Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
Contemporary Buddhism
MARK M. ROWE, SERIES EDITOR
Jane E. Caple
University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the
guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources.
ix Acknowledgments
19 CHAPTER ONE
M onastic R evival : A Social and Moral
Reordering
38 CHAPTER TWO
M onastic R eform : The Path to “Self-Sufficiency”
68 CHAPTER THREE
M onastic T ourism : Defining Value
94 CHAPTER FOUR
M onastic D evelopment in M orally
T roubled T imes
165 C oda
169 Notes
193 Bibliography
209 Index
Contents
Contents v
Series Editor’s Preface vii
Acknowledgments ix
Notes on Romanization and Naming Practices xi
1
Introduction 1
Negotiating Moral Boundaries 1
1 19
Monastic Revival 19
A Social and Moral Reordering 19
2 38
Monastic Reform 38
The Path to “Self-Sufficiency” 38
3 68
Monastic Tourism 68
Defining Value 68
4 94
Monastic Development in Morally Troubled Times 94
5 122
Monastic Recruitment and Retention 122
6 145
The Future of Mass Monasticism 145
7 155
Seeing beyond the State 155
Coda 165
Notes 169
Bibliography 193
Index 209
About the Author 219
Series Editor’s Preface
“IS IT POSSIBLE TO SEE BEYOND THE state in studies of Tibet, religion, and
other highly politicized issues in contemporary China?” This is the central
question that drives Jane Caple’s vivid account of Geluk monastic revival and
development in northeast Tibet. Though there is no denying the ongoing and
pervasive force of the state since the Maoist era, Caple’s richly textured book
reveals there is much more to the story. Her extensive ethnographic work
at more than sixteen monasteries allows us to see beyond Buddhist revival
as either resistance to or accommodation of state policies and approach it
instead as deeply embedded in localized “relationships, priorities, and values
that have very little to do with the state.” In exploring the shift from alms col-
lection to economic self-sufficiency, for example, Caple produces a localized
and personal account of monasteries reshaping lay/monastic relationships in
terms of virtue rather than power and influence. By focusing attention on how
her interlocutors express their sense of right and wrong, Caple proves them to
be members of moral communities whose actions may at times line up with
the demands of the state but are in no way encompassed or fully explained
by state pressure. Caple’s brilliant ethnography of morality opens up exciting
new avenues for understanding issues of monastic financing, construction,
tourism, education, and recruitment.
vii
Acknowledgments
THIS WORK WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN POSSIBLE without the help of a great num-
ber of individuals. I owe my deepest gratitude to the monks and laypeople
who extended such gracious hospitality, were so generous with their time, and
shared their knowledge, stories, and opinions. It is to them that I dedicate
this book even though, to protect their anonymity, they remain nameless. My
heartfelt gratitude goes to Palden Tsering, Sonam Tsering, and their fami-
lies and friends for their help, warmth, and kindness; to Tendzin Tsering,
who sadly passed away in February 2011; to Lhangtsang Soldor, Jamphel
Sems, Sönam Dorjé, Dowi Namlha, Kelzang, Tseringsham, and others who
worked with me in the field but wish to remain anonymous; to my teacher
and friend Trashi Drölma; to Sangguo for her unstinting kindness; and to
Lhündrup Dorjé and Akhu for their friendship and forbearance in the face of
my never-ending stream of questions.
Research and writing would not have been possible without the back-
ing of various institutions: the Leverhulme Trust, the British Inter-University
China Centre, the White Rose East Asia Centre, the University of Manchester,
the University of Leeds, Beijing Central Nationalities University, and Qinghai
Nationalities University. The financial support of the Leverhulme Trust, the
UK’s Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC) and Arts and Human-
ities Research Council (AHRC), and the Higher Education Funding Council
for England (HEFCE) is gratefully acknowledged. I would like to thank my
teachers, colleagues, and friends at the universities of Leeds and Manchester
who provided such a supportive environment and helped me in numerous
ways over the years. Special thanks go to Flemming Christiansen, Tim Wright,
and Victor T. King for their advice, guidance, and encouragement.
I am also grateful to the many other scholars who have offered help
and guidance at various stages of the path toward this study in its final form. I
owe an enormous debt to Lama Jabb for his help in checking my translations
from the Tibetan, his encouragement, and our many thought-provoking dis-
cussions and to Nicolas Sihlé, who has been both a mentor and friend. I would
also like to thank Hildegard Diemberger, Alison Hardie, Anthony Fielding,
ix
x Acknowledgments
xi
Introduction
1
2 Introduction
astery’s Management Committee.3 It was toward the end of this term that we
first met.
Jamyang’s involvement in business development represented a shift
in his attitude toward monastic financing. “We had not thought that much
about developing commercial activities before,” he said, “because we don’t
need much as long as we have enough to cover our basic necessities.” The
monastery had relied on collecting alms from the people (mangtsok [mang
tshogs]) to supplement sponsorship from patrons. Then he had gone to India
on pilgrimage. He saw that the Tibetan monastic centers that had been rees-
tablished in exile were self-supporting and ran restaurants, guesthouses, and
shops.4 This led him to change his mind about the appropriate way to fund
monastic activities. He and other monks encouraged donors to contribute to
a capital fund, which they invested in businesses. The income is used to fund
the monastery’s collective activities when there are no other sponsors.
The revival and repopulation of thousands of monasteries in Tibet in
the early 1980s is one of the most extraordinary stories of religious resurgence
in post-Mao China. When I first entered the field in autumn 2008, I had been
expecting to hear that they had needed to find new ways of surviving finan-
cially. I was aware that they had lost many of the sources of support on which
they had relied before 1958 and were operating within very different politi-
cal, social, and economic structures. In one of the few ethnographic studies
of Tibetan monastic Buddhism in contemporary China, Goldstein (1998) pro-
vides an economic reading of the development of businesses and tourism at
Drepung Monastery in Lhasa: the monastery needed to find ways to support
itself without the landholdings, moneylending operations, and government
funding on which it had relied in the past. I also understood that government
policy stipulated that monasteries should be self-supporting. This emphasis
is reflected in scholarship on contemporary Tibetan Buddhist monastic econ-
omies published in China, which takes a normative economic perspective,
rooted in the framework of the state’s socialist modernist ideology and reli-
gious policy (e.g., Donggacang and Cairangjia 1995; Zhang 1996; Kai 2000;
Mei 2001).5
However, Jamyang was not simply relating practical steps to secure
stable income sources for his monastery in contemporary circumstances and
under current state policies. What was striking in conversations with him and
other monks was that they were involved in a continual evaluation and reeval-
uation of what was right and wrong, appropriate and inappropriate for mon-
asteries, monks, and the laity in a world undergoing rapid transformation,
not least through wider processes of globalization and economic marketiza-
tion. Issues of monastic economy were, fundamentally, moral issues. More-
over, it became clear that issues of monastic financing were inseparable from
concerns about “development” in a much broader sense: the advancement of
Introduction 3
The revival of Tibetan Buddhist monasticism was part of the wider revival
of religious life in China following the repression of the Maoist era, during
which monasteries were disbanded and most destroyed.7 Shifts in state policy
and the exercise of state power have clearly shaped the general contours of
Tibetan Buddhist monastic history since the mid-twentieth century, in terms
of both the turmoil and violence of the Maoist years and the possibility of
revival. As elsewhere in China, the resurgence of public religious life and reli-
gious institutions began with the restoration of the policy of freedom of reli-
gious belief following the Third Plenum of the 11th Central Committee of the
Chinese Communist Party (CCP) in 1978, which led to a relaxation of party
policy on religion. The official summary of CCP religious policy was set out in
“Document 19” (issued in March 1982) and enshrined in the revised Consti-
tution of the People’s Republic of China, adopted in December 1982.8 Since
1991 there has been a general movement in China’s religious policy toward
increased control of religion through law and bureaucratic regulation, most
recently with the introduction of the national Regulations on Religious Affairs
(RRA), which came into effect in 2005 and were revised in 2018.9 These policy
shifts and their impact on religious practice have been documented and ana-
lyzed elsewhere (Potter 2003; Kindopp and Hamrin 2004; Chan and Carlson
2005; Leung 2005; Tian 2006; Ying 2006; Cooke 2009; Dubois 2016).
In Tibetan areas, the relationship between ethnicity and religion
has added a further political dynamic to post-Mao religious revitalization.10
Nationalist claims for greater autonomy or independence have centered on
Tibetan Buddhist symbols. Monastics—in particular Geluk monks and nuns—
have been prominent figures in overt challenges to Chinese rule (Barnett and
Akiner 1994; Schwartz 1994; Havnevik 1994; Goldstein 1998, 39–52; Schnei-
der 2013, 83–89). Major eruptions of tensions between state and society in
contemporary Tibetan history have been at least partly tied to religious issues
and have led to increased state control over religion and monasteries. This
includes the Lhasa demonstrations of the late 1980s, the dispute over the
recognition of the Eleventh Panchen Lama in the 1990s, and protest activi-
ties that spread throughout Tibetan areas following the March 2008 demon-
strations in Lhasa.11 Much of the scholarship that touches on the revival of
Tibetan monasticism (and religion in general) is framed within an account
of this shifting public space and emphasizes restrictions on and repression
of Tibetan Buddhism (Barnett and Akiner 1994; Schwartz 1994; Slobod-
Introduction 5
nik 2004; Cabezón 2008; Diemberger 2010). This has also been the focus
of Western media coverage and reports by nongovernmental organizations
(e.g., TIN and HRW 1996; TIN 1999a, 1999b; ICT 2004). It seems fair to say
that repression of religious freedom has been, outside China, the most widely
commented on aspect of the Tibetan Buddhist revival.12 Methods employed by
the state to increase control over monasteries and monks have in turn exac-
erbated tensions, fomented further resistance, and deepened the association
between religion and Tibetan identity.13 Scholars have therefore interpreted
the Buddhist revival from a cultural perspective as oppositional, at least to
some degree. They have highlighted “everyday forms of resistance” (Scott
1985), as well as overt political activism, showing how Tibetans have drawn
on religious traditions, values, and practices to counter the hegemony of the
Chinese state in their daily lives (e.g., Karmay 1994; Epstein and Peng 1998;
Schrempf 2000; Diemberger 2005).
Much of the discussion of Tibetan Buddhism in contemporary China
therefore revolves around an axis of domination and resistance. A more
nuanced perspective on the complexities and ambiguities of the state-society
relationship has been developed in work by Barnett (2006), Makley (2007),
and Diemberger (2007a, 2008, 2010), who present the revival as a process of
negotiation.14 Members of the religious elite have not only found creative ways
to revitalize traditions within policy constraints and to further the interests of
their monasteries and communities. They have also participated in the ongo-
ing construction of religious space.15 However, Tibetans have needed to play
a delicate balancing act between “Chinese authority and Tibetan tradition”
(Germano 1998, 93). They have also had to “steer a delicate course” between
the very different visions of religion and culture emphasized by the Chinese
authorities and the Tibetan government-in-exile (Kapstein 1998a, 145; see also
Kolås and Thowsen 2005). In one of the few ethnographic studies of Geluk
monastic revival, which focuses on the revitalization of Drepung Monastery
in Lhasa, Goldstein (1998) emphasizes the centrality of the “Tibet question,”
characterizing monks as being caught between political and religious loyalties.
When he conducted his research in the first half of the 1990s, he saw this as the
main dilemma facing monastic leaders, who found “themselves embroiled in
constant political tension and conflict they cannot control” (ibid., 47).
In short, accounts dealing with the Tibetan Buddhist monastic
revival have largely been framed within the shifting public space for religion.
They either have been directly concerned with state-society relations and
the negotiation of religious space by elites or have emphasized the political
dimensions of monastic revival.16 In work that has highlighted the delicate
balancing act performed by Tibetans in reviving their traditions, the state
is always on one side of the scale. Such focus on the political is not surpris-
ing in light of recent history and indeed reflects some of the conditions that
6 Introduction
This leads them to a conclusion that implies that Tibetans are reactive and in
general without agency:
ever, the reality was far more complex. The moral value that monks accorded
to particular paths was not simply drawn against a set of established norms
and values, whether those of the state-imposed spatial order or the competing
order of Geluk monasticism. As Zigon (2008, 8) puts it, morality is “a realm
not of rule following, but of lived experiences that feed back into one another
in a continuing process of re-evaluation and enactment.” Indeed, my interloc-
utors’ conceptions of the good were related to their experiences of the world,
including the judgments and evaluations of others, and to the way in which
they mediated and interpreted these experiences as social and moral subjects.
Moreover, they were not operating within a closed system of meaning (see
also Lamont 1992, 182–183) or in relation to just one clearly defined moral
community. They were relating to multiple moral communities imagined at
different levels (local, translocal, national, universal). What they felt to be
“good” in one context or relationship was not necessarily “good” in another.
Attempts to do what seemed to be “right” could open up new moral dilem-
mas. Not only do such contradictions thicken our understanding, showing the
complexities, ambiguities, and ambivalences of local moral worlds, but they
can also, as Barker (2007, 1) argues, make visible central moral assumptions.
The geographical focus of this book is the northeastern edge of the Tibetan
Plateau, an ethnically diverse Tibetan-Sino-Mongolian borderland, which
also has many different Muslim populations. It is primarily concerned with
Geluk monastic revival and development in Repgong [reb gong] and western
Bayen [ba yan], both located in the eastern part of the Tibetan cultural region
known as Amdo and under the jurisdiction of China’s Qinghai Province.
After the CCP established control over the Repgong area in 1949, it
was incorporated into the newly established Malho [rma lho] (Ch. Huangnan)
Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture (TAP) in 1953 and divided into two coun-
ties: Repgong (Ch. Tongren), the principal focus of this study, and Tsekhok
[rtse khog] (Ch. Zeku). An area with both fertile valleys and high pastures,
Repgong is occupied by both farming and pastoralist communities, although
state-led development has brought about rapid urbanization of some villages
(see, e.g., Makley 2013) and the resettlement of pastoralists in peri-urban
housing estates. Historically famous as a center of religious and cultural pro-
duction, Repgong was home to many important figures in Tibetan history and
renowned for its religious arts and crafts. Its main Geluk seat, Rongwo [rong
bo], was one of the largest monasteries in Amdo, its head lama exercising joint
religious and political authority over the Repgong area (including present-day
Tsekhok), where thirty-six of Rongwo’s affiliated monasteries were also locat-
ed.24 However, there were well-established Nyingma and Bön traditions in the
10 Introduction
area, as well as the emergence of village ritual traditions, notably the annual
luröl [klu rol ] harvest festival, peculiar to the dynamics of mountain deity
cults in this area (and now a major tourist attraction). The revitalization of
Geluk monasticism is thus only part of the story of the revitalization of a rich
and diverse array of religious institutions and practices in this area.25
To the north of Repgong lies the Chentsa [gcan tsha] region, which
was divided into two parts by the Yellow River, commonly known in Tibetan
oral and documented histories as “the shady and sunny sides” (Tuttle and Tse-
huajia 2010). Under the CCP, the “shady side” became Chentsha (Ch. Jianzha)
County, part of Malho TAP. The “sunny side” was incorporated into Haidong
Prefecture to form the western part of Bayen (Ch. Hualong) Hui Autonomous
County, my other main field area. Far more densely populated than Malho
(where roughly two-thirds of the population are Tibetans), Haidong Prefec-
ture has nearly as many Tibetan inhabitants, but they constitute less than 10
percent of the population, which is predominantly Han Chinese and Hui Mus-
lim. Western Bayen, a mountainous region bounded to the south by the Yellow
River and to the north by the Tsongkha mountain range, is most famous for
Jakhyung,26 the monastery at which Tsongkhapa (considered the father of the
Geluk tradition) trained before travelling to Lhasa for further studies.
