A Beautiful China – Seventeen – Ngaba
Xu Zhiyong, translated by Elizabeth Lindley, November 17, 2024
Note From the Editor
Born in 1973, Dr. Xu Zhiyong (许志永) is a legal scholar, pioneer of China’s rights defense movement, and a founder of the New Citizens Movement. On April 10, 2023, he was sentenced to 14 years in prison on charges of “subverting state power.” Before this, he had served a separate prison term from 2013 to 2017 for his Citizens Movement activities during Xi Jinping’s first wave of crackdowns on civil society after coming to power in late 2012. Between the two prison stints from 2017 to the end of 2019, Dr. Xu wrote A Beautiful China (《美好中国》), a collection of 24 essays. It is a review of his journey and that of his generation’s struggle for a better China in what often appeared to be a hopeful era of rapid economic development and political awakening; it is also a vision for a China free of the totalitarian yoke. Dr. Xu Zhiyong’s imprisonment is a textbook example of how the paranoid Communist leadership deploys its rubber-stamp judiciary to imprison China’s brightest and bravest. Dr. Xu has since early this year been sent to Lunan Prison (鲁南监狱) in Shandong province to serve the remaining 10 years of his sentence – if the communist regime in China will last that long. Late last year, from the detention center in Linyi, Shandong, Dr. Xu wrote to China Change via his lawyers to express his wish that A Beautiful China be translated and published on this website. Honoring Dr. Xu’s work and his sacrifices for the sake of his country, today we begin serializing a translation of his 24 essays.
Yaxue Cao
February 12, 2024
Seventeen
Ngaba
In the fall of 2012, Xu Zhiyong made a trip to Ngaba, or Aba (阿坝), Tibetan Prefecture in northern Sichuan Province, looking for the family of a young Tibetan named Nangdrol who died in self-immolation on February 19, 2012, protesting Chinese rule. – The Editors
The Tibetan Who Had Been a Party Secretary
It was the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival in Xisuo Village (西索村), and the moonlight was brighter than I had seen it in years.
I was in the living room of a Tibetan-style house, and the Mid-Autumn Festival Gala “Under the Same Moon, No Matter How Far Apart We Are” was blaring from the television. I went to the kitchen and struck up a conversation with the host. He was 68 years old, a retired township Party Secretary. His ancestors had served as laborers for the nearby Zhuokeji chieftain (卓克基土司). His son was deputy director of a regional government bureau, and one of his grandsons worked as a traffic officer who had followed us in his police car when we had come into the courtyard.
“Do you believe in Buddhism, Sir?” “Yes, I do.” He hesitated slightly before answering.
This question never used to be an issue in Ngaba. However, this family had a special status. In the kitchen, there was a small shrine dedicated to an unnamed living Buddha. In the upstairs hallway, a picture hung in the corner, displaying portraits of four generations of Chinese Communist Party leaders, along with the current nine members of the Politburo Standing Committee. I’d heard that the local government had been promoting the display of these leaders’ images in temples in recent years. But it was only here that I actually saw these portraits I’d heard so much about.
“Do you believe in the Dalai Lama?”
“We follow the Panchen Lama. He’s a very good man. When I was the Party Secretary, I had the honor of hosting him here.”
“Many families around here keep portraits of the Dalai Lama in their homes. Does your family have one?”
“No, we don’t.”
“Is it because you don’t believe in him?”
“No, that’s not it. We just don’t have one.”
“Are you worried about something?”
“We just don’t have one.”
As I rudely pressed on with my questioning, his voice became softer and softer.
“Seda (色达) has so many temples. It’s truly a magical place.” As we discussed the chieftain, he brought up Seda. He told me that his wife witnessed something extraordinary at a sky burial site: a living Buddha summoned six vultures, and miraculously, six vultures appeared. “It was magical,” he said, shaking his head in wonder.
His face bore the rugged, weathered marks which are characteristic of life on the plateau — deep wrinkles etched across his skin, and an air of unspoken complexity. His wife, who was the same age, was the classic image of a Tibetan grandmother. His face radiated kindness and remained silent throughout our conversation.
