Tibet, the territory where the Chinese Communist Party is omnipresent

The white and reddish walls of the Potala Palace, the Dalai Lama’s former residence, rise on the hill opposite. It has something of an ancient ship about it, like a stranded ark awaiting the flood, riddled with dozens of hatches. Tibetan fabrics flutter above the galleries. The view is lost in the labyrinth of staircases that crisscross toward the sky in an optical illusion crowned by golden roofs. A blinding sun beats down at an altitude of 3,646 meters. It is midday in Lhasa, the capital of the autonomous region of Tibet, on the borders of China, at the foot of the Himalayas. The current Dalai Lama left this city in March 1959 on his way to exile. He has never returned to what he considers an “occupied” territory.

Down here, in the square at the foot of the palace, a ceremony has just been held to commemorate the other side of that milestone. Soldiers have raised the flag of the People’s Republic and a floral frieze has been laid out with the inscription: “March 28, Day of the Liberated Serfs of Tibet.” Tourists from all over China stroll by. And two huge billboards on the sides emphasize that everything remains under Beijing’s control. One displays the faces of the five great leaders since 1949, from Mao Zedong to Xi Jinping. The other is reserved for the latter. It is a face of Xi, about 10 by 6 meters. It is reminiscent of Mao’s at Tiananmen Square; his eyes survey every corner of the space.

The Chinese Communist Party is omnipresent in Tibet. Its traces are visible throughout a five-day visit organized by the State Council (the Chinese government) for various media outlets, including EL PAÍS.

“The Party’s radiant light illuminates the borders, and the border people have their hearts turned to the Party!” reads a billboard by the roadside. There are dozens of similar messages, scattered here and there. Going hand in hand with the authorities is the only way for foreign journalists and observers to enter the region. It is sensitive territory. There have been outbreaks of rage here in the past, dozens of Tibetans have set themselves on fire, and the repression has been denounced by governments, NGOs, and international organizations. The self-immolations have long since ceased to make the news; criticism persists. “Since 2013, the human rights situation of ethnic Tibetans in Tibetan areas of China […] has been deteriorating,” the European Union delegation to China stated in December. In March, the United States sanctioned Chinese officials for failing to provide unrestricted access to journalists, diplomats, and independent observers.

Much of the concern centers on the erasure of Tibetan identity and culture. In 2023, the UN expressed concern about the separation of one million Tibetan children from their families for “forced” assimilation in boarding schools. Beijing claims that this network of schools is open to everyone, and a visit to one of them will be included in the program.

The trip aims to showcase businesses, social services, infrastructure, and tourist attractions. The focus is on development, investment, and opportunities for locals. The agenda has been organized so the media can see what Beijing wants to show. Everything is focused on highlighting the “unity” between Tibet and China: from the hotel (with a huge Chinese flag dominating the lobby) to the evening show (an embellished tale about the 7th-century Chinese princess Wencheng, who married the Tibetan king Songtsen Gampo). It fits with Beijing’s message: “It is the most powerful historical foundation of our national unity,” summarizes one of the show’s organizers.

At Jokhang Monastery, a spectacular 7th-century complex in central Lhasa, the holiest monastery in Tibetan Buddhism, the religious realignment with Beijing is also clear. The Ba, a monk draped in a maroon robe and deputy executive director of the center’s management committee, does not shy away from the latest controversy surrounding the Dalai Lama, whose image is banned in Tibet, but who remains the spiritual leader of the religion. At 89 years old, the Dalai Lama has stated that in his next reincarnation, he will be born in the “free world.” The Ba responds: the choice will follow “historical rituals” and, in any case, “must be recognized by the central government.”

In a day care center for seniors, there’s a picture of the Chinese president at the entrance. Another photograph of the leader presides over the lounge where elderly men with tanned faces and Tibetan hats play dice and sip tea. They are retired farmers. They speak Tibetan. They are over 70. One says that the region has undergone “a dramatic change,” according to the translation provided by the government. He speaks of the bridges and roads that “now lead everywhere,” of the plumbing and hygiene compared to the filth of the past. Their children no longer work in the fields; they have bought trucks and are engaged in construction. Some were born before the arrival of Mao’s troops, when the Dalai Lama was still in power.