The ethnographic research for this study was conducted over two
years, during a seven-year period, including a year in Amdo (2008–2009)
and a series of regular visits (some extended) between 2012 and 2015. One of
my aims was to understand more about the vast network of Geluk institutions.
Previous emphasis on state-monastery interactions has perhaps partly been
due to the focus on major Geluk centers in the two available ethnographic
studies of revival: Drepung in Lhasa (Goldstein 1998) and Labrang in Amdo
(Makley 2007).27 Two of the “big six” Geluk centers (the others being Ganden,
Sera, Trashi Lhünpo, and Kumbum),28 both have received a high degree of
state attention: in Labrang’s case as a model of ideal statist religion and eth-
nic tourism (ibid., 20); and in Drepung’s, as a center of political protest, its
monks leading the 1980s demonstrations in Lhasa.29 Arjia Rinpoché (2010)
gives a personal account of the revival of Kumbum in Amdo, but again Kum-
bum is one of the big six and a national “model monastery.”
By contrast, this book is about less famous scholastic monasteries,
which (like the big six) emphasize training in philosophy and dialectics, and
smaller branch monasteries and practice centers that focus on ritual and con-
stitute the majority of Tibetan monasteries. It deals only with male monas-
ticism. In part, this choice reflects the demographics of Geluk monasticism
in Amdo, which historically had few nunneries in comparison with those in
Kham and Central Tibet (for statistics, see Schneider 2013, 51). There are no
Geluk nunneries in Repgong and western Bayen, although I did come across
a community of just two Geluk nuns in Repgong, and Härkönen (2017) men-
Introduction 11
tions two such communities.30 An interview with the two nuns in 2009 gave
me some insight into how very different the dynamics of these small and
precarious communities of female monastics are from those of the institu-
tionalized Geluk monasteries of the area. The research that would have been
required to make any sensible kind of comparison was beyond the scope of
the present study.31 Instead, this book makes a more modest attempt to com-
pare dynamics of revival and reform across different Geluk monasteries, pri-
marily based on data collected on sixteen institutions. There is considerable
diversity among these institutions in terms of their size; curriculum; political,
social, and historical context; and geographical setting. In addition to pro-
viding a broader view of monastic development across different monasteries
in specific localities (Repgong in particular), this multisite approach allowed
me to explore the relationships of monasteries to each other and the ways
in which monks framed their decisions, actions, and identities in relation to
other institutions. It was also in part a strategic choice: in the political envi-
ronment within which I was working, I judged it to be either impossible or
risky (to both my interlocutors and myself) to spend an extended period at
a single monastery. In an attempt to balance breadth with a degree of depth,
I focused more attention on certain sites, including two scholastic centers, a
village monastery, and a more remote practice center. The multisite approach
means that I can be specific about some details (e.g., economic reforms and
numbers at particular monasteries) but more general when information or
opinions cited might be more sensitive (using references, e.g., to “a scholastic
center” or “a practice center” rather than naming a specific institution).
The monasteries in Repgong County include Rongwo Monastery,
which is Repgong’s regional scholastic center, as well as eleven of its affili-
ate monasteries located throughout the county in different geographical and
social settings. Rongwo Monastery sits roughly 2,600 meters above sea level
in the relatively low-lying Nine River [dgu chu] valley. Housing 2,300 monks
at its peak, it was one of Amdo’s major Geluk monasteries. Viewed from the
opposite hillside, it retains an impressive presence (figure 1), despite having
been swallowed up, along with its surrounding villages, by the urban expan-
sion radiating out from the prefectural capital to the north. Many of Rong-
wo’s affiliate monasteries are to be found down in Nine River valley, which
runs north to south through the county. These include, to the north, the
“art monasteries” of Nyentok, Gomar, Kasar, and Upper and Lower Senggé
Shong,32 each lying adjacent to its main supporting village from which its
monks are recruited.33 These monasteries are historically famous for domi-
nating the cultural production of religious art in Amdo (see Stevenson 2002),
and today both monks and villagers benefit from the contemporary market
for “Repgong arts” in China. Near the prefectural capital, these are urbaniz-
ing communities, the closest, Nyentok village, having sold most of its fields.
12 Introduction
Monasteries down in the valley also include those that are less famous, such
as Dechen, Dzongngön, and Dzongkar, strung along the western side of the
valley in Tsenmo [btsan mo] (Ch. Zhamao) Township, about twenty-five kilo-
meters south of Rongwo.34 Unlike the art monasteries, these practice centers
are set apart from lay settlements, but they are relatively accessible, perched
above the main road to Tsekhok County not far to the south. Some of Rong-
wo’s affiliates are more remote, even today. These include Trashi Khyil, which
sits atop a wooded hillside twenty-five kilometers north of Rongwo in Hornak
[hor nag] (Ch. Huangnaihai) Township (not to be confused with the famous
Nyingma hermitage of Yama Trashi Khyil [g.ya’ ma bkra shis ‘khyil], also
located in Repgong); and Yershong, nestled high in the mountain forests of
Lönchö [blon chos] (Ch. Lancai) Township, thirty kilometers west of Rongwo
and approached via winding mountain roads.35 Finally, Rongwo also has affil-
iate monasteries in the high pastures that form the eastern and southern half
of the county, sparsely populated by herding communities. These include the
monastery of Dowa Drok, ninety-seven kilometers southeast of Rongwo.36
Unlike the other affiliates of Rongwo mentioned here, which were founded or
reconstituted as Geluk monasteries in the seventeenth century (or, in the case
of Nyentok and Kasar, the eighteenth), Dowa Drok was founded in 1956. It is
situated at the top end of the one-street (in 2009) urban center of the county’s
southernmost township of Dowa [mdo ba] (Ch. Duowa).
Repgong’s higher pastures are also home to Gartsé Monastery,37
an independent center of dialectical training that follows the traditions and
curriculum of Labrang Monastery. Reconstituted as Geluk in the eighteenth
century, it sits at the top of Gartsé [mgar rtse] (C. Guashezi) Township, the
area’s main urban center through which travelers pass if they take the high-
land route from Rongwo toward Labrang in Gansu.
sits atop a grassy mountain high above the valley in which the urban cen-
ter of Shongzhen [shong zhan] (Ch. Xiongxian) Tibetan Township is located.
The road to the monastery, which winds through the mountains, has been
improved since my first visits in 2008–2009, but it remains relatively remote
from urban life and modest in scale. It does, however, have a “hi-tech” assem-
bly hall, with a sound system and electric mats (working on the same principle
as electric blankets), as well as internal glass panels to keep out the cold.
In addition to these sixteen monasteries, I also examine another
monastery, Kumbum, in a rather different way. One of the big six Geluk cen-
ters, Kumbum is located close to the provincial capital, Xining, and I made
regular visits to it and interviewed some of its monks. However, my main
interest in Kumbum was the way in which it was represented in official state
and Tibetan popular discourse, serving as both a national model and a symbol
of monastic moral decline. Over the years, I have visited several other Geluk
monasteries in Repgong and travelled to others in Xining Municipality, Hai
dong Prefecture, and Golok [mgo log] (Ch. Guluo) and Tsolho [mtsho lho]
(Ch. Hainan) Tibetan Autonomous Prefectures in Qinghai, as well as Labrang
in Gansu and Riwo Tsenga [ri bo rtse lgna] (Ch. Wutai Shan) in Taiyuan (near
Beijing). This experience has allowed me, to a limited extent, to situate my
research in a broader context.
The book draws on formal interviews with eighty-two monastics
(some of whom I have talked to many times over the past seven years) and
fifty-five laypeople (some of whom used to be monks), as well as informal
conversations with other monastics, nonmonastic religious specialists, farm-
ers, herders, artisans, businesspeople, students, teachers, and government
officials. My monastic interlocutors included members of monastery manage-
ment committees, monks who had served in monastic offices (such as stew-
ards), and those who had worked in monastic businesses, as well as elders,
doctors, scholars/teachers, junior novices, and two reincarnate lamas. The
research has also been informed by observation of monastic life and prac-
tice (within monasteries, villages, and urban settings); time spent with friends
and their relatives and with monks, lamas, and their patrons; and the many
fleeting, chance encounters and occurrences that are part of everyday life.
Since Geluk monasticism is largely a male preserve in eastern Amdo, all but
two of my monastic interlocutors were male. Some of the social categories to
which my lay interlocutors belonged, notably business and religion, are also
dominated by men. More generally, the knowledge and opinions of women
can be harder to access in more formal research contexts (particularly among
farmers and herders; less so among officials and university students). I there-
fore took advantage of more informal settings to elicit their stories and views,
building relationships and trust over time. I also have drawn selectively on
various Chinese and Tibetan textual sources, including legislation and policy
Introduction 15
Chapter 1 sets the scene for the rest of the book, examining the first flush of
monastic revival and reconstruction in the early 1980s. After briefly discuss-
ing the “mass” form of monasticism that emerged in Tibet with the rise of the
Geluk tradition, I go on to give an account of its revival in northeastern Tibet,
focusing on themes and significant events running through written and oral
recollections of those involved. In contrast to previous accounts of religious
resurgence structured around the actions of the Chinese state and shifting
political climate, these narratives tell a story of gradual social and moral reor-
dering in which both monastics and laity participated. They also illuminate
the extent to which the revival was dependent on the resurgence of historical
relationships between specific communities, monasteries, and lamas. These
relationships became more firmly reinstitutionalized as the rapidly expanding
monasteries reestablished monastic offices for alms collection. Starting with
a discussion of moral responses to this economic practice in chapter 2, the
book goes on to show how the ethics of these relationships reestablished in
the 1980s have been at the heart of moral imperatives and dilemmas shaping
subsequent monastic development.
Chapter 2 analyzes reforms to collective monastic financing since
the 1980s, questioning the extent to which monastic development has been
defined by state-monastic interactions. It documents a general shift away from
institutionalized alms collection toward the development of self-supporting
activities. These reforms appear to have brought monastic economies into
line with Chinese state policy. However, this chapter shows that there were
pressures coming from within. Practical considerations played a part. Monas-
tic leaders also drew on historical and textual precedent. However, there were
also moral imperatives. Although those imperatives were often expressed in
terms that echoed official discourse, I show that monks were not simply mak-
ing a virtue out of the necessity of adapting to state policy. Rather, the eth-
ics of economic reforms have been shaped in relation to the deterritorialized
authorities of Tibetan monasticism (notably, examples from monasteries in
India); perceptions of monastic moral decline; and, finally, imaginings of a
shared Tibetan collectivity and the responsibility of monastics in shaping its
future.
Chapter 3 turns to a discussion of tourism and heritage funding, a
major arena of state-monastic interaction within which state-society power
Introduction 17
and dilemmas about various (interrelated) aspects of monastic life and ideas
about the relationship between economy, education, and conduct. This explo-
ration reveals not only tensions between mundane concerns and religious
ideals but also their interrelatedness, despite the tendency in the Buddhist
studies literature to dichotomize them.
Chapter 6 broadens the discussion still further, revisiting some basic
assumptions and values central to the particular, mass form of monasticism
revived in the 1980s: that monastic vows should be taken for life; that boys
should enter monasteries at a young age; and, more generally, that “mass
monasticism” is a good thing. It explores the extent to which these ideas have
been challenged in light of the wider political, economic, social, and moral
dynamics explored thus far in the book. While the available literature has
emphasized the precarious position of Tibetan Buddhist monasticism vis-à-
vis the state, the discussion here highlights the uncertainty of its position in
relation to a fast-changing society.
Chapter 7 draws together the various strands of the research. Revis-
iting the encounter with Jamyang that opened this book, it elaborates on the
notion of moral boundary negotiation as a way of conceptualizing the moral
dimension of monastic revival and development. Drawing on examples
from the issues, debates, and reforms discussed in the book, it then exam-
ines the limitations of the state-society framework, moving beyond the idea
of “accommodation” and questioning the terms of “resistance” to show that
practices can be shaped by relationships, priorities, and values that have very
little to do with the state. Finally, it revisits some of the monastic reforms doc-
umented in this study to show how morality can be a dynamic force that not
only constrains but also creates space for change—even if, in this case, such
change is ultimately oriented toward the reproduction of the social and moral
order underpinning monastic Buddhism.
Finally, the coda offers a brief reprisal of the various arguments
expounded in the book and considers issues likely to influence Tibetan
monastic development in the years to come.
1
Monastic Revival
19
20 Chapter 1
end of April 1958, revolts against land reforms in eastern Tibet (Kham) had
spilled over into widespread rebellion in much of eastern Amdo, including
the Repgong area (Weiner 2012, 400). The CCP’s prefectural committee held
the Seventh Shartsang and other key figures in the United Front responsible;
Rongwo Monastery was declared the rebellion’s “command center,” and other
monasteries its outposts (ibid., 401). The CCP’s response was to “strike and
reform,” pacifying the rebellion through military force and mass arrests and
fully implementing “democratic reforms” and socialist transformation. This
entailed rapid collectivization of agricultural and pastoral areas, which would
lead to what Lhündrup described as “four years of very great starvation,”
during which more than a third of his fellow villagers died. It also involved an
enforced reordering of Tibetan society and radical displacement of monastic
authority. Many reincarnate lamas and monks were arrested and sent to labor
camps; the others (like Lhündrup) were forced to disrobe and return to their
villages. Local populations were “mobilized” to desecrate and destroy their
monasteries and the sacred objects they contained and to carry out violent,
sometimes deathly, class struggle sessions, which included attacks against
reincarnate lamas.2 Some men who had maintained their vows returned to
some monasteries during the brief period of relative liberalization between
1962 and 1966 but remained under considerable political constraints. Lhün-
drup recalled that, at his monastery, monks could practice in their quarters
from 1963 but could not gather for assemblies. Some monks went to Rong-
wo.3 From 1966 the Cultural Revolution brought a further wave of violent
upheaval, and monasteries were once again disbanded, their buildings either
destroyed or turned over to use as storehouses, government offices, schools,
or housing for Chinese officials and workers. Private religious practice was
also prohibited.
In many respects, the Geluk monastic revival (as told to me) was a
story of the righting of sky and earth, and subsequent efforts to keep them
in their proper places amid the rapid changes of the 1990s and 2000s. As
elsewhere in China, these changes have included processes of economic mar-
ketization, urbanization, demographic transition, and technological advance-
ment, as well as the more widely reported periodic crackdowns on Tibetan
monasteries and, since 2008, intensified militarization of the Tibetan Pla-
teau. Sometimes referred to as the “redissemination” (yangdar [yang dar])
of Buddhism (e.g., Pelzang 2007; Diemberger 2010, 115),4 the post-Mao
revival has become a third episode in Tibetan understandings of the spread of
Buddhism in Tibet, commonly periodized as the “early dissemination” (nga-
dar [snga dar]) in the seventh century and the “later dissemination” (chidar
[phyi dar]) in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, after Buddhism’s persecu-
tion under Lang Darma [glang dar ma] in the ninth century.5 The positioning
of the Maoist period as one of the two major ruptures in the history of Bud-
Monastic Revival 21
dhism in Tibet conveys the extent of the dislocation experienced at that time.