This man is a Tibetan. But to the local Tibetans, he represents foreign rule. He is part of an awkward group, shaped by the enduring myth of “serfs turned masters.” In the past, the Zhuokeji chieftains ruled, and now it has come to be their turn. Yet, it remains the rule of a minority over the majority.
His generation was raised under years of materialist education. But this is his homeland, and in the end, his beliefs are still rooted in its ancient myths. Under the sweeping tide of modernization, those mysteries would have naturally faded away.
For a people still struggling for freedom, they would rather return to the past.
On the Road to Ngaba
I chose not to visit Seda. I wanted to see the authentic lives of Tibetans, unaffected by the constant stream of tourists. And I also hoped to visit the home of a young man named Nangdrol (郎卓).
At dawn, the Zhuokeji chieftain’s estate still lay in slumber. After a rushed Han-style breakfast, I flagged down an unlicensed taxi on the roadside. For 20 yuan, it took me from Zhuokeji to Barkam (Ma’erkang 马尔康).
Barkam is the capital of Ngaba (阿坝) Prefecture. National Highway 317 is practically the town’s only main road, flanked by newly built Tibetan-style buildings. But this Tibetan style is just superficial. Apart from the Tibetan motifs painted on each window — narrow at the top and wide at the bottom — the construction quality, internal structure, and even the rapid pace at which they were constructed are the same as those in the rest of China.
Newly developed towns like these have emerged in almost every Tibetan region. Zhongdian, north of Lijiang in Yunnan Province, is another example. This wave of development probably began after the March 14, 2008 unrest [in Lhasa].
By the time I reached the bus station, the direct bus from Barkam to Zamtang county had already left. I instead had to make my way several dozen kilometers away to transfer at Guanyin Bridge. There, the driver smiled warmly and kindly helped me arrange a bus from Jinchuan to Zamtang.
This bus ride was different from those in tourist areas — nearly all my fellow passengers were Tibetans, though only about half were dressed in traditional Tibetan clothing. Among them, roughly 20 were from Guoluo, the neighboring Qinghai [Province, and they were making a pilgrimage to worship Guanyin [the Bodhisattva of Compassion]. A young girl in jeans told me she hadn’t done well in her college entrance exam, so she went to vocational school to study nursing. Now, she’s working at Zamtang Hospital.
As the bus trundled on, we passed large advertisements from China Unicom dotting the roadside. A dark-skinned young man in traditional Tibetan clothing smiled at me after finishing a phone call. His slightly disheveled appearance made it obvious that he came from a pastoral area.
Something about the man brought to my mind a journey to Tibet I had taken over a decade ago, a trip which had passed through Ngaba but was cut short.
After the bus had crossed through Erlang Mountain, vast grasslands suddenly appeared before us. Instead of the usual green stretching to the horizon, it was a complex shade of brown — a sea of wildflowers, densely interwoven into a patchwork of colors, their fragrance floating lightly in the breeze. Back then, the Zoige grassland (若尔盖草原) was not a tourist destination. Plump marmots perched by the roadside with their tiny hands resting on their chests, watching curiously as our old bus rattled by.
Fortune smiled on us that day — the bus broke down in the middle of nowhere. All of the passengers cheered as we rushed into the fields of flowers. From a distance, a Tibetan man named Tashi approached us, galloping on horseback. Tashi had just figured out a way of earning some money. Passengers took turns riding his horse, posing for photos. When they asked the price, he simply held up one finger. After some confusion, we figured out it was just one yuan.
After the bus was finally repaired, Tashi galloped alongside us for quite some distance, waving his hand. That moment will forever be etched into my memories of Ngaba.
Ngaba in Sichuan, Guoluo in Qinghai, and Gannan in Gansu form part of the traditional Amdo Tibetan region. This is where the Han and Tibetan cultures intersect, the borderlands. In the 1950s, intense conflicts erupted here during the “socialist transformation.”
My first trip to this plateau was 21 years ago [in the early 1990s]. I went with my classmates from Lanzhou University to Labrang Monastery in Xiahe (夏河拉卜楞寺), where we met a young lama with the Chinese name Chen Lai. I remember him telling us how their Living Buddha endured great suffering and humiliation. Back then, ethnic tensions were already starting to surface, but overall, things were still mostly peaceful. Nowadays, though, bad news seems to come all too often.
