Durham: Duke University Press, 2014. liv, 286 pp. (Illustrations, map.) US$24.95, paper. ISBN 978-0-8223-5726-1.
In a forward to this important volume, the 14th Dalai Lama writes, “My Tibetan Childhood is the autobiography of a young Tibetan that vividly describes the brutal repression of Tibet by Chinese forces in the 1950s” (ix). However, Naktsang Nulo’s memoir is much more than a story of Chinese aggression and Tibetan victimization. While there have been numerous accounts of Tibet under Maoist rule, most have been produced in exile, and often in English, as deliberate attempts to raise international attention for Tibet’s plight. A few others have been co-written by Western scholars, primarily for an academic readership. By contrast, when in 2007 the original edition appeared on bookshelves as Joys and Sorrows of the Naktsang Boy (Nags tsang zhi lu’i skyid sdug), written in colloquial Amdo Tibetan, it represented the first critical account of the 1950s in Tibet published within the People’s Republic of China. This is therefore an insider account written for insiders, an audience that experienced the events described within living memory, but also one that continues to negotiate the uncomfortable choices demanded of Tibetans living within China today.
Among its many contributions, My Tibetan Childhood contains the first detailed descriptions of 1958’s Amdo Rebellion and the state’s brutal response, as well as horrific accounts of mass starvation during the Great Leap Forward. In his extremely insightful introduction, Robert Barnett remarks, “This may thus be the first known eyewitness account of atrocities carried out by the PLA in Tibet or elsewhere in China to have appeared in print within the PRC” (xxxiv). Significantly, Naktsang narrates his story in the “unvarnished” voice of a child, “what he saw, what he heard, and what he thought” (1). Of course, the author’s claims of historical accuracy should be treated with the same caution as any attempt at historical reconstruction from individual memory. Nonetheless, as Barnett suggests, this literary device allows an otherwise hyper-political story to be told outside the rhetorical frameworks that usually accompany accounts of Tibet’s recent past. He writes, “In the child’s world, political rationalizations for destructive actions do not make sense; only moral values about human relations apply” (xxxviii). So, for example, it is not clear if the author considers “Tibet” to have been a singular, historical ethno-political community. However, his story is rife with references to fierce regionalism and intercommunity violence that might suggest otherwise. Likewise, Naktsang makes no attempt to explain the events that led to the violent confrontation between the Chinese state and Amdo Tibetans. Nor does he offer an opinion as to what caused the great starvation that in less than six months killed 95 percent of the 1600 children and elderly inhabitants of Ratsang School—with tragic irony referred to as “Joyous Home” (262). However, it is not lost upon the reader that Chinese soldiers bivouacked nearby had plenty to eat. And it is with astonishment but little further comment that Naktsang describes a Speaking Bitterness Meeting during which a Tibetan mob savagely murdered two lamas and their attendants.
Furthermore, the “joys” and “sorrows” from Naktsang’s original title do not simply reflect a rupture between “traditional” Tibet and what the author refers to as the “time of revolution,” when “the earth and the sky were turned upside down” (7). In fact, during the first half of the book Naktsang encounters almost no Chinese. Instead, he paints an engrossing and often unflattering portrait of social, political, and economic life on the Amdo grasslands prior to the arrival of the People’s Liberation Army. This includes a fascinating description of the six-month caravan trip to Lhasa, which combined religious pilgrimage with economic adventurism. Yet, as viewed through the child’s eyes, this was a world filled with violence and injustice. Monastic officials were corrupt, capricious and callous. Wealth was fleeting, human existence precarious. Naktsang’s father repeatedly served as victim to this unjust world. However, his father also embodied the positive characteristics of an Amdo Tibetan—loyalty to family and friends, rugged individualism, personal integrity, and the spirit of self-sacrifice—that in Naktsang’s memories bound this society together and allowed it to function according to a set of unwritten rules.
Imperfect though it may have been, for Naktsang Nulo this life came to an end the day his father was killed and he and his band of refugees were captured by the PLA. Although occurring more than halfway through the book, September 9, 1958—“The day of our destruction”—is the first time a specific date appears in the text, as if even the temporal rhythms of his old life had been dislodged (181). Yet, this transformation takes on a new dimension when we recall that the boy who had once vowed revenge against his father’s killers, instead would become a functionary of that state. Thus, the author himself may personify a troubling disconnect, one that is reflected in the book’s provocative final paragraphs. Having survived his harrowing stay at “Joyous Home,” Naktsang suddenly shifts to the voice of his elder self. Obliquely and perhaps ironically referring to the promises of the post-Mao period, he suggests that Amdo Tibetans continue to inhabit a world thrust upon them by outside forces, one in which the massive dislocations of the past have not been remedied. “Now we have grown up and are able to practice our religion and dedicate prayers to [our father],” he states before somberly adding, “We are also certain that we will have a chance to return to our native land, and all our relatives will greet us” (268).
Naktsang Nulo insists that his only purpose in writing of the “inconceivable suffering” experienced during “the times of great change” (4) is to preserve its memory for future Tibetan generations, remarking, “They know nothing of this era in history because no detailed account of it can be found in any history book” (7). With the publication of My Tibetan Childhood, this little-known history is now available to a far wider audience. Anyone interested in modern Tibetan or Chinese history—scholars, students, and the general public alike—should be grateful.
Benno Ryan Weiner
Carnegie Mellon University, Pittsburgh, USA
pp. 430-432