Although scholars debate whether the ninth-century persecution actually
occurred, it has become “a crucial event for Tibetan historical consciousness”
(Kapstein 2006, 80), with Lang Darma coming to represent an archetypi-
cal embodiment of evil.6 One of the ways in which Tibetans interpreted the
destruction of monasteries in the late 1950s and 1960s was to identify Mao
Zedong as an incarnation or manifestation of Lang Darma (Mumford 1989,
140; McGranahan 2012, 233).7
The first flush of monastic revival in the early 1980s occurred within
the same general policy contexts as elsewhere in China, starting with the CCP’s
restoration of the policy of freedom of religious belief in December 1978. How-
ever, that revival was not only contingent on the reopening of a public space
for monasticism but also involved a process of social reordering that restored
members of the monastic moral community (reincarnate lamas, monks, and
laity) to their proper physical, social, and symbolic places—albeit in radically
altered political and socioeconomic circumstances. It also depended on the
resurgence of historical relationships between particular reincarnate lamas,
monasteries, and communities. These factors are critical in explaining the
extent of the Geluk revival, which involved an attempt to restore monasti-
cism on a mass scale (in terms of numbers of both monasteries and monks),
reflecting the particular form of monasticism that had emerged in Tibet with
the ascendency of the Geluk tradition. This chapter briefly considers the
emergence of “mass monasticism” and its ideological underpinnings, before
examining the dynamics of its revival in the early 1980s.
Mass Monasticism
1958 levels, a significant proportion of the male population was once again
engaged in monastic life.25 In Repgong, for example, the Tongren County
government reported 1,819 monks in the county in 1999 (Kolås and Thowsen
2005, 207). If this figure is compared with the 2000 census data (Qinghai
Population Census Office 2003, 82–85, 102–105), it would appear that over 5
five percent of the population of Tibetan males in the county were monks by
the end of the 1990s.26 Of these an estimated 90 percent or more were Geluk
monks.27 As had been the case in the “old society,” monkhood was again a
fairly ordinary pathway for many boys and young men, not an extraordinary
vocation pursued by a few select individuals.28
Makley (2007, 252) refers to a “more is better ethic” in the repopu-
lation of monasteries in the early 1980s, attributing this to the “acute sense
of urgency after the desecrations of the Maoist years” (see also Goldstein
1994). Other scholars have pointed to a new sense of Tibetan identity to
explain the extent of monastic reconstruction: a “religio-nationalistic belief
that Tibetan religion . . . should be revived to its former greatness” (Goldstein
1998, 29), with monasteries coming to signify Tibetan nationhood and sur-
vival (Schwartz 1994; Kolås and Thowsen 2005, 92). However, explanations
for the resurgence of mass monasticism are also to be found in threads of con-
tinuity in both individual lives and collective affiliations, despite the rupture
of the Maoist years.
When the army arrived at his monastery in 1958, Lhündrup managed to sneak
into one of the temples, taking a prayer wheel from a box containing some of
the monastery’s “treasures.” He took it to his house when he was sent back to
his village and secretly cared for it for the next twenty years. In autumn 1979
the provincial government announced that freedom of religious belief had
been restored (Pelzang 2007, 24). A year later the Tenth Panchen Lama vis-
ited Lhündrup’s village during his autumn 1980 tour of Repgong and declared
the “great Dharma door” of its monastery to be permanently reopened.29 This
generated in Lhündrup a great feeling to return the prayer wheel. However,
he was suspicious of the state’s motives, fearing that the new policy might
just be a trick. Worried that if he gave the prayer wheel back it would be dam-
aged or destroyed, he continued to hide it until, a few years later, one of Rep-
gong’s high reincarnate lamas asked the villagers to return any sacred objects
they had hidden. By that point, his monastery had reopened and monks had
started to practice publicly.
The “(re)opening of the Dharma door(s)” (chökyi gomo ché/chögo
chirché [chos kyi sgo mo phye/chos sgo phyir phye]) is a common turn of
phrase in Amdo to denote the revival of monastic Buddhism in the early
26 Chapter 1
there were seventeen or eighteen monks who had remained “monks” in their
village throughout the Maoist period. Although unable to wear the monastic
robe, Yeshé had even been able to live on the monastery site in a quarter that
had not been destroyed. He joked about it: “[Because] I was called ‘working
class’ by Chairman Mao, my house was not destroyed. Chairman Mao indeed
gave special treatment to the working class!” (Caple 2013, 28–29).32 At least
some of these monks also continued to pass on their knowledge and practices
to a younger generation. Some of the first new recruits to enter monastic life
in the early 1980s had (like Jamyang, whom we met in the first pages of this
book) secretly lived and/or studied with these older monks during their child-
hoods in the 1970s. These boys were socialized into “monastic life” from a
young age and encouraged to look forward to a time when the Dharma doors
would reopen, even though they had no direct experience of what “a monas-
tery” was.33
For both the elders and the boys who had lived and studied with
them in the 1970s, the revival represented a shift from private to public prac-
tice, symbolized by their donning of the monastic robes. The red monastic
robe is the most important marker of distinction between lay and monastic
status for most Tibetans, rather than that between novices and those who
have taken the full monastic vows (see also Makley 2005a, 272). The reemer-
gence of the public performance of monkhood through the wearing of these
robes was an important element in the reordering of Tibetan social worlds in
the early 1980s. It represented the symbolic re-separation of lay and monastic
communities (Caple 2013, 32–34). It was also a sign that times really were
changing: Lhündrup remembered that it was when villagers started to see
monks openly practicing that they started to believe that they were not just
being tricked. However, at several monasteries, I was told that new recruits
continued to wear lay clothes for the first few years ( ibid., 33–34). Püntsok,
one of the first young men to join Lhündrup’s monastery in the early 1980s,
said that this was because minors were not officially allowed to join assembly
gatherings at that time.34
The return of elders ( genpa [rgan pa]) like Yeshé to take care of
the ruins of their monastic sites was another significant marker of the begin-
nings of revival at Rongwo’s affiliate monasteries.35 However, they initially
gathered at Rongwo for assemblies. Nyima, a lay elder from Lhündrup’s vil-
lage, recalled that at the time of the Panchen Lama’s visit in autumn 1980,
the local monastery was still used for grain storage, and laypeople were liv-
ing on the site. Gradually, however, it and Rongwo’s other affiliate monas-
teries reopened, collective activities resumed, and a new generation of boys
and young men became monks. Püntsok was at school when, at age fourteen
or fifteen, he decided to enter Lhündrup’s monastery, under the influence
of a monastic relative. He took his vow of renunciation in front of Rongwo’s
28 Chapter 1
regent, the Sixth Dzongchung [rdzong chung] (1923–1988) not long after an
“auspicious” restoration and purification of the vows ceremony (sojong [gso
sbyong]) was held by one of his monastery’s senior lamas in 1981. This cere-
mony, one of the most important rituals of monastic discipline and essential
to monastic practice, marked the resumption of monastic life.36 The previous
year, on 26 February 1980, such a ceremony had reopened the Dharma doors
at Rongwo (Pelzang 2007, 24). Monasteries were officially required to obtain
permission from the government to reopen, but collective activities often
resumed prior to or even without this permission (see also Shakya 1999, 419;
Kolås and Thowsen 2005, 82; Arjia Rinpoché 2010, 126).
Even as monks began to practice publicly and recommence assembly
gatherings, and monastic populations started to grow, at some monasteries it
was a long time before monks lived as a separate community and the spatial
boundaries between monastery and village/town were reestablished (Caple
2013, 34). The gradual process through which monastic space was reclaimed
and its boundaries reinscribed was particularly vivid in accounts of Rongwo’s
revival. Although the Dharma doors were reopened in 1980, the few buildings
that had not been destroyed were being used as storehouses, the offices of state
agencies, workshops, schools, and homes for Chinese families (ibid.). Some
of these families continued to live on the site for many years. One of Rong-
wo’s senior scholars and teachers remarked that when he entered in 1984, “it
did not seem like a monastery, but like a village” (ibid., 35). It was a decade
before the government redistributed most of the original site to the monastery
and as many as fifteen years before the last of the Chinese families living there
finally left (ibid., 34–35). Thus, it was only from the mid-1990s that the physi-
cal re-separation of monastic and lay communities was finally complete. Even
then, the process of reclamation of monastic space continued—and remains
ongoing. In summer 2015, senior monastics were hopeful that land occupied
by a Tibetan middle school would soon be returned to the monastery. A new
school was being constructed on the land of nearby Gomar village to house the
students. However, it seems that the monastery’s claims to the land were not
recognized when the school was closed in 2016. As of March 2017, the monks
were continuing to appeal to the government (RFA 2017).
It also took time and considerable effort to restore the physical fabric
of monasteries. Ditsa Monastery received official approval to reopen in early
1981. However, the first significant event in stories of its revival occurred more
than a year before this, when ten monks gathered in one of only three remain-
ing quarters in December 1979 for Tsongkhapa’s Death Day Offering.37 Other
than these quarters and the residence of the head lama (the Zhamar reincar-
nation lineage), only one other monastic building remained on the site at that
time (another lama’s residence). The rest had been turned over to fields and
threshing grounds used by Chinese families. The Second Month Offering the
Monastic Revival 29
following year was the next important event, marking the resumption of col-
lective monastic life. By this time there were fifty to sixty monks (I counted
fifty-two in a photograph taken at the time), including both elders and some
new recruits. However, the monastery still had no assembly hall, and the
monks collected in the Zhamar’s residence for this and other gatherings. The
monastery’s land was gradually handed back through government land redis-
tribution, and the physical fabric of the monastery was slowly restored. As at
other monasteries, the emphasis was initially on reconstructing the assembly
hall (completed in 1984) and the monks’ quarters. It was “with patience,” one
of Ditsa’s monks told me, that “the monastery was restored.”
Although the state is ever present in accounts of destruction, it is
largely absent in narratives of revival. Monks rarely mentioned negotiations
with local officials over permits and permission to reestablish their monas-
teries unless I specifically asked about this. Most of my interlocutors who
had participated as monks in the early 1980s revival were new recruits at
that time. The lack of emphasis they place on dealings with the state might
therefore simply reflect their lack of involvement in such negotiations. Never-
theless, I would argue that their narratives give us valuable insight into emic
perspectives on what it meant for monastic Buddhism to be “revived.” This
was not achieved through shifts in policy (even if such shifts made the revival
possible) or negotiation of official permissions. Rather, it was dependent on
the resurgence of Geluk authority and the return of the elders; the reclama-
tion, reconsecration, and reconstruction of monastic space, which enabled the
reinscription of social and physical boundaries between monastics and laity (a
relatively long process); and the symbolic separation of the two communities,
not only through monks’ restoration of their vows, but also through their pub-
lic performance of monkhood as they donned the monastic robes.
The stories of revival I was told were not just about lamas and monks. The
laity—which is often represented in relation to monastics as the “faithful
public” (deden gyi mangtsok [dad ldan gyi mang tshogs])—was central to
monastic revitalization and its subsequent development. The moral-economic
framework underpinning monastic Buddhism is rooted in a mutual obligation
between the laity as patrons and monastics as a field of merit and power. As
Mills (2003, 54–61) has argued, the popular view of the Buddhist monk as an
ascetic individual who renounces the world (i.e., society) elides the social rela-
tionships foundational to monasticism, which relies for its reproduction on
the sexual and economic reproduction of the laity (the household processes
renounced by monastics). Monks, for their part, have a duty to give laypeople
opportunities to gain merit (Dreyfus 2003, 36) by being worthy recipients of
30 Chapter 1
their gifts, giving teachings, and performing rituals for the dead and for merit
accumulation. In the Tibetan context, they also play an important role in pro-
viding ritual services oriented toward this-worldly concerns, such as health
and wealth, both collectively in assembly gatherings and individually within
the community.
Emic accounts of monastic revival in Repgong and western Bayen
emphasize, not only the agency of reincarnate lamas and senior monastics,
but also the active participation and support of the lay community in rebuild-
ing and repopulating their monasteries.38 Lamas (including both reincarnate
lamas and highly respected teachers who had survived the Maoist years) were
instrumental in the revival of monasticism in several respects. They provided
the unbroken transmission of teachings and practices that is the basis of
authority in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition. This was essential to the recon-
secration of monasteries as sacred spaces, the restoration of monks’ vows,
the ordination of new monks like Püntsok, and the reestablishment of ritual
practices and scholastic education.39 As in the past, reincarnate lamas took
on a combined religious and secular role, actively recruiting new monks and
taking responsibility for the material support of their monasteries, as well
as Buddhist practice. Previous research has touched on the political influ-
ence that some reincarnate lamas exercised in support of religious revival
under the renewed United Front policy (Diemberger 2007b; Arjia Rinpoché
2010; see also Slobodnik 2004, 10–11), as well as the material support pro-
vided by key figures such as the Tenth Panchen Lama, the Seventh Gungtang
[gung thang] Rinpoché (a senior lama at Labrang), and lamas in exile (Slo-
bodnik 2004, 11; Kapstein 2004, 240; Makley 2007, 262–264). On a local
level, lamas were also active in providing the material necessities for rebuild-
ing and resumption of ritual activities, through which monks received some
livelihood support. For example, the Sixth Dzongchung, enthroned as Rong-
wo’s regent, looked after Rongwo and at least some of its branch monaster-
ies, funding monastic assemblies and providing modest stipends for monks.
Others had married and were unable to resume their full positions within the
monastic hierarchy, but nevertheless actively supported monastic reconstruc-
tion. The Tenth Panchen Lama, who had married and had a family following
his release from prison in 1977, is a well-known example. However, there are
many others, such as Alak Trigen [khri rgan] in Repgong, who returned from
exile in India in 1979 and has sponsored and overseen much of the rebuilding
at Rongwo and Trashi Khyil.
However, much of the wealth that lamas poured into reconstructing
and reviving monasteries in the early reform years originated in the gifts they
received from villagers and herders—in other words it was an indirect form
of support from the lay community. Lay women and men were also directly
involved in the physical reconstruction of their monasteries, providing labor
Monastic Revival 31
and materials (e.g., wood, sand, and stones gathered locally), as well as funds
for rebuilding. Lhündrup and Nyima, now village elders, echoed other remem-
berings of this period as they both recalled how villagers worked hard of
their own volition, motivated by great faith and the aspiration to accumulate
merit. This spontaneous support reflects what is known about the revival of
other monasteries in Amdo. A few sites such as Kumbum, Drepung, and Sera
received significant government funding for reconstruction (IOSC 2005), and
in a few cases benefactors from outside the community provided large dona-
tions to pay for rebuilding (TIN 1996, 1; Kolås and Thowsen 2005, 55). How-
ever, in most cases the Tibetan community provided most of the funding in
the form of unpaid labor, donated materials, and sponsorship of construction
and interior decoration (Kolås and Thowsen 2005, 53–54; see also Slobod-
nik 2004, 10; Makley 2007, 251, 264). They also returned the few remaining
“treasures,” including scriptures, scroll paintings, and statues, which they (like
Lhündrup) had managed to keep hidden during the Maoist years. Monks at
Yershong and Ditsa emphasized their own involvement in construction work,
perhaps because these monasteries are relatively remote from their support-
ing communities: Yershong is nestled high in mountain forests, while Ditsa is
rather unusual in not having a patronage relationship with its adjacent village,
instead relying on more distant communities. The only context in which my
interlocutors acknowledged reliance on state agency was in the redistribution
of land to monasteries. Even then, this was acknowledged only if the land was
being used by state agencies or Chinese families (in other words, “outsiders”).