Seated next to me was a young lama. He was from a monastery in Hongyuan County, taking his mother to Barkam for medical treatment. He was taking the opportunity to visit Guanyin. He didn’t harbor any hatred toward Han Chinese, he told me — he had met many kind ones. He invited me to visit his monastery whenever I wanted.
Cities, roads, and hospitals now stretched deep into these remote valleys and grasslands, reaching even the ancient temples. Along with them came large slogans. Passing a checkpoint, a red banner overhead read: “Leading the Way in Maintaining Stability and Responding to Emergencies.”
The passengers remained expressionless. The young lama told me that what he hated most were the men with guns, mimicking the shape of a gun with his hands.
This is a story of modernization — a long, winding road towards the painful transformation of an ancient civilization. You can feel that pain in every inch of this land.
Do You Hate the Han Chinese?
Zamtang is a county in Ngaba Prefecture, spanning over 6,000 square kilometers of plateau and valley. It is home to over 30,000 Tibetans. The county seat feels like a typical inland town in China. The two main streets are dominated by government buildings, while the rest are lined with small restaurants and convenience stores. There are only four buses running daily, heading to Chengdu, Barkam, Ngaba County, and Jinchuan County. Zamtang’s largest monastery is in ZhongZamtang Township, situated in a valley about 50 kilometers east of the town.
I had lunch at a Sichuan noodle shop, run by a Han Chinese owner from the city of Mianyang.
Just like in Lhasa, most of the businesses here are operated by Han Chinese, mainly from Sichuan Province. Outsiders come here seeking to make money and build comfortable lives, while the local Tibetans, unfamiliar with the workings of the market economy, often seek solace in the past and return to spiritual traditions, but at the same time find themself caught in a tug-of-war between tradition and the temptation of material wealth. This tension was part of the backdrop to the March 14th riot in 2008.
Two young women sat across from me, both fashionably dressed. One was Tibetan, whilst the other was Han, both originally from Songpan County. Both had graduated from university just last year and passed the civil service exam, securing positions at the Organization Department of the Zamtang County Communist Party Committee. However, they would get no time off for the coming National Day holidays: a reflection of the ongoing tension in Ngaba.
At the turnoff to ZhongZamtang, I managed to flag down a brand-new Chang’an sedan. The two young Tibetan men inside were on their way back to Namuda Township. When I asked how much they would charge to drop me off at ZhongZamtang on the way, the driver thought for a moment before replying —100 yuan.
Due to roadworks, we had to wait until 7 p.m. for the road to reopen, and so a long wait stretched ahead of us.
Hail pelted the car windows as flurries of snowflakes and raindrops swirled chaotically through the sky.
The driver, Sonam, was 24 years old. He had bought the car only a few days ago in Chengdu and was thinking of starting some kind of business with it, though he hadn’t quite figured out what yet.
“Do you believe in Tibetan Buddhism?”
“Yes, we do.”
He then showed me the image which hung from his neck.
“Do you know who this is?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “it’s the Dalai Lama. Do all of you believe in him?”
“Of course. He is the true living Buddha.” His face radiated a deep, sincere devotion.
“Do you hate the Han Chinese?”
He hesitated before answering, “There are good people and bad people, right?”
I apologized and pressed the question again, “Do you hate the Han?” I had to ask, because in his last words, the young man named Nangdrol used a term — “Han demons.”
“Do you know that some Tibetans have set themselves on fire, committed self-immolation?” I finally gathered the courage to ask.
“Oh, yes, we know.”
“Could you take me to see the family of one of them please— he was a young man named Nangdrol, 18 years old, who left words behind him… I’d like to meet his parents… to express my sorrow, as a Han Chinese.”
They looked a little surprised but then grew even more welcoming. “Sure, I’ve been there, many Tibetans have. A white tent was set up at the crossroads where he died. In those days, hundreds, even thousands, of Tibetans came to mourn him and donated money to his family. Later, in response to his plea, Tibetans handed over their swords and knives to the monastery to be burned, and pledged to unite together. I have photos of the burning of the swords and knives at home. He is our hero.”
“Thank you, for trusting me like this.”