― What was it like back then?

― I was very small, I don’t remember everything.

They say they wouldn’t change the present. “If I compare it to the past, it couldn’t be better.” One of them spins the Tibetan mani prayer wheel with a flick of his wrist, adding: “We all die and we have to prepare for the next life.”

The city is in a growth phase. The centuries-old streets of the center, where pilgrims trudge, are the exception. Lhasa is populated by nondescript blocks; new developments are springing up on the outskirts with shopping malls identical to those in the rest of the country, where children play video games with virtual reality headsets. Police booths are ubiquitous on street corners. They are scattered throughout the city. They are part of Beijing’s response to past incidents: the authorities created a network of small, local police stations to keep self-immolations at bay and respond immediately to potential disturbances. The model was so successful that it was replicated in Xinjiang, another sensitive territory.

One day, the group of reporters is led to a press conference with regional authorities where, unexpectedly, the presentation of the document Human Rights in Xizang [the Chinese name for Tibet] in the New Era is announced. The text, drafted by the government, emphasizes that Tibet has gone from being a theocracy where more than 95% of people were “serfs and slaves” to a place that “enjoys political stability, ethnic unity, economic development, social harmony, and friendship among different religions.” It is an immersion in the vision of human rights promoted by Beijing (the “Marxist perspective”), which has put Western democracies on alert: it emphasizes a vision tailored to each country over universality; it prioritizes development and subsistence over other freedoms, such as freedom of expression.

After the press conference, “experts” brought in by the government speak. “For a long time, certain sectors within the international community — including Tibetan separatist forces and anti-China groups — have spread numerous false statements about the human rights situation in Tibet,” says Zhaluo of the Tibetology Research Center. “Western prejudices toward China are evident,” adds Zhang Yonghe of the Human Rights Research Institute at Southwest University in Chongqing. According to him, there’s nothing like going to Tibet and observing to see the change. When asked why journalists and others are prohibited from freely visiting, he replies that it’s due to the poor condition of some infrastructure, dangerous winds blowing at certain airports, and poor accommodations, “since the Chinese generally want to receive foreign guests with the best quality.”

“Most of the things the government wanted to do in Tibet have already been done,” a Beijing-based European source who deals with human rights issues says. The violations of the past have been buried by official history and a policy of fait accompli, he adds. “Cultural homogenization with inland China has been achieved in every important way, while maintaining the theme park characteristics so that the Han [the country’s majority ethnic group] can go on tourist visits and enjoy the yaks and the prayer flags.” They have only been offered one development option — the Chinese one — and the majority have embraced it: “People don’t want to die of typhus.”

A bullet train now crisscrosses the province, flying from Lhasa to Linzhi, surrounded by snow-capped peaks. The valley, crossed by the Nyang River, is fertile, and the newly blossoming peach trees form a cottony landscape. It’s one of its main attractions. At this time of year, thousands of people flock to Gala, a small village with 149 inhabitants and 1,253 peach trees in bloom. Hundreds of people mill around, cell phones in hand. Income has multiplied since they discovered the tourist industry.

Gala is an ode of loyalty to Beijing. In the small square, a sculpture of a hammer and sickle is inscribed with the “oath of joining the Communist Party.” The local mayor, Nima Duoji, 39, receives visitors in the living room of his home. It smells of firewood, light filters through the curtains; he is the first Party member in his family. He subscribes to the developmentalist discourse: he remembers these streets, from his childhood, littered with yak droppings. “It was very dirty and very poor.” The worst times, according to what his ancestors have told him, were the 1940s and 1950s. There was barely anything to eat. He dropped out of school at 16. The eldest of his three children is now studying law in Sichuan. Numerous photographs of Xi and Mao hang on the walls. He concludes: “Without the Communist Party, we would not have a happy life now.”

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