When Tibetans had been occupying monastic space, they were said to have
given it back of their own accord (Caple 2013, 35–36).
Stories of the Maoist period also emphasize the agency of Tibetans
in protecting and maintaining monastic traditions, structures, and objects. In
Lhündrup’s village, for example, I was told that the quick thinking and skill-
ful actions of a villager had saved one of the monastery’s temples, which the
community had been ordered to destroy. In his accounts of the revival of sev-
eral of Rongwo’s affiliate monasteries, Pelzang (2007) refers to the protection
of monastery buildings by village leaders who made them useful to socialist
construction (see also Caple 2013, 37–41). We have already seen several other
examples, such as Lhündrup’s care for the prayer wheel he rescued from his
monastery when the army arrived, not to mention the monks who had main-
tained their vows and practices and entered into new (secret) teacher-student
relationships.
These stories reflect something of what happened during the Maoist
period, as well as the dynamics of monastic revival in the 1980s. As narrative
framings, they also work to assert the continuity and resurgence of the monas-
tic moral community (restoring the earth and sky, laity, monks and lamas, to
their proper places), despite the social rupture and intracommunity violence
32 Chapter 1
of the Maoist years (Caple 2013). Yet it is also important to think about them
as accounts of the revitalization of particular monasteries in particular places,
by particular communities and individuals. The moral-economic relationship
underpinning monasticism in its mass form in Tibet functions not only at a
general level but also at a local and specific level. This point is critical to any
attempt to explain the extent of Tibetan monastic revival and repopulation in
the 1980s.
Patron Communities
(and listed as one of Rongwo’s branch monasteries in Pelzang 2007, 58), was,
according to its monks, independent of Rongwo, coming under the jurisdic-
tion of Alak Gartsé and the local ruling house, Gartsé Nangso. Although con-
siderably smaller than Rongwo, it had its own branch monasteries and patron
communities.
Under contemporary political and administrative structures, mon-
asteries and reincarnate lamas no longer have (official) political jurisdiction
over (or indeed any official institutionalized affiliation with) the lands and
peoples of their patron communities, although they can still exercise consid-
erable authority.42 Nevertheless, the divine community remains the basic unit
at which community-monastery patronage relationships function in Repgong,
as well as largely determining which monastery a boy or young man will join,
whether he is recruited by a lama, sent by his parents, or himself chooses to
enter monastic life. Püntsok, for example, was born into the principal support-
ing community of Lhündrup’s monastery. He would not have considered enter-
ing another of Rongwo’s branch monasteries, although he might have become
a monk at Rongwo (and perhaps even have gone on to study in Lhasa).43
Historically, Ditsa Monastery (unlike Rongwo) had no political
jurisdiction over particular districts and, according to its monks, no divine
communities. Nevertheless, patronage relationships it did have with certain
communities have resurfaced in the contemporary period. In many ways Ditsa
is an unusual monastery. It was founded in 1903 as a center of both scholastic
and meditative training by the Fourth Zhamar (himself a hermit monk) at the
invitation of the local ruler, the Ditsa Nangso. Despite its relatively short his-
tory, it produced many renowned figures, and monks came to study at Ditsa
from many places in the Tibetan Buddhist world, including Qinghai, Gansu,
Sichuan, and Inner Mongolia. Senior monks explained that it had relied on the
patronage networks of its reincarnate lamas and monks and did not “belong”
to any particular community. One of them, Samten, elaborated: Ditsa had
more than seven hundred monks in 1958, “mainly from Tsongönpo and also
Jamdo, Zhinté, and Bongtak Chandzom,” who “gave teachings in their home
areas and collected alms for the assemblies.”44 The monastery continues to
have strong connections to these areas (and to specific communities within
them). As with the divine communities in Repgong, the ties with these com-
munities are maintained and reproduced through the monastic population
and thus through kinship as well as patronage. For example, several of the
monks I met at Ditsa were from the herding community of Mokru [rmog ru]
in Tsongönpo. The birthplace of one of two “great teachers” to have survived
the Maoist years, Mokru continues to be the regular sponsor of Tsongkhapa’s
Death Day Offering, as it was prior to 1958.
Therefore, the grassroots return to mass monasticism in the 1980s
did not simply reflect a general “more is better” attitude to monastic popu-
34 Chapter 1
the monastery:47 “The number of monks increased, and the nangchen had its
own affairs to attend to. So it was quite difficult. Before, people would bring
offerings for the lama to this nangchen, but afterwards it was very difficult to
bring big offerings all the time.”
To support their increasing numbers, monasteries began to resume
organized alms collections in their patron communities, reestablishing pre-
1958 monastic offices.48 Officials like Trinlé would travel to villages and
herding areas, sometimes for several months each year, charged with the
responsibility of garnering the basic necessities, such as grain, butter, and
meat, to support the monastery’s annual festivals, rituals, and Dharma ses-
sions (debating “semesters” or ritual cycles). In some cases, they would be
responsible for liaising with village authorities, who would then organize the
collection of contributions from individual households to fund specific activ-
ities. In other cases, lamas and monks would give teachings, recitations, and,
if qualified, blessings and empowerments, although their fund-raising activ-
ities as designated monastic officials were distinct from those of lamas and
monks who provided religious services for remuneration in support of their
own livelihoods. At Ditsa the stewards initially acted only as organizers, not
fund-raisers, but from about 1984 they started collecting alms in villages and
herding areas with which they had patronage relations. In Repgong the Sixth
Dzongchung, enthroned as the Shartsang’s regent in February 1980, had been
responsible for looking after the religious and secular affairs of Rongwo Mon-
astery when it reopened. Redistributing gifts he received from the laity, he
had supported its three colleges and aided some of Rongwo’s affiliate mon-
asteries. After he passed away in 1988 (Pelzang 2007, 71), the monastery
decided to reestablish the post of sertri [gser khri]; literally, golden throne),
held by senior reincarnate lamas responsible for raising funds for collective
activities. Prior to 1958 this had been a three-year office, but in the contem-
porary period lamas took on the responsibility for longer periods (perhaps
because there were few senior reincarnate lamas who had survived and main-
tained their vows). The post was held first by the Seventh Khaso (b. 1930)
from 1991 to 1998 and then by the Sixth Rongwo [rong bo] (b. 1942) from
1998 until 2003. They travelled throughout the twelve districts of Repgong
giving teachings and empowerments to laypeople, who offered them gifts of
butter, cheese, barley flour, money, precious metals, and jewelry, which were
used to support monastic assemblies and rituals. Stewards also went out to
raise funds for the monastery’s three colleges. Rongwo’s affiliate monasteries
appointed stewards—like Trinlé—who were responsible for collecting alms for
and organizing monastic activities.49
However, this reinstitutionalization of the economic relationship
between monasteries and their supporting communities was to become both
practically and morally problematic. By the time I first met Trinlé in autumn
Monastic Revival 37
2008, he told me that the system had changed over the past few years. The
steward no longer went out to collect alms. Instead, the monastic leadership
had collected together a capital fund, which they invested in interest-bearing
loans. They had also opened some small businesses. These economic reforms
were illustrative of a more general shift in monastic economies, which is
examined in the next chapter.
Monastic Reform
38
Monastic Reform 39
Although not always framed in such explicitly Buddhist rhetoric, these and
similar reforms elsewhere were to become very familiar to me, as would the
moral discourse that accompanied them. This moral discourse centered on
the idea that alms collection was a burden for the public.
Lay-monastic patronage remains a vital part of monastic support—
and increasing wealth has been flowing to monks and monasteries from the
laity in recent years. By 2009, however, monks at most monasteries claimed
that they had stopped going out to collect contributions toward monastic activ-
ities from their patron communities. Instead, with the aim of becoming more
“self-sufficient” (rangkha rangso [rang kha rang gso]), they had established
capital funds from donations made by lamas, monks, and laypeople. These
funds had been invested in profit-making enterprises, such as moneylending,
wholesale shops, medical clinics, and the manufacture of religious products.
During the early reform years, commercial ventures had been developed at
some of the major Geluk centers and Chinese Buddhist monasteries, becom-
ing an important element in their monastic economies (Goldstein 1998; Yin
2006; Makley 2007). However, my research indicates that this may have been
the exception rather than the rule among Geluk monasteries. Some monas-
teries in eastern Amdo did start small businesses in the late 1980s and early
1990s, but these appear to have operated as self-sustaining services rather
than profit-making enterprises or were insignificant elements in local monas-
tic economies. Land (farmland, forest, grassland) was redistributed to some
monasteries, but they remained largely dependent on contributions collected
from their patron communities or on support from their head lamas. Since
the turn of the millennium, however, there has been an increased emphasis
on self-sufficiency and a move away from alms collection. This was identified
by my interlocutors as the key shift in monastic financing since the 1980s.
Such reforms appear to have moved monastic economies into closer
alignment with state religious policy, as well as to reflect a practical need to
secure reliable income sources. Yet many monks, like Geshé Tendzin, placed
agency for monastic economic reform within the monastic community and
presented it as a moral issue. In other words, this was not just something
that monks had to do but something that at least some felt they should be
doing, even though there was a tension between new economic practices and
conceptions of ideal monastic behaviors. This chapter examines this moral
dimension of monastic economic reform, questioning the extent to which
monastic development has been defined by state-monastic interactions. Were
monks, like Geshé Tendzin, rationalizing and reinterpreting monastic accom-
modation of state policy in a way that was acceptable and meaningful to them
as monks? Were they making a virtue out of the necessity of operating within
the limits of state-defined religious space? Or were there dynamics within
the monastic community that need to be understood beyond the political and
40 Chapter 2
(triwa [khri ba]), who, along with the college stewards, raised funds for col-
lege activities. After the revival of religion in the 1980s they were all looked
after by the Sixth Dzongchung, Rongwo’s regent, and from 1991 by the golden
throne holder (sertri). Each college also had stewards responsible for rais-
ing funds and organizing college activities. The College of Dialectics opened a
medical clinic in 1989 and ran some small businesses, such as a general store
and a monastic tailor shop. However, these operated as self-sustaining ser-
vices for monks rather than as profit-making enterprises.
In 2001 a decision was made to abolish the post of golden throne
holder and to require the colleges to develop their capacity to self-finance.
By 2003, Dharma session trust funds (teptsa [thebs rtsa]) had been estab-
lished for each, contributed to by reincarnate lamas (including the last golden
throne holder, Alak Rongwo), monks, and the laity. The capital of each fund
was invested in interest-bearing loans and other businesses, as well as being
supplemented by further donations. The College of Dialectics, by far the larg-
est of the three, has developed the most commercial enterprises, the profits
from which are used to fund those days or specific meals during Dharma ses-
sions that have no sponsor. In 2013, one of the college’s managers estimated
that the college was directly financing around 40 percent of its activities. Any
surplus profits are distributed to the monks at the end of the year. As of June
2015, the college’s businesses included three shops, each staffed by monks
and selling drinks, snacks, and religious products (one inside the monastery
close to the main gate [figure 3], one next to the northern entrance, and one
their dzö studies, which take two years, they must serve for two years as man-
agers. During this period, this, rather than their studies, is their primary
work. The number of managers depends on the size of the class, but positions
include a treasurer, who acts as the purse holder, and an accountant, who
oversees income and expenditures. The managers not only run the businesses
but also staff them (except for the medical clinic). In the case of the shops,
this involves handling everyday commercial transactions with customers—an
issue that is the subject of some contention (discussed in chapter 4). The col-
lege also has stewards who organize the distribution of tea, food, and dona-
tions during assemblies. The managers in the other colleges, which are much
smaller, are selected by lottery or rotation for one or two years. The Tantric
College has four or five managers, whose main responsibility is to run and
staff the wholesale shop in town, while the Kālacakra College has only two.
In 2006 the College of Dialectics established a separate Education
Fund from capital donated by Rongwo’s head lama, the Eighth Shartsang,
supplemented by donations from other lamas, monks, and lay patrons. The
fund, whose managers are appointed to an Education Fund Committee, is
used to pay monks an annual disbursement based on how many days they
have attended the debate courtyard (five yuan per day in 2006–2007, seven
yuan in 2007–2008, and, as of June 2014, ten yuan since 2008–2009). In
2009 the Tantric and Kālacakra Colleges also established education funds
(again, the initial capital donated by Shartsang Rinpoché) that are used to
pay disbursements to monks for attending teachings. These college education
funds are invested in interest-bearing loans and, in the College of Dialectics,
its other businesses.
Collective activities that bring together the monks from all three col-
leges in the main assembly hall are now funded by sponsors, capital funds,
or both. The Great Prayer Festival (held on days 11–16 of the first lunar
month) is still sponsored by Rongwo’s patron communities in rotation, and
Tsongkhapa’s Death Day Offering (held on days 25–29 of the tenth month) is
financed by individual sponsors. There are specific endowment funds for the
Great Fifth Month Offering Festival (established in 2009 by local business-
men), the Great Eighth Month Offering Festival, and various other death day
offering festivals. These funds are managed by the monastery’s Management
Committee and invested in interest-bearing loans. The monastery as a collec-
tive unit has no businesses other than moneylending, but it does receive an
annual payment from the Tourism Bureau, which takes the income from tour-
ist ticket sales.8 This and any other income is channeled into a central fund,
also managed by the Management Committee and lent out at interest. The
fund is used to finance repairs to the assembly hall and temples, monastery
maintenance and construction, and relief for sick or poor monks. In theory,
it can also be drawn on to fund Tsongkhapa’s Death Day Offering if the event
Monastic Reform 45
has no other sponsors. In practice, there seems to be little need for this at
present: as of 2015, there was a waiting list of sponsors for this event.
With the exception of the monastery’s Great Prayer Festival (a case
to which I will return), monks emphasized that all collective monastery and
college activities are now funded through voluntary sponsorship (which can
include people requesting religious services and/or making donations for
merit), interest made on the lending of capital endowments and trust funds,
profits from their commercial enterprises, or some combination of these.
Unlike college stewards in the past, the college managers do not go out into
their patron communities to collect contributions. Rather, they are charged
with running college businesses and managing their income and expendi-
tures. On one occasion, I saw the managers actively collecting donations for
the Dharma session and education funds, but this was in the monastery. The
College of Dialectics was holding a public debating session, presided over by
the highly revered Alak Khaso and falling on Sagadawa, the day celebrating
the Buddha’s birth, death, and enlightenment (the fifteenth day of the fourth
month), when many laypeople come to the monastery. College managers
moved through the crowds who were listening to and watching the monks, tak-
ing donations and recording the amounts and donors’ names in their smart-
phones to be printed later in a list posted on the door of the college’s kitchen.