As we left the county seat and entered the vast grasslands. Small patches of snow still dotted the roadside. Golden sunlight spilled over the distant, rolling hills, the herds of yaks, and small huts where thin streams of smoke rose from their chimneys.
The Angry Night
By the time we arrived in ZhongZamtang, the night had already fallen. The moon was hiding behind the mountains and dark clouds.
We stopped near a lamp-lit area, where Sonam got out of the car to ask a middle-aged man for directions. The man waved his hand dismissively. We tried asking a few other passersby, but they all shook their heads. At a crossroads, Sonam approached two men on motorbikes, and they seemed to start arguing. A lama passing by came to the window, and gave me a sharp, scrutinizing look. Their conversation seemed tense and dragged on longer than expected.
Sonam returned to the car, looking apologetic. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “They were telling me off for bringing you here.”
Another small van drew up next to us, and two men jumped out, angrily berating Sonam. Fear and hostility hung over here like the night itself. As we continued driving, leaving ZhongZamtang, I wasn’t sure if we had left this place of anger behind. We both fell silent.
Sonam suddenly spoke. “You know, we are Tibetans, we believe in Buddhism, but we can’t go to Lhasa.”
“I know.”
Tibetans need special permission to go to Lhasa — their sacred city. Years ago, in Golmud, I saw devout pilgrims making full-body prostrations on the long journey to Lhasa. But now even that sacred freedom has been stripped from them, especially since the self-immolation incident in Lhasa last year.
What Sonam might not know is that for a Tibetan or a Uyghur, traveling anywhere in mainland China now arouses suspicion. The moment they show their ID, the police treat them differently. Even finding a hotel in which to stay is becoming more and more difficult.
They have every reason to distrust me, as a Han Chinese.
That night, in a small inn called “Pengzhou Hotel” in Namuda Township, it began to drizzle softly outside again. I tossed and turned restlessly in my bed, with a slight headache from the altitude sickness, and wondered: Where will I go tomorrow?
I regretted asking Sonam to ask for directions on my behalf. I should have faced the anger of the people myself.
How can the deep, historical wounds of hatred be healed by anything other than love and sincerity?
What, other than love and sincerity, can heal the deep wounds of hatred borne by history?
The Morning Valley
In the early morning valley, white clouds floated in the sky, sunlight bathed the fresh grasslands, prayer flags swayed gently in the breeze, and the golden dome of the majestic temple pointed toward the deep blue sky.
On this beautiful autumn morning, I returned once again to ZhongZamtang, this land where sacrifices were made in the name of faith. The melodies of sacred chants echoed through the air.
With humility, I stood watching the red-robed lamas engaged in their morning lessons, feeling somewhat like a child sneaking a glimpse into a schoolyard. After a while, a young lama, probably under twenty, walked by to fetch water. He kindly led me to the corner of the adjacent hall, where a middle-aged lama sat cross-legged in meditation.
To my inquiry about Nangdrol, he asked if I had a photo of him. I apologized, saying I hadn’t brought one. “Then there’s nothing we can do,” he replied. A teenage lama mentioned that there was a Nangdrol in the second year of Buddhist studies. We asked several second-year students, but none knew of anyone who had self-immolated by that name. When I asked others in the area, some claimed not to know, while others just shook their heads.
An elderly Tibetan woman who was practicing her faith here invited me into her small rented room and served me butter tea. I apologized, “I need to find Nangdrol.” She led me to a construction site beside the grand monastery, where another temple was being built, but still, nobody knew about him. Online, it said he was a student, so we went to ZhongZamtang Primary School, next to the large monastery. It was filled with soldiers in camouflage. I asked the armed guard at the gate where the middle school was. He suggested I check a nearby courtyard with a national flag. Asking around, it became clear that there was no middle school here.
I had to leave.
The road leading back to the county town is only open from noon to 1 p.m. each day.
Beneath Ngaba’s heavy, melancholic sky, a row of poplar trees along the river shimmered with golden autumn leaves. In the fields, a group of young, red-robed lamas were practicing. I reluctantly got into the taxi, trying to imprint in my memory this last scene of ZhongZamtang.
I felt utterly lost.
