. About his idea to write a book on it. In English. 27 chapters, one for each day of the march. Every third chapter somehow deals with a different aspect of salt. He picks up his espresso and sits at one of the tables. His favorite one, in the corner. As every day he reads a while and writes his children two postcards. Today one with a kangaroo and the other with a kookaburra.

"What's your name?", the stranger asks the friendlybarista when he's leaving."
Diane", the barista answers.

* * *

Walking to the Pennant Hills railway station the words somehow still wander in his head. It's a good way to start off the day for the stranger with the hat in Sydney, Australia. Friendly people make you feel more cheerful yourself.

One hour later he's in the train from Pennant Hills to the City. A one hour ride. Just outside Burwood he stares at the Sydney-downtown-skyline in the distance. Already familiar with this city he recognizes Sydney Tower, Harbour Bridge and the highrises that harbor companies like AXA and ANZ. It reminds him of his homecountry, the Netherlands. Traveling from The Hague to Rotterdam by train the silhouette of the city can be seen in the distance. The Euromast, the Erasmusbridge and the highrises of companies like Shell and Nationale Nederlanden.

A Boeing 747 breezes over, almost in the same direction as the train goes. The silhouette of the jumping kangaroo on the red tail of the white bird is easily recognizable. He takes a good look and sees the faces looking out of the small windows. He wonders what all these people are thinking of. Who knows with what expectations they arrive?

* * *

“You like reading?"
A small Asian man with a friendly face speaks to the stranger with the hat in a bookstore on George Street.
“Ah, yeah. Actually it’s an addiction. I need to read at least one or two hours a day”.
“What kinda books do you read?”
“All kinds. I read several books at the same time. All different ones. I consider it an exercise to the mind.”
“Well, what you’re reading today?”
“Oh, a Paolo Coelho-book, a book on the successtory of Starbucks, Mein Kampf and the biography of AlbertEinstein.” A well-balanced combination of genuine positivity and appalling hatred.

The Asian turns out to be a doctor from the Philippines. He’s come to Australia to work in a hospital for one year. Maybe longer, cause he likes this country quit a lot. Himself he likes to read help-yourself-books. You know, the kind that helps you live a more friendly life.

They chat on whatever comes to their minds.
"What's your name?", the stranger asks when they’reparting.
"Leo", the Asian answers.

* * *

On his way back home the stranger with the hat thinks the day over. It’s been an enjoyable and worthwhile day. He has read some books, has written his children two postcards and wrote a tale, but most of all, he met some friendly people.

A good thought to end the day.

A Warrior of th Light

Tuesday 17 may 2005
Sydney, Australia

The man with the hat walks down the hill. He's on his way from Castle Hill to Dural. Walking back home after having seen Downfall. Der Untergang, the German movie that shows a human insight in the last phase of one of Europe's and arguably the worlds darkest periods.

His trousers have dried up, but his shoes and socks are still soaked. It was raining when he walked up to the cinema. Heavy rains now and then. He didn't really mind though. Wearing his red raincoat he remained pretty dry and the broad rim of the hat protected his glasses from becoming wet. The books in his backpack were also well protected, being all rapped up in plastic bags.

His thoughts are still with the movie. Not for the first time he realises each and everyone of us is capable of comitting such horrific deeds. Given the circumstances. Even he himself. Would be naive to think he's immune to external influences. To think he cannot be dragged into the darker sides of mankind.


* * * * *

Tuesday 10 may 2005
The Rocks, Sydney

The man with te hat walks down the stairs of the "Touch of Mandela"-galerie. On display are numerous paintings and drawings by Nelson Mandela. One in specific catches his eye. A simple sketch of the lighttower on Robbeneiland.

Nikki walks up to him. "Can I help you?", she asks. He inquires about the price. He is looking for a present for his Australian hosts. The original is way out of his league. But there's also a reproduction.

They talk about the man Southafricans call Madiba. Especially the people from the Transvaal. About the Nelson Mandela Museum in Umtata.

"There are some similarities between Mandela and that lighttower", the man remarks. "You're right", the girl replies. "He is like a beaken of light in the darkness."


* * * * *

Friday 1 april 2005
Surat, India

The white man steps up to the microphone. Hat in hand.

"Namaskar."
No need to translate.

"My name is ton. I come from the Netherlands."
Prakash translates his words in Hindi.

"75 years ago a man walked upon this earth. We all know him"
"I came to know him by the name Mohandas Gandhi"
"In his time approxamitely two billion human beings lived on this planet."
"He was on of them. No more. No less."
"But he was a special one. He was a Warrior of the Light."
"He called his light truth."
"And he was such a good warrior, that he was named Mahatma."
"Unfortunately he is no longer with us in flesh and blood"
"All we can do is remember and commemorate him and earn from his teachings and ideas."

The man with the hat in hand pauses for a second. Sometimes a second of silence says more than a lifetime of words.

"Today we are with six billion people on this planet."
"Each and everyone of us is just one of them. No more. No less."
"Each and everyone of us can be a Warrior of the Light"
"Each and everyone of us can be a mahatma."

Back to India

1 May 2006, Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam

Tense, very tense.

The man with the hat takes of for another adventure. Another Listen-and-Tell. And so his body communicates the routine-tension to his mind. Only this time the tension is not about the journey. Nor is it because of the destination and what to expect there. He's going to Mumbai, to India, and he's been there before.

He is tensed because of the challenge. To rewalk the Saltmarch. The other way around this time and on his own. Well, not completely alone; Prakash will join him on this Sabermati Yatra. And even this walk is not the reel challenge, not the reason for his anxiety. He has walked it before.

It's his resolve to write a book that's causing his body to ache. Telling the tale of this walk on Sabermati. In English.

Who knows what might come from that.