Monks described the shift away from alms collection toward a path
of self-sufficiency as the main change in Rongwo’s monastic economy. It rep-
resents a broader pattern in Repgong and western Bayen, although at some of
Rongwo’s affiliate monasteries the line that monks draw between voluntary
sponsorship and solicited donations in their eschewal of alms collection can
sometimes be blurred.
Although falling under the authority of Rongwo’s head lama, each of Rongwo’s
affiliate monasteries has its own head lama, constitution, administration, and
patron communities. Their size varies, ranging from less than twenty monks at
some to more than one hundred at others (see table 5.1). As described in more
detail in the introduction to this book, some are situated on the edge of villages,
which are their main patron communities, while others are in more secluded
locations. Monks are expected to take their turn working for their monasteries
in various posts, such as those of temple caretaker, steward, and disciplinarian.
Administrative posts, including those of the stewards, are usually held in rota-
tion, depending on length of monastic service and sometimes also age.
Individual monastic economies vary, but, like Rongwo, many of its
affiliates have established capital funds that are invested in interest-bearing
loans or monastery businesses, most commonly shops and medical clinics,
46 Chapter 2
although one practice center had also started manufacturing religious prod-
ucts by 2009. Some also have endowments for specific religious events that
were established by reincarnate lamas or laypeople. The importance monks
attributed to commercial activities in their monastic economies varied at the
eleven affiliate monasteries on which I collected data in 2009.9 Six had small
shops and/or medical clinics. Some held rights to forest, farmland, or grass-
land. These resources were cited as providing important sources of income
at Nyentok (which leased out its fields) and Dowa Drok (which leased out its
grasslands). Three monasteries had received income from the government for
forestry protection, but in two cases this income ceased in 2008. Two monas-
teries reported income from the sale of tourist tickets. All still relied on spon-
sorship, and some remained fairly dependent for funding on the estates of
their head lamas.
Despite differences in individual monastic economies, a common
theme in my discussions with monks at these monasteries was that donations
were voluntarily given and/or that their monastery had stopped collecting
alms from the public. This shift occurred as early as 2000–2001 at one prac-
tice center with its establishment of a capital fund but, in most cases, seems
to have occurred during the second half of the 2000s. By 2009, at only one
monastery was I told that it still relied on alms collected by the steward from its
patron communities.10 At another, a senior monk told me that the monastery (a
practice center) had a small shop but opposed the development of businesses,
arguing that this was “the job of the lay community, not the responsibility of
monks.” The monastery was not as wealthy as others, he added, but its educa-
tion was better (reflecting a more general ambivalence toward monastic devel-
opment discussed in chapters 3 and 4). Even so, this monk emphasized, “We
never go to the villages to collect donations.” Rather, villagers came to the mon-
astery to offer money for ritual services. A friend later told me that this monk
was revered among the villagers in his district, which is roughly thirty kilome-
ters from the monastery. They considered him a lama in the sense of a great
teacher, and he travelled to their district each year to give five days of teachings.
Although this lama did not want to take anything from the villagers, my friend
told me, they would send roasted barley flour, butter, bread, and money to the
monastery. In this case, there had been no apparent change in monastic financ-
ing, but rhetorical emphasis was nevertheless placed on the fact that donations
were unsolicited. This lama was not acting in the capacity of a monastic offi-
cial charged with responsibility for collecting contributions (as, e.g., Rongwo’s
golden throne holder had been). The modality of sponsorship represented here
is more akin to that of the early 1980s: a highly revered lama receives and redis-
tributes gifts offered spontaneously by the faithful laity.
At monasteries that have reformed their economies, monastic officials
might, in practice, still need to do a certain amount of fund-raising to make up
Monastic Reform 47
for any shortfall. This is evident if we examine in more detail the workings of
the economy of Lhündrup’s monastery. Although the monastery established a
capital fund and the steward stopped going out to collect alms, the fund did not
grow in pace with inflation. As a result, by 2009 the steward had to raise some
money himself. The monastery has one shop, the income from which is distrib-
uted to the monks at the end of each year. Major religious events, such as its
Great Prayer Festival, are now funded by households that voluntarily pledge
sponsorship. Dharma sessions and other activities are partially (and volun-
tarily) supported by villagers but are also supported through interest on the
central monastery fund and specific endowments that are loaned to villagers.
In 2009, Püntsok, who was acting as steward that year, estimated that over a
third of the costs were met by village families who sponsored assembly teas.
For the rest, he was given money from the central monastery fund managed by
the monastery’s Management Committee. However, he explained, this was not
enough to cover his costs. Rising commodity prices meant that he also needed
to ask his relatives to sponsor some of the teas and to ask herders to give but-
ter. He mentioned, as an example, the upcoming Eighth Month Offering: “The
monastery will give around one thousand yuan on the twenty-fifth day of the
seventh month, which will barely cover the cost of buying fruit. Another one
thousand yuan may be needed. I have called some people to donate money
for it, but I haven’t got the money yet.” I found similar evidence elsewhere
that stewards (or other monks responsible for funding a particular activity)
still sometimes relied on their interpersonal networks to raise finance. This
selective solicitation of donations was not seen as ideal—during a conversation
with one steward, I got the impression that, as he was talking, he realized that
he should not really be telling me about it. However, it was seen as different
from—and at least some improvement on—the “old” practice of relying on col-
lective contributions from patron communities. Moreover, the ideal was still
to move toward an economy based entirely on a combination of profits from
monastic capital and sponsorship given or pledged voluntarily.
businesses relatively early. In 1989 its head lama founded a monastic educa-
tion organization with the aim of inviting teachers from Labrang. The mon-
astery established a capital fund and invested it in a medical clinic and two
shops. As of 2009, the head lama (who passed away in 2014) remained the
principal sponsor of collective activities, but his monastery’s businesses had
also become an important source of income—more important, according to
one of the monastery’s caretakers, than the donations and remunerations
they continued to receive from the laity.11 In 2008 the monks had started
running a petrol station opposite the monastery, a logical choice of business
venture, given that the monastery is positioned on the main road between
Repgong and neighboring Gansu Province (and Labrang Monastery). They
also produced incense and treasure vases, as well as investing capital in
interest-bearing loans. The monastery’s businesses used to be managed by
its Management Committee, but since 2007 it has appointed two monastic
managers (chipa [spyi pa]), on three-year terms, to oversee them, with four
laypeople employed to work in the petrol station and shops. Gartsé also has
grasslands, but I was told that the income from these is minimal.
Trashitsé, Bayen
lage monasteries. There has also been a rise in patronage from the Sinophone
world. Although much of that patronage has been oriented toward temple
building (Caple 2015), Ditsa, for example, established a new autumn Dharma
session in 2008, sponsored by Chinese student-patrons of one of its monks.17
However, a clear distinction has been drawn between sponsorship
pledged by individuals and communities of their own volition and institu-
tionalized alms collection from patron communities by monastic officials. A
perceived need to shift away from the latter has led to the increased empha-
sis on so-called self-sufficiency and development of monastic businesses. In
other words, we are not seeing in these developments a transition toward
total self-sufficiency, with monastic eschewal of lay support and an end to
monastic-lay interdependence. Rather, monastic leaders have been concerned
with ensuring that they are able to fund Dharma sessions and annual religious
events if there is no sponsor, without having to resort to collecting contribu-
tions from patron communities. The one major exception is the sponsorship
of the Great Prayer Festival at Rongwo, which remains mandatory and highly
organized. Funded in rotation by the twelve districts of Repgong and Rongwo’s
branch monasteries (collectively), patron communities have a responsibility
to organize the necessary funding when their turn comes around.18 The same
explanation for the continuation of this form of sponsorship was offered by
both monks and laypeople: the festival, which brings together all the monks
from Rongwo and its affiliate monasteries, is so big that organized, fixed con-
tributions are necessary to ensure sufficient funding for it. Some of my inter-
locutors also argued that because it is the only such obligation that Rongwo’s
patron communities now have and it comes around only once every thirteen
years, it does not place a huge burden on the villagers and herders. To the con-
trary, one retired official exclaimed, the financial cost to each household is not
that much, but it is a great and rare opportunity to accumulate merit.
We have seen that, in practice, the line between voluntary spon-
sorship and solicited donations can be blurred, and, in at least some cases,
monastic officials still need to raise funds through their interpersonal net-
works. However, this seems to be viewed differently from the routine and
regular alms collections that monastic officials had previously undertaken.
Moreover, regardless of the fuzziness of these lines in practice, it is clear that
a moral boundary has been drawn: institutionalized alms collection in patron
communities by monastic officials is now something to be eschewed (in prac-
tice and discourse). This shift in attitude toward institutionalized alms col-
lection provided the impetus for the significant business development at
scholastic centers since the turn of the millennium and for similar attempts
to embark on the path to self-sufficiency at branch and practice monasteries,
even if the extent of their development of self-supporting activities has varied.
Monastic Reform 53
At the time, his comments were not surprising—this was exactly the
kind of narrative I had been expecting to find when I entered the field. Yet
my subsequent discussions with monks gave me pause for thought. I rarely
came across such a categorical representation of the shift to self-sufficiency as
simply a response to state policies and pressure. To the contrary, most monks
placed agency for reforms within the monastic community and took a moral
stance in favor of ceasing alms collection and developing self-supporting activ-
ities. Lungtok’s statement was perhaps, in part, a reflection of his position in
debates on the ethics of business development, which he was against, as well
as ongoing disputes with the government over the return of what monks see
Monastic Reform 55
as, rightfully, monastic land.26 However, before exploring these debates and
their moral dimensions, I will situate contemporary monastic reforms in their
broader historical and institutional context.
In the old society, the monastery had capital for religious studies
and teaching that was loaned to farmers and nomads who would
repay in grain or meat and butter, so that became a source of income
and funded studies. We had a discussion with that kind of system
in mind, and some lamas and scholar-monks who were studying [at
our monastery] and other senior figures and some people from the
villages took part and we accumulated a capital fund.
flows of ideas and practices within the Geluk monastic network; perceptions
of monastic moral decline; and, finally, imaginings of a shared Tibetan collec-
tivity and the responsibility of monastics in shaping its future.
At Rongwo, some monks credit the senior reincarnate lamas with taking
the decision to abolish the sertri post and develop self-supporting activities.
However, it is apparent that pressures also came from the bottom up—from
the “younger generation” of monks who had joined the monastery since it
reopened in 1980 (younger in relation to the elders who were monks prior
to 1958). The issue of economic reform had been under discussion for some
time, with some monks in the College of Dialectics advocating for reform
since the early 1990s. Discussions about the monastic economy took place
within a wider context of internal tensions over monastic development in
general, including the education system and other issues, such as the style
of the monastic robe. It therefore seems to have been part of a more gen-
eral dynamic in which reformist ideas among some of the younger generation
were gradually challenging the ways of thinking held by elders who advocated
maintaining traditional systems. A similar generational dynamic surfaced in
one of my conversations with a young reincarnate lama from a large monas-
tic center in southern Qinghai, who observed: “Many monks came back from
India and America and said we have to reform and develop the economy. It
was not because the government said we had to do this. The young monks
want to do business. They like new, modern things.”
This lama’s reference to monks coming back from India high-
lights another important dynamic: many monks located the main inspira-
tion and moral legitimacy for reforms in the business activities of the major
Geluk monasteries in exile. As we saw earlier, it was after visiting India that
Jamyang changed his thinking about monastic financing. When Jikmé spoke
about the decision to abolish the sertri post at Rongwo, he said that although
some people felt that it was inappropriate for a monk to do business, the
Tibetan monks in India farmed, “so we thought it would be okay to do busi-
ness.” Other monks mentioned the shops, restaurants, and guesthouses run
by Geluk monasteries in India as examples for Amdo monasteries to follow.
This influence on the ideas of monks was acknowledged even by Lungtok—
the monk who had presented economic reforms at his monastery as the only
practical option, given state policy. Despite the Chinese state’s distrust of
the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, it should be recognized that, as a leading “Bud-
dhist modernist” in many respects, he is a source of both inspiration and the
authority and legitimacy for reforms to the monastic system that converge
with principles found in Chinese state discourse.31 He has criticized aspects
Monastic Reform 61
were “fake” (dzünma [rdzun ma]) or who cheated or deceived people, collect-
ing donations under false pretenses or pocketing a portion of funds donated
for temple building.32 The fact that “these days there are all kinds of people,”
as one farmer put it, was one of the reasons that both monks and laypeople
argued for the cessation of alms collection. It was better for monasteries to
distance themselves from a practice that had been tainted by association with
“the misconduct of a few monks” (as one monk put it) and the prevalence of
fake monks. Their actions had affected the faith and confidence of the laity,
not only within the Tibetan community but also beyond. The expansion of
patronage networks in the Sinophone world was viewed with particular sus-
picion. Monks’ trips to inland China were often associated with a predilec-
tion for chasing money rather than Buddhist practice, while Chinese sponsors
were often represented as gullible dupes who easily fell prey to monks collect-
ing donations under false pretenses or offering religious services they were
not qualified to provide (Caple 2015). Using the analogy of “one mouse ruin-
ing the pot of soup,” Caiwang Naoru (2009), founder-editor of a Sinophone
Tibetan blog, bemoaned the “hostility and hatred” produced by the spread of
fake reincarnate lamas, particularly in inland China and Taiwan: “The actions
of a swindler are like a leaf that blocks their eyes, nearly defaming Tibetan
Buddhism.”33
In addition to their concerns that monastic Buddhism would be
undermined through association with the conduct of fake or disreputable
monastics from elsewhere, monks had doubts that their own monastic officials
would, nowadays, be virtuous enough. These doubts extended to contempo-
rary (particularly young) reincarnate lamas. Indeed, this was one of the rea-
sons given for the abolition of the sertri post at Rongwo. Some monks placed
agency for monastic reforms with specific, senior reincarnate lamas, such as
Alak Khaso, an elder who is widely respected. Others, however, expressed a
general distancing from the authority of reincarnate lamas, who are at the
apex of the Geluk monastic hierarchy. One senior monk emphatically stated
that reforms were led “not by the government” and “not by the lamas” but by
“our younger generation.” Some lamas, he said, would still like to hold the
position of golden throne holder, but the monks decided that it was not right
to have this system because there are “all sorts of lamas.” The implication
was that some would be more concerned with accruing personal wealth and
status than acting as an honest and sincere golden throne holder. There also
seems to have been a degree of competition among monastic officers respon-
sible for collecting alms. Püntsok and Döndrup, who both became stewards
after the system changed, talked about the pressures that their predecessors
had faced, arguing such pressures were a reason for economic reform at their
respective monasteries. Concerned that they would be judged according to the
disbursements they distributed to the monks from surplus income, each stew-
Monastic Reform 63
ard had felt compelled to raise more money than the previous one. Döndrup
claimed that some monks had even disrobed when faced with the prospect of
taking on this responsibility. In these cases (and perhaps others), the pres-
sure on monastic officials to compete with their predecessors helps explain
the increasing difficulties they faced in their fund-raising efforts, as well as
the sense of burden on their patron communities.