He Died for Peace
Silently, I prayed for this country, asking for help from above.
After driving a few hundred meters, passing a small hillside dotted with houses, I begged the driver to wait just a little longer, no more than half an hour.
At a small roadside shop, the shopkeeper hesitated when I asked about Nangdrol. I looked at him sincerely and said, “I’m really sorry, but I really don’t want to leave without finding him.”
Finally, he relented. “Nangdrol’s home is right behind the old school next door.’
On the hillside, an elderly couple pointed toward a house not far away. “That’s the one,” they said. “He was such a good child,” the old woman added.
The courtyard looked just like those in rural Gansu. The walls of the house and the yard were caked in mud. There were three small rooms, and the iron gate was tightly locked. The only difference here was that on the outside of one wall stood five tall prayer flags — the tallest in the whole village.
I bowed my head in prayer before the gate. “Nangdrol, I love you.”
I imagined an elderly couple opening the gate, kindly welcoming me as I knelt in front of them. But perhaps, instead, they would angrily turn me away, just like the old woman at the sky burial site in Lhasa had years ago. Still, I wouldn’t leave. I would silently endure whatever came — whether they beat me, cursed me, or did something worse, I would bear it all. And then, I would say to them, “I’m sorry. I truly am. I feel deeply for this beautiful highland, which I’ve visited many times…”
As I stood there, a middle-aged woman named Dolmo and a young boy, no older than ten, named Soring, walked by. Dolmo said she had known Nangdrol. He was the most handsome young man in ZhongZamtang. His parents live far away at a cattle ranch, and he grew up in the pastures. She used to see him riding his motorcycle up and down these roads occasionally.
That day, he dressed in brand-new clothes, everything on him fresh and clean. He had bathed and groomed himself. After getting a haircut at a barbershop near the crossroads, he put on his glasses and asked those around him, “Do I look handsome? Am I handsome?” Then, he made his way to the intersection, and there, he… I don’t hate Han people. We are a peaceful people; we’d rather endure suffering ourselves…”
“He died for peace,” said Soring, standing beside me. “As he burned, he clasped his hands together, raising them above his head. He knelt down, stood up, raised his hands again above his head, then knelt once more. He repeated this six times.”
We Love You
Nangdrol was 18 years old. In the photograph, his young, handsome face is filled with the sorrow of an entire people, his eyes carrying the weight of a nation’s grief. On February 19, 2012, at noon, Nangdrol set himself on fire at the crossroads in front of the grand monastery in ZhongZamtang Township. In his death note, he wrote: “For the endlessly suffering Tibetans, I will set my body ablaze… I pray that the Tibetan people may be freed from the grip of the Han demons. Under the oppressive hands of the Han, Tibetans suffer unbearable pain…”
Without visible scar tissues, the plateau has been tormented.
I love this land, hoping she would remain forever on China’s map, but I’ve clearly felt the desire in the hearts of the Tibetan people to break free from it. In the last three years, more than 60 people have self-immolated in this region, one after the other. No other people have fought for freedom in a more devastating and tragic manner than the Tibetans.
I’m so sorry for having been burdened by too many worries to act freely. This country harbors too many taboos which I have not dared to confront. I once traveled to Dharamsala and stood outside the gates of the Tibetan government-in-exile, but I didn’t reach out to them. So many times, I’ve remained silent.
I’m sorry. We have been silent for far too long.
I didn’t know how to convey my emotions. I took out the 500 yuan in my pocket and handed it to Dolmo. “I’m sorry. Please, give this to his parents. Tell them a Han Chinese came, and he was deeply saddened.”
Nangdrol, I’m sorry. I came to your home hoping to tell you and your community that I am not a Han demon; that we are not monsters. The ancient people of the East are also victims — victims of a curse that has left us divided and trapped in cycles of infighting, hatred, and bloodshed.
We have been silent for far too long. But your suffering has pierced my heart from the moment I learned of it. On the path to freedom — whether across the highlands, valleys, rivers, or plains, in the East or West, at dawn or dusk — this land is ours together, our shared home. It is our shared burden and, ultimately, our shared redemption.
Nangdrol, we love you.
October 2012
Chinese original: 许志永《美好中国之十七：阿坝》
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