To be in receipt of voluntary sponsorship, on the other hand, was
seen as a marker of virtue. Like Lhamo, some monks not only saw alms col-
lection as improper but also explained that it had become harder and harder
to raise funds this way. The way in which some people talked about monas-
tic development suggested a certain discrimination in practices of giving,
depending on the perceived virtue of particular reincarnate lamas or mon-
asteries. In an informal conversation, a Tibetan postgraduate student from
Repgong offered precisely this interpretation of Rongwo’s reforms: younger
lamas, he said, were not respected as much as the older lamas, such as Alak
Khaso, who had many donors; that was why the monastery started a capital
fund. On the other hand, Ngawang at Ditsa, which enjoys a good reputation
for its level of discipline, said that it was relatively easy to secure sponsorship
if a monastery had high education standards. Lhündrup, now a village elder,
made a similar value judgment: if a monastery was good and its monks were
virtuous, plenty of people would offer support.34 This association between the
qualities of particular lamas and monasteries and levels of patronage extends
beyond Geluk monasticism. Sihlé (2013, 178–179) points to a similar correla-
tion between the perceived quality of discipline maintained at large Bön and
Nyingma ritual gatherings of nonmonastic specialists of tantric ritual in Rep-
gong and the levels of patronage they attract. As is also the case in the Geluk
context, he found the level of discipline to be related to the prestige and qual-
ities of particular lamas/masters.
From the perspective of the monastic-lay community, nonvirtuous
behavior (or rumors of such) reflects a more general decline in the moral
qualities of contemporary monastics (discussed further in chapter 4). Crit-
icism of religious fraud and monastic conduct is not new. Indeed, the title
of this section borrows from a critique of the religious life of seventeenth-
century Central Tibet written by the Kagyü master Tendzin Repa (1646–
1723) (trans. in Schaeffer et al. 2013, 577-578). Bemoaning the rarity of those
who work “for religion and realization,” Tendzin Repa refers to “Dharma
imposters” who “just turn the wheel of deceit” (ibid., 578)—a play on the idi-
omatic expression “turning the wheel of the Dharma” which means Buddhist
teaching. However, it does appear that the extent of contemporary percep-
tions of monastic moral decline has contributed to a shift in monastic policy,
marking a departure from historical practice. There is evidence of a critique
of alms collection in premodern Tibetan religious discourse, although not the
64 Chapter 2
National Imaginings
One of the concerns of the renowned Chinese monastic reformer Taixu (1890–
1947) was the monastic economy. A fervent nationalist and patriot who pro-
vided an interpretation of Buddhism to suit the purposes of nation-building,
he was a strong advocate of monastic self-sufficiency.36 A similar “national-
ist” spirit plays a part in contemporary Tibetan monastic reforms. The imag-
ined community in this case is Tibetan rather than Chinese, and the concern
Monastic Reform 65
primarily with the fate of the “Tibetan people,” a collectivity rather than a
nation-state. However, given the position of monastic Buddhism in Tibetan
society, the moral responsibility placed on monks for the fate of this “nation”
within a (Chinese) nation-state is all the greater.
This responsibility is made very explicit in an essay written by
a monk, under the name of Goyön [sgo yon], entitled “Solving the Tibetan
Monastic System through Three Revolutions” (2009). Its publication on the
Tibetan-language website of the radical Amdo intellectual Sangdhor (14 May
2009) places it among the more radical of contemporary Tibetan literary
productions.37 Goyön writes in a polemical tone characteristic of some of the
leading contemporary Amdo essayists. He is, however, a monk, and his crit-
icism is not of Tibetan Buddhism and monasticism’s place in society per se.
Rather, he criticizes aspects of the current monastic system that he believes
are damaging to both Buddhism and the Tibetan people. The issues he tackles
are some of the main contentious talking points among contemporary Geluk
monks: the system of leadership through reincarnation, the monastic educa-
tion system, and the topic with which we are concerned here—the monastic
economy. The essay employs Buddhist and modernist (and Buddhist modern-
ist) tropes. His opening call to “take refuge in the dynamism of three revolu-
tions” is a play on the most basic and fundamental Buddhist practice of taking
refuge in the “Three Jewels”: the Buddha, the Dharma, and the sangha. It also
immediately brings to mind Taixu, who himself advocated three revolutions.38
Goyön’s ideas are arguably not particularly revolutionary. His views are cer-
tainly shared by some monks in eastern Amdo and echo the discourse of other
modern Buddhist figures such as the Fourteenth Dalai Lama and Taixu. How-
ever, the appearance of this kind of open criticism from a monk in the public
domain does appear significant.
As with Taixu, one of Goyön’s three revolutions is for monasteries to
become self-sufficient.39 He makes a pointed (and highly sensitive) compari-
son of the “current mode of subsistence based on collection from the people”
to “the state system of coercive taxation.” Alluding to the established hierar-
chy that gives monks an elevated social and moral status, he says that “this
dishonest way of making a living is not at all suitable practice even for an
ordinary person of the mundane world, let alone for a follower of the nonvio-
lent principles of Buddhism.” Even if monasteries do not actively support the
poor, he argues, “is there not a need to completely abandon the old influences
of this bad custom of being looked after?” The target of Goyön’s criticisms
is the monastic leadership—the head lamas and management committees.
However, he places the responsibility for reform more generally with Tibetan
monks and nuns who “have a justifiable and unavoidable duty to weigh up the
merits and shortcomings of the monastic system.” Having outlined his three
revolutions, he finishes by making an appeal to Tibetan nationalist sentiment,
66 Chapter 2
linking the monastic system, including the monastic economy, to the future
of the Tibetan people. His tone is nationalistic to the extent that he draws on
a shared collective identity and sense of responsibility for the Tibetan people.
However, the contemporary state is absent. The monasteries and their monks
and lamas are still positioned as leaders in Tibetan society, and it is they who
have the agency and responsibility to shape the fate of an imagined Tibetan
collectivity:
Since there are hardly any Tibetans who are not under the com-
mand and control of a monastery and the lamas and reincarnate
lamas, if there are flaws in the monastic system this will definitely
cause problems for the situation of the entire Tibetan people. If
the monastic system were to become more transparent and com-
plete than the previous one, there would be a slight ripening of
hope for the fate of the entire Tibetan people. Therefore, I believe
that the real task right now, for both monks and the laity, is to
reform and clean up the Tibetan monastic system. In particular,
it is of the utmost importance for those in charge of the monas-
teries to ensure that the Tibetan monastic system should not be
separated from Buddhist principles and should not contradict the
times. (Goyön 2009)
relating to ideals about monks and monasteries. New practices produce new
debates and dilemmas.
The economic reforms examined in this chapter—the development
of self-supporting enterprises and the shift away from active alms collection—
indicate a degree of convergence of the interests, values, and practices of at
least some Geluk monasteries, on the one hand, with the principles of state
discourse and policy on the other. However, the limits to this convergence
are brought into sharp relief when we shift our focus to monastic tourism
development.
3
Monastic Tourism
Defining Value
68
Monastic Tourism 69
I was therefore surprised to find that monks generally did not men-
tion tourism unless I specifically raised the subject. When I did raise it, I real-
ized that they perceived tourism differently from other forms of monastic
development. In this chapter, I will argue that, rather than creating an arena
in which monastic and state interests converge, tourism transforms the mon-
astery into a contested space of competing values, highlighting the limits of
monastic-state convergence.4 This is exemplified in the case of Kumbum:
showcased in official Chinese discourse as a model of monastic development,
it figures in popular Tibetan discourse as the archetype of monastic moral
decline, serving as a cautionary tale for monastic leaders in Repgong and
western Bayen. Before I go on to explore monastic attitudes toward tourism,
however, it is worth first examining its extent. In some cases, there was a very
straightforward reason that tourism and related heritage funding did not
come up in conversations about monastic development. At some monasteries,
particularly those relatively distant from urban areas or main tour routes, it
was simply not relevant.
Tourism Development
Through its focus on particular sites such as Kumbum and places such as
Shangrila, the existing literature gives a skewed picture of the significance of
tourism in monastic revival and development.5 Revitalization of certain mon-
70 Chapter 3
asteries, including the big six Geluk centers, was supported by the state for
their value as policy models and tourist sites (Makley 2007; Arjia Rinpoché
2010), and at Kumbum, at least, considerable income is generated from tour-
ism (Mei 2001, 143; Pu Riwa et al. 2006, 204; Cooke 2010, 11). Studies of the
Geluk revival have focused on these sites because of their relative accessibil-
ity and historical significance (Goldstein 1998; Makley 2007) or because they
are considered models of development (Donggacang and Cairangjia 1995;
Mei 2001; Pu Riwa et al. 2006). Monastic development has also been touched
upon in studies of places such as Shangrila where tourism is relatively highly
developed (Hillman 2005, 2009, 2010; Kolås 2008).6 Images of monasteries
circulated within and beyond China are also mostly of these sites. However, if
my findings are an indicator of wider patterns, it appears that at many monas-
teries neither tourism nor associated heritage funding has been a significant
factor in revival and reconstruction.
State funding of monastic restoration and conservation is used as
evidence of freedom of religious belief and the benevolence of the state toward
its ethnic minorities (e.g., IOSC 1992, 56–57; 2005, 2008a, 2008b, 2009). In
the Tibet Autonomous Region alone, the central government claims to have
invested over 300 million yuan to help renovate and open to the public more
than 1,400 monasteries (IOSC 2008a). However, at many of the monaster-
ies I visited in Amdo, monks denied that they had received state support for
rebuilding their monasteries, emphasizing instead the role of local people.7
There were exceptions, such as Kumbum, for which the state council appor-
tioned 36 million yuan for renovations in 1991. Even then, the Eighth Arjia
Rinpoché, who was the abbot at the time, claims that he had to use consid-
erable political skill to secure funding.8 More recently, there has been some
funding in Repgong. According to state media, the government invested 25
million yuan in renovations at Rongwo between 2004 and 2008 (Xinhua
2009), having previously funded work on the main assembly hall (2000) and
the College of Dialectics assembly hall (2001) and printing house (2000) (Pel-
zang 2007, 38, 71, 81). Four of the monasteries in Repgong famous for their
religious arts (Gomar, Nyentok, and Lower and Upper Senggé Shong), all
easily accessible from Rongwo, have also been designated state-level cultural
protection units (QTB 2010a) and received state heritage funding. Even so,
reconstruction of most of the religious structures at Rongwo since 1980 (four
assembly halls, nineteen temples, two printing houses, a debate courtyard,
a hermitage, eight stupas, and prayer wheel halls around the outer circuit
of the monastery) has been funded by the monastic-lay community.9 Since
2000, most new temples have been sponsored by the Fifth Trigen, a reincar-
nate lama now in his eighties, much of whose funds come through his nephew
who has patrons in Taiwan. Similarly, most of the reconstruction and temple
building at Repgong’s “art monasteries” (including a boom in temple building
Monastic Tourism 71
in recent years) has been sponsored by their patron communities and/or their
monks and lamas, in some cases through their patronage networks in the Sin-
ophone world.
Despite an emphasis on monastic tourism development in local
development plans, it has, like heritage funding, been limited in extent. In
Qinghai the state’s drive to develop the western regions of China (Ch. xibu da
kaifa) from 2000 placed renewed emphasis on tourism, boosted in 2006 with
the opening of the Qinghai-Tibet railway. According to official statistics, tour-
ist arrivals for the province rose from 3.2 million in 2000 to 12.3 million in
2010 and 20 million in 2014 (Tang 2015). As illustrated by the top two scenic
spots mentioned by the tour guide on the airport bus (Qinghai Lake and Kum-
bum Monastery), the focus has largely been on scenic and “ethnic” (including
religious) tourism. In Repgong, tourism has become one of the “five pillars”
of local economic development. Even so, in 2009 only Rongwo and two other
monasteries (Lower Senggé Shong and Gomar) reported tourism-related
income. As of 2015, these were the only monasteries at which there was vis-
ible tourism development, marked by trilingual tourist information boards.
Entrance fees are charged to tourists at both Rongwo and Lower Senggé
Shong, and I have seen tour groups visiting both. Gomar village is also on tour
group itineraries, its sites including an old walled village and a giant stupa
(a structure representing the cosmos and containing Buddhist relics). This
stupa, constructed by villagers in the 1980s, dominates the landscape in this
part of the valley, sitting above the village in the square in front of the mon-
astery. The monastery receives income from tickets sold to tourists who wish
to enter and climb the stupa, but I have seen little evidence of tourists inside
the monastery. As of 2015, it still kept its doors closed during the summer
retreat (a period during which women are prohibited from entering monas-
tic space), unlike Rongwo and Lower Senggé Shong, which remained open
to visitors through the summer. I found no evidence of entrance fees being
charged at other monasteries in Repgong, including those that had received
heritage funding; they also had no tourist signage and no trace of tour buses
on the occasions that I visited.10 In western Bayen, Jakhyung was designated
a 3A tourist scenic area in 2010 and is listed on tourist websites, but there was
little evidence of mass tourism taking off there as it has at Kumbum, perhaps
because of Jakhyung’s relative inaccessibility high up in the mountains.
In short, most monasteries have received little in the way of state
funds for reconstruction or renovations, and even fewer have (yet) expe-
rienced tourism development. However, attitudes are shaped not only by
opportunity and access but also by uneasiness about, and sometimes oppo-
sition to, state-sponsored development. Even where there had been tour-
ism development and associated heritage funding, these were often elided
or discounted by my interlocutors. I was repeatedly told by monks that the
72 Chapter 3
government did not support their monasteries. One monk who did speak pos-
itively about heritage projects, arguing that it was difficult for villagers to fund
this kind of work, was an exception. Moreover, attempts by local officials to
encourage tourism have sometimes met with resistance.
Ditsa’s senior monks seemed genuinely proud of the success of their small
business development, such as the manufacture of religious products. Yet
they did not consider tourism to be an appropriate mechanism for economic
development, even though they had been encouraged by local officials. They
believed it would be disruptive to monastic education and practice. Akhu
Samdrup claimed a similar reluctance at his monastery, but his explanation
was more explicitly political. Although government officials had come to per-
suade the monks to develop tourism, he said that many of them did not feel
that tourism was appropriate:
to develop,” he reasoned, “[but] the thing is, we thought that if we were to join
[the tourist group], we would fall into the hands of the Chinese.”
The state at various levels has economic and political interests in
exercising a high degree of control over tourism development. Tourism and
heritage have been used as tools of propaganda and modernization by the
Chinese state in the ongoing process of nation-building.12 During the Mao-
ist period, tourism was limited to revolutionary sites for the “patriotic edu-
cation” of Red Guards and sympathetic foreigners. In 1979, Deng Xiaoping
emphasized its importance as part of the new open-door policy and the con-
tribution that restoration and protection of heritage and folklore sites could
make to national unity (Sofield and Li 1998, 377). Document 19 established
the principle that major monasteries “are not only places of worship, but are
also cultural facilities of important historical value,” and it gave monastics
responsibility for ensuring that “the surroundings are clean, peaceful and
quiet, suitable for tourism” (trans. in MacInnis 1989, 18). During the 1980s in
Tibetan areas (as elsewhere in China), the focus was on international tourism,
and key spots—including the main Geluk monastic centers—were developed
to showcase religious freedom and earn foreign exchange. However, since
the late 1990s, tourism has become increasingly important to both nation-
building and local development. Designated as an important growth area in
1998, domestic tourism has seen phenomenal growth and now far outstrips
international tourism. Aimed not only at stimulating domestic consumption,
it is also part of the state’s project to construct a harmonious, united, modern
Chinese nation.13 Scholars have previously argued that state-scripted tour-
ism works to commodify, aestheticize (Shepherd 2009, 255), and ethnicize
(Murakami 2008, 65) “Tibetan” culture, relegating Buddhism to “a flavor of
Tibetan-ness” (ibid.). Monasteries, as one facet of the “Tibetan” experience,
are transformed into “de-politicized spaces of ‘culture’ and ‘tradition’ securely
within the People’s Republic” (Shepherd 2009, 255).
The development of tourism at Rongwo Monastery shows how
state-sponsored tourism-related development works to standardize and
commodify monastic space, incorporating it into national and local systems
of symbols and signs that have little to do with the monastery as a lived-in
community and a place of education and practice. Repgong was designated a
state-level “famous city of history and culture” in 1994, but there has been a
visible increase in tourism development since 2004, when it was designated
a “China nationalities folk culture protection project” by the State Cultural
Bureau. In 2005, Li Xuansheng was appointed prefectural party secretary.
Prior to his appointment, Li, who was born in Qinghai, was head of the pro-
vincial Tourism Bureau (Xinhua 2008) and led mass tourism development
at Kumbum. This was a worrying precedent for Rongwo’s monks, given that
Kumbum has become symbolic of contemporary monastic decline. Under Li’s
74 Chapter 3
one system of legal and moral rules” (Diemberger 2007b, 43). Qing emper-
ors sought to incorporate Tibetan areas into the imperial framework through
institutionalizing and ritualizing relationships with reincarnation lineages, as
well as with other local leaders, but the relationship was one of “calculated
ambiguity” (Makley 2010, 150). Moreover, Qing supporters of Tibetan Bud-
dhism were integrated into the monastic moral community through their
faith and participation in Buddhist ritual, accruing merit and divine status
through the relationship.
The formation of the modern Chinese nation-state entailed differ-
entiation between the “religious” and the “secular,” with the atheist state
a radically secular order imposing its own system of legal and moral rules.
In practice, the contemporary “state” is a complex, multilayered network of
Communist Party and government agencies (e.g., religious affairs, tourism,
heritage, security) operating at many different levels (national, provincial,
prefectural, county, township). Moreover, state actors often operate from
multiple positions, such as the CCP official who is also a member of a monas-
tery’s patron community.19 Nevertheless, my interlocutors commonly referred
to the state/government ( gyelkhap [rgyal khab]; rizhung [srid gzhung]) as a
monolithic “other,” its various agencies and actors representative of the same
competing order threatening the autonomy of the monastic institution.20 This
competing order is not only external to monastic Buddhism but also has a
history of violent confrontation with it. Antagonism toward and distrust of
“the state” is rooted in collective memories of the violence of the Maoist years,
as well as more recent political history. Samdrup provided a vivid illustration
of this during a conversation about tourism development at his monastery in
2008. When officials had asked the monks to collect old objects such as pots
and bells, their response, he claimed, was that they had all been destroyed—
there was nothing left. There was no need to protect the monastery’s cultural
relics because the monastery had been completely destroyed. Such tactics of
rhetorical resistance undermine the legitimacy of heritage projects led by the
same political order that had wreaked such destruction during the Maoist
years.
The current politics of state patronage is the latest stage in ongoing
power shifts between state and monastic authority—as is evident in the his-
tory of the site on which the new housing block at Rongwo was built. Before
1958 it was a sacred space of Buddhist power and practice, occupied by at
least one stupa, or chöten [mchod rten] in Tibetan, and known as Chöten
Square.21 During the Maoist period, the chöten was destroyed, and a three-
story building, contained within a walled compound, was erected and used for
government work units and housing. As monastic authorities regained con-
trol over much of Rongwo’s original site by the early 1990s, the building was
transformed into housing for monks and renamed Chöten Khangtsen [mchod
78 Chapter 3
they divert meanings and values for their own projects, they are also partic-
ipating in the “categorical incarceration” of Tibetans (as a minzu, one of the
fifty-six officially recognized nationalities that together constitute China as a
unitary multinational nation-state) and of Tibetan “religion.” She cites Arjia
Rinpoché’s story as typifying the hazards of such accommodation. As Kum-
bum’s abbot, he succeeded in raising funds from the state for the monastery’s
revival, in part to develop it as a tourist destination. However, he found that
this ultimately “entailed his public avowal of the incarceration of religion in a
display of political loyalties to the state” (ibid., 150), eventually leading to his
decision to escape into exile.23 That some monasteries appear to have resisted
tourism development (so far) suggests that there is some space for negotia-
tion at a local level (see also Hillman 2005, 48–50; Svensson 2010, 227–228).
One monastic leader who did mention tourism as a source of income said that
his monastery had started to make its own tickets and controlled and kept all
revenue, rather than sharing it with the local government as it had done in
the past.24 However, the room for such kinds of negotiation depends in part
on the extent of the political and commercial interests that local and national
authorities have in particular sites, as well as the interests, influence, and
skillfulness of monastic leaders (see also Kapstein 2004, 254–255). Tourism
can bring both attention and tension: the greater the state’s interest in devel-
oping a site, the more difficult it can become for monastic leaders to pursue
their own institutional agendas.25
Monks were aware of the politics of state funding and of the dan-
gerous implications of incorporation, collaboration, and dispossession that it
carried. Yet their attitudes were shaped not simply by the issue of political
control but also by the implications it had for the religious (and, interlinked
to this, mundane) foundations of monasticism. The danger of incorporation is
that the monastery loses its authority as a monastery and is transformed into
an aestheticized site with little value or meaning.
Defining Value
The state as a competing order is external, has different priorities and inter-
ests from those of monastics, and privileges materialist values. Within the
official discursive space for religion in China, the measure of the progressive-
ness of a monastery and the positivity of its role lies in demonstrating its com-
patibility with and active participation in the construction of modern socialist
society. In terms of the monastic economy, the imperative is not just to be self-
supporting but also to be a productive and active participant in state visions
of development and the consumer economy, shifting the focus of the monas-
tic economy from “internal support” to “external radiation” (Donggacang and
Cairangjia 1995, 32). According to this way of viewing the world, the monas-
80 Chapter 3
place of Buddhist education and practice. They may bring temporary material
benefits, but is this really “supporting” the monastery? The issue is not only
one of control but also one of value, as was evident in one of my conversations
with Künsang, a monk in his forties at one of Rongwo’s affiliate monasteries.
Acknowledging that the local government had funded some external devel-
opment, he went on to argue that this had little value when the government
did not support monks’ studies. By this, he did not mean funding; rather,
he meant the space to develop education. Instead, he said, the government
was closing monastery schools. He returned to this issue later when I asked
if he had any questions: “Which do you think is more important?” he asked.
“Financial support or support for studies?”
This perspective on the (lack of) value of state projects reflects a
much more general concern about Geluk monastic development. A common
theme in both monastic and popular moral discourse is that too much empha-
sis has been placed on the external development of monasteries, while not
enough attention has been given to the development of monastic education.
Many of these criticisms have nothing to do with tourism or state funding.
Rather, they are levelled at monasteries and donors that have poured huge
sums of money into the construction of temples and other religious structures
(see also Caple 2015). The problem is not with temple building per se—after
all, if it is done with good motivation, it is a virtuous, merit-making activ-
ity. The issue is one of priorities. In a more recent conversation with Kün-
sang about a new temple under construction at his monastery, he argued, “We
need material things to practice the Buddhist teachings, just as we need seeds,
soil, fertilizer, and warmth to grow a plant; but the most important thing is to
learn and practice the Buddhist teachings.” Drawing a different analogy (this
time between a monastery and a school), a self-educated herder-businessman
made a similar point: “Before, if people said a school was good, it was not
because of how many chairs it had or how nice its facilities were. It was about
how many good teachers it had, its scores, and so on.” In other words, tem-
ples, no matter how grand, are not what make a monastery.
Nevertheless, construction of religious structures such as temples
and stupas is one of the main forms of Buddhist generosity practice (and
thus virtuous action) across Buddhist societies. Arjia Rinpoché (2010, 140)
described his efforts to fund-raise for and organize the renovation of the stupa
on Tsongkhapa’s birth site at Kumbum as “the first time in my life that I felt I
was truly working to accumulate merit.” The construction of the Gomar stupa
is another example. When the Tenth Panchen Lama visited Repgong in 1980,
he asked the people to build a stupa. He gave his nephew Alak Yershong [g.yer
gshong] responsibility for the project, and the latter chose Gomar as the site.
A Gomar villager acted as the main sponsor, and others worked voluntarily to
construct and paint it. I asked village elder Dawa how he and others felt about
82 Chapter 3
doing this work. He said that they were “happy” and “participated enthusias-
tically” (ga ga dro dro [dga’- dga’ ‘gro- ‘gro]) because building a stupa was
of great merit. He added that during the time it was being built, “nobody in
the village fought with each other.” The stupa, he said, is not just of benefit
to the villagers and the people of Repgong. It also provides a merit-making
opportunity for pilgrims who make offerings of even one or two yuan dedi-
cated to all sentient beings. Temple building projects can involve the whole
lay-monastic community in sponsorship, labor, and art production, reinforc-
ing social ties and the sense of ownership of monastic space by and for the
whole community.26 Construction and restoration have also resurrected ties
between monasteries and communities historically associated with monastic
construction and particular trades and arts. Artisans and artists are (ideally at
least) members of the monastic moral community and accrue merit for their
work, as well as personal prestige. Two of Repgong’s most renowned artists
independently said that being asked to produce work for monasteries was a
duty they must fulfil. Nowadays they could earn considerably more from com-
mercial artwork, but they did this work as Buddhists.27
Restoration projects funded by the atheist state, on the other hand,
have little value and meaning within the merit-based logics of Buddhism, nor
do they contribute to related communal and individual prestige. In contrast
to temple building projects controlled, designed, and constructed from within
the monastic-lay community, state-planned and -funded cultural heritage
projects (as distinct from monastic use of disaster relief funds at Kumbum)
are, like tourism infrastructure, external. They are not motivated by faith,
and the monks and local population have little or no involvement. For exam-
ple, at Gomar, the state invested eight hundred thousand yuan to restore the
floors in the main assembly hall and rotten pillars and beams (Xinhua 2003).
The funds were handled by the County Cultural Bureau. The research for the
work was done by students from Tianjin University who came to Repgong in
1996 to conduct a survey of Rongwo, Gomar, Nyentok, and Upper and Lower
Senggé Shong. The repairs, started in 2003, were carried out by a company
from central China’s Hubei Province that specializes in landscaping and his-
torical sites (ibid.).28
That the more fundamental questions of value and meaning underpin the
attitudes of monks toward state-sponsored development is also apparent
when we consider monks’ attitudes toward tourism as an idea as opposed to
state-sponsored tourism in practice. Far from rejecting the idea of tourism
outright, many monks responded positively to it.29 However, their reason
for holding this view was not that tourism might generate income through
Monastic Tourism 83
entrance fees or create political space for monasteries. As we have seen, tour-
ism is often perceived as bringing monasteries more firmly under government
control, with any potential economic benefit weighed against this. Rather,
attitudes toward tourism and perceptions of the benefits or risks it might
pose centered on the motivation of tourists and the dynamics of the monastic-
tourist encounter.
The new Tibetan vocabulary coined for tourism reflects a concep-
tual distinction between tourists and pilgrims (figures 6 and 7). It connotes
wandering for fun or pleasure around a region or location (yülkor tron-
cham [yul skor spro ’cham/’khyam]) or going around to look/view/gaze—in
other words, to sightsee (takor [lta skor]).30 Pilgrims, on the other hand, are
engaged in a specific form of activity, nékor [gnas skor], the circumambu-
lation of a né [gnas] or “abode,” “specifically the location or residence of a
buddha or other significant beings in the pantheon or cosmos” (Huber 2008,
60–61; see also Buffetrille 2003, 325; Makley 2010, 138). A pilgrimage might
be oriented toward merit-making and/or toward this-worldly concerns, such
as health and fertility; but for a pilgrimage to be efficacious in either karmic or
pragmatic spheres, it requires the pilgrim to have faith.31 In practice the lines
between “traditional” religious pilgrimage and “modern” secular tourism are
blurred, as elsewhere in China (Oakes and Sutton 2010) and beyond (e.g.,
Eade and Sallnow 1991). Tourists can have religious/spiritual motivations,
and pilgrims can become more like tourists (Oakes and Sutton 2010, 10). One
example of this fuzziness is the phenomenon of group pilgrimage bus tours
for Tibetans of the key sacred sites of Central Tibet. Several of my friends have
taken these trips. However, a conceptual boundary between pilgrims as insid-
ers (who “do” faith through their circumambulations and prostrations) and
tourists as outsiders was still evident in the way people talked about tourism
and understood their own practices.32
Nevertheless, monks often made a distinction between two kinds
of tourist: those who come to understand Buddhism and Tibetan culture,
and those who come simply to sightsee, as if going to a park or a zoo. State-
sponsored mass tourism, which consists of tour group sightseeing of “scenic
spots,” sits firmly in the latter category. The dominant form of tourism in
contemporary China, it was seen by monks as holding little value or mean-
ing. On the other hand, monks held a positive attitude toward tourists who
belonged to the former category, even if they were not considered pilgrims.
From a Tibetan monastic perspective, the “good tourist” could therefore be
characterized as a seeker of knowledge, an outsider who visits the monas-
tery to learn about and understand Buddhism and Tibetan culture and who
plays the role of patron, either economically or by promoting Tibetan culture
and Buddhism when they return home. The role of tourism in providing a
space for Tibetans to present their own image of Tibet to outsiders, as well as
the role of foreign tourists as witnesses and supporters of the Tibetan cause,
have been commented on (Klieger 1990; Schwartz 1994) and problematized
(Cingcade 1998) elsewhere. Some of my interlocutors shared this perspec-
Monastic Tourism 85
Tupten, a university student, recalled feeling very sad on his first visit to
Kumbum. In high school he had heard that it was “a very important place
for Tibetan culture and religion,” but when he visited, he found that it was
“like a museum.” This led him to question its value. “The tourists go and look
and then leave, and then nothing—just money. The monks can earn a lot of
money, but what does that mean?” Contemporary representations of Kum-
bum, a monastery founded on the site of the birthplace of Tsongkhapa and
now one of Qinghai’s main tourist destinations, make it an ideal site upon
which to explore competing visions of monastic development from state and
monastic perspectives. Promoted by PRC scholars and state actors as “the
future trend or development model for Tibetan Buddhist monasteries under
socialist conditions” (Pu Riwa et al. 2006), it serves as an exemplar of con-
temporary monastic decline in Tibetan popular discourse—and a future trend
or “model” that monks seek to avoid.
The appropriation of Kumbum as a national “model monastery”
dates to the Maoist era and has several logics, including its religio-political
historical significance and importance in Sino-Tibetan relations, its accessi-
bility from Xining, and its location in a Han- and Hui-dominated area (Cooke
Monastic Tourism 87
visitors to a paved square in which sit the eight stupas guarding Kumbum’s
entrance. Although the monastery is not walled in, a gatehouse at the square’s
northern edge contains a ticket office and an ATM (usually with a mobile post
office van adjacent to it). Groups of tourists mill around in the square, taking
photographs in front of the stupas. Trilingual signposts (in Tibetan, Chinese,
and English) at the southern corners of the square and along the main paths
through the monastery point toward different temples, as well as the public
toilets. While entry to Rongwo through its main entrance has been monitored
by Tourism Bureau officials since 2012, at Kumbum there are ticket barri-
ers at the entrances of each of the temples or temple complexes, manned by
monks. Tibetan pilgrims can pass through without tickets but must still jostle
with the throng of tourists to gain entrance. With groups crowding into the
front of the temples and around sacred objects, the atmosphere is not dissim-
ilar to that of a major art gallery or museum. Overall, whereas Rongwo feels
like a monastery visited by some tourists, Kumbum feels like a major Chinese
tourist destination.
Within the discursive framework of state policy, these kinds of devel-
opment have led to Kumbum’s promotion as a model of Tibetan monasteries
adapting to socialist society. As a major tourist site, the monastery serves both
nation and society (see also Cooke 2010). Mei (2001, 143–144), writing about
the influence of the monastic economy on Tibetan areas, cites Kumbum and
its tourism industry as an example of the role that monasteries can have in
stimulating economic development and local markets:
Not only is it a sacred place for believers, but it is also one of Qing-
hai’s important tourist spots. It has stimulated great development
in trades such as tourism, infrastructure, restaurants, hotels, and
shops. The taxes these businesses pay to the state have become an
important component of local financial income. The employment
provided by trades such as the manufacture of religious products
and handicrafts has solved a real problem in wider society.
The criticism that monks must take time from their monastic obliga-
tions in order to assist tourists is linked to uneasiness over the commercial-
ization of monastic space and activities, as monks work as ticket sellers and
temple gatekeepers and take fixed-priced donations for various ritual services.
Lungtok compared the monks at Kumbum to government officials going to an
office job, and two of my lay friends in Xining also referred to “nine-to-five”
monks who simply act the part for tourists. What is at issue here is not solely
that monks are being diverted from their traditional roles. The commercial-
ization of monastic space has also changed their attitudes and shifted their
focus away from their responsibilities as meditators, scholars, and ritualists
and toward wealth creation. One senior scholar and teacher at Kumbum was
particularly frank when he estimated in 2008 that the College of Dialectics
had perhaps only twenty students who could be considered scholar-monks.
He believed that the number of serious students had decreased over the pre-
vious fifteen years as life had got better: “The minds of monks have been pol-
luted, and they mainly think about earning and spending money.” I was to
hear this again and again in my conversations with both monks and laypeople.
An important element of perceived monastic moral decline is the
blurring of monastic-lay boundaries, not just in the division of labor, with
monks engaging in commercial activities like their lay brothers, but also in the
intermingling of bodies as outsiders enter monastic space and monks spend
time in town. In the case of Kumbum, its proximity to and accessibility from
the provincial capital, Xining, was seen as particularly problematic for both
political and social reasons. Gyeltsen, a Kumbum monk in his thirties, related
the dangers of state-sponsored tourism development for both the morality of
monks and the faith and confidence of the laity:
I heard were rumors about their immoral behavior (and I have continued to
hear them since). Some were about monks and lamas, real or fake, taking
advantage of tourists for money. Others were even more problematic, since
they contained allegations of sexual misconduct. The stories usually centered
on one or more monks spotted in town at night, having taken off their robes
to go out drinking and meet girls, or on monks heard or seen to have had
inappropriate relationships with female Chinese patrons or students.36 Such
popular denigration of contemporary monastic behaviors is particularly dan-
gerous. It erodes Geluk authority by undermining the fundamental distinc-
tion that places monks above laymen: the monk’s vow of celibacy (see also
Makley 2007, 206–207).
Performance is of great importance to the tourism industry. Pu Riwa
et al. (2006) praise Kumbum’s young monks for engaging in economic activi-
ties and becoming increasingly secularized. However, in an article on the devel-
opment and protection of religious tourism at Kumbum, Qi (2009) sounds a
note of warning. She argues that cultural assimilation is a problem and that
it is important to guard against a purely economic focus, which damages reli-
gious culture: “If something is not done to limit and solve the secularization of
monks, then the monastery will lose its attractiveness and its original spiritual
style.”37 This tension between modernization through tourism and the need to
preserve the ethnic culture that is the key tourism resource is a common theme
in ethnic tourism studies (e.g., Oakes 1998; Peng 1998; Winter 2007; Li Yang
et al. 2008). Qi’s argument is situated within this framework. The robed bodies
of monks and their ritual practices are represented as cultural resources that
are part of the value of the site as a tourist attraction.
The primary concern for monks, however, is not the erosion of eth-
nic culture for public consumption but the disintegration of a social order
that fosters Buddhist education and practice and, fundamentally, the ethics
of monasticism. The criticisms discussed above all represent the monastery,
or individual monks, in one way or another as prioritizing material well-being
over education and practice. It is therefore not so much a question of “authen-
ticity” that is problematic as a perceived shift in values (see also Makley 2010,
139). Monks such as Gyeltsen directly linked this value shift with state-led
tourism, but more generally my interlocutors did not paint a picture of monks
as passive victims of either state-led policies or capitalist forces. They placed a
degree of responsibility for perceived monastic moral decline with the monas-
tic leadership. I found this to be a common view among both monastic and
lay Tibetans. Geshé Lozang, for example, had been a monk at one of the three
Geluk seats in Lhasa before he was forced to return to Amdo after the 2008
protests. Speaking about the dangers of tourism development, which he had
witnessed at his monastery in Lhasa, he emphasized the agency of monastic
leaders:
92 Chapter 3
Ultimately the Geshé’s criticism is not of tourism per se but of the monas-
tic leadership’s prioritization of the economy and wealth creation. Lungtok
voiced a similar rhetoric, drawing a simple comparison between Kumbum
and his monastery. Having said that the commercialization of monastic space
and practices at Kumbum “does not accord with the Dharma, but it does with
politics,” he asked: “What is the good of having financial benefits when you
cannot carry out religious studies?” His monastery, he said, does not have
great financial resources because “it does not matter if there is no wealth.” He
added that “the main thing is to be able to run the monastery according to the
monastic rule [dülwa [‘dul ba]].”
authored by the monastic community, they also erode the autonomy of monks
in shaping the futures of their monasteries.
However, monastic attitudes toward state-sponsored development
also reveal more fundamental questions about how “benefit” and “value” are
defined. Monks might discount or elide state support for monasteries because
it has had a limited economic impact or problematic political implications,
but also because they see state-led projects as having limited value or mean-
ing to monastic Buddhism as a religious project. Such questioning of benefit
and value extends beyond state-monastic interactions to debates within the
lay-monastic community, such as those about the value of material develop-
ment and temple building vis-à-vis education and practice. Tensions between
monastic ideals and a perceived societal shift in values are particularly pro-
nounced in the context of tourism development. The production of Kumbum
as a mass-tourism destination has involved the commodification of monastic
space and bodies, disruption of monastic education and practice, and a dan-
gerous blurring of monastic-lay boundaries. It is surely no coincidence that
Kumbum is both the monastery in Qinghai at which tourism is most devel-
oped and an exemplar of moral decline. Yet, as we will see in the next chap-
ter, criticisms of Kumbum form part of a more general narrative of monastic
moral decline that has shaped approaches to monastic financing, organiza-
tion, education, and discipline.
4
94
Monastic Development 95
During a drive along Nine River valley during the winter of 2014, one of my
companions pointed to a monastery that had moved from its previous loca-
tion at the top of a hill down to the side of the road—the main route between
Repgong and Tsekhok. He said that the monks of a nearby hermitage mon-
astery, perched high on a forested mountainside, had also wanted to move
down. However, the people of his village, a supporting community of the her-
mitage (which we had previously visited together), had not agreed. It should
be in a quiet place, he explained: “We told the monks that they could move
if they wanted, but the village would no longer support them.” I had previ-
ously heard of similar village opposition to the construction of new roads to
two other relatively remote monasteries. Such stories indicate the proprietary
feelings that specific communities have toward “their” monasteries and the
ideas those communities have about what kinds of development are appro-
priate. These stories also reflect popular criticisms of monks “these days” who
are far too interested in material comforts, accessibility to the world beyond
the monastery, and, more generally, “modern life” with all its distractions.
A recurring trope illuminated in the discussion thus far (and
expressed not least by monks themselves) is that the external development
of monasteries continues to improve and monks these days are better off
materially, but their minds (sem [sems]) are changing or unsteady. In the
Tibetan context, the notion that minds are changing is essentially a notion
that morality is changing—in this context, declining. The mind is both where
our attitudes and ways of thinking (sam [bsam]) arise and the seat of emo-
tions.1 Greed, fear, competitiveness, joy, care, generosity, compassion, and
faith arise in the mind, shaping the moral quality of one’s actions. For exam-
ple, the virtue of an act of giving and thus its karmic results, I was frequently
96 Chapter 4
told by monks, depends on the mind of the giver. People often counterposed
contemporary times to either the early 1980s or pre-1958, times when people
had great faith and monastic life was remembered or imagined to have been
simple and the minds of monks pure. Now, people said, monks are increas-
ingly focused on material interests over spiritual ones. Pema, for example,
recalled that when he was a monk in the 1980s (he has since disrobed), he and
the other young monks used to vie over their ability to remember and recite
texts; his more recent conversations with young monks had led him to believe
that these days they compete over money and sponsors. Many people drew
a moral boundary between the first flush of monastic revival in the 1980s
and the present, with an accompanying distinction drawn between the moral
qualities of the elders and (at least most of) the current “younger” generation.
Some people directly attributed this “moral decline” to the policies
of the Chinese government, which was believed to have subordinated culture
to the economy. More generally, perceptions of monastic moral decline were
rooted in a broader sense of the times as morally troubled, times in which
people increasingly focused on this life over the next, and on the material
over the spiritual.2 In the rather bleak words of one senior monk, “People’s
characters are degenerating. . . . There are more and more bad things and less
and less good things.” This sense of the times was enmeshed with a Bud-
dhist cosmological framework that places us in an age of inexorable decline
within a universe understood to alternate between periods of advance and
decline. After successive periods of increasing decline that commenced with
the death of Buddha Śākyamuni, the Buddhist teachings will disappear from
the earth only to reappear millions of years later with Maitreya, the future
Buddha (Nattier 1991, 26). When Geshé Tendzin spoke about social change
and the increasing materialism of monks, he referred to prophecies made by
Tsongkhapa and the Buddha Śākyamuni:
al. 2010). Concerns over the decline of Tibetan monastic Buddhism in the face of
socioeconomic change can be found that date back at least two centuries. In the
nineteenth century, increased commercialization in the thriving market town
that grew up around Labrang led to the issue of monastic edicts warning monks
and reincarnate lamas “not to be greedy, exploit others, or embezzle communal
funds for personal profit” (Makley 2007, 70–71). Gendün Chömpel [dge ‘dun
chos ‘phel] lamented during the first half of the twentieth century that purely
celibate asceticism was increasingly rare in the ferment of expanding commerce
(ibid., 191). Arjia Rinpoché (2010, 245) mentions moral decline at Kumbum
following the collapse of the Qing, when “a sense of Western modernism swept
the land, further undermining discipline among some monks.” Criticism of reli-
gious fraud and references to the corrupting potential of wealth go back much
further than this in Tibetan religious discourse. Wood (2013), for example, cites
a fourteenth-century letter of advice by the influential Tibetan monastic scholar
and eleventh abbot of Zhalu [zhwa lu] Monastery, Butön Rinchendrup [bu ston
rin chen grub] (1290–1364). Writing to future abbots of Zhalu, Butön urged
them to “guard their minds against the inevitable influx of donations, to be
wary of thieving attendants, and to refrain from individually seizing the posses-
sions of their deceased brethren” (ibid., 37). In the Visuddhimagga (The Path
of Purification), written in the fifth century, Buddhaghosa lists eighteen ways in
which a monastery can be unfavorable to meditative practice. They include “the
presence of incompatible persons,” “famousness,” and “a nearby city” (Robson
2010, 10), all ways in which the meditator can be brought closer back to secular
life. These bear a striking similarity to some of the issues discussed in relation
to tourism and its perceived impact on a major Geluk scholastic center in twen-
ty-first century Amdo (albeit the focus being on the ideal of the scholar-monk
rather than the meditator).
Nevertheless, there have been very real—and very great—transformations
of the world within which contemporary monastics live. Just as we can imag-
ine that historical figures such as Buddhaghosa, Butön, and Gendün Chömpel
were responding to specific concerns of their times, so too are monastic lead-
ers today. There is an acute sense of loss in relation to the upheavals of the
Maoist period. Jampel, for example, lamented that there had not been enough
time for Ditsa’s great teachers to transmit all their knowledge to the younger
generation before they passed away. They must also negotiate the heightening
of political tensions since 2008. At the same time, there has been “unprece-
dented” social and economic change (Huber 2002a, xvii), not least through
the nationally driven and scripted development of the western regions (Ch.
xibu da kaifa). Even since 2008, I have witnessed extraordinary transforma-
tions in people’s lives and livelihoods through processes of rapid marketiza-
tion, urbanization, and infrastructure construction, a burgeoning (for some,
debt-fueled) consumer economy, increased mobility, and the extensive spread
98 Chapter 4
When I arrived in Amdo in summer 2012 on my first trip back since 2009,
Könchok was one of the first people I visited. A senior monk at a scholastic
center, he had helped me a great deal in my attempts to understand the orga-
nization and financing of his monastery. I talked him through a PDF copy of
my doctoral thesis, coming to a page showing photographs of a monastery
shop and a medical clinic. Making a face, he exclaimed, “I think that we don’t
need these!” Könchok was one of the most vociferous advocates of monas-
tic self-sufficiency I had met, so his reaction took me by surprise. On a sub-
sequent visit, I probed further. The problem, he explained, was that monks
“need to be a little deceptive [gokor [mgo bskor]]” in order to make a profit,
since running shops and clinics involved buying goods at one price and selling
them for a higher price. “What should we do,” Könchok asked rhetorically, “if
we are not going to ask for alms and if monks don’t do business?” His answer
to this conundrum involved taking advantage of the local real estate boom,
an answer indicating that the problem was not with profit per se. Rather, the
problem was with monks’ everyday involvement in commerce and their inter-
actions with the public. The monastery, he argued, should instead construct
buildings for business rental: this approach would provide an income, and “as
for the monks, they can stay inside the monastery, coming to assembly, com-
ing to the debating ground.” Könchok elaborated on what was at stake should
monks continue to work in businesses:
the stock is determined by the location and customer base of the shop. Ditsa’s
upper shop, for example, catering mainly to monks, sells stationery; house-
hold goods such as mops, brooms, kettles, hot water flasks, and alarm clocks;
and monastic boots and robes (see figure 5). By contrast, Rongwo’s Tantric
College wholesale shop, in the urban center of Repgong, largely caters to lay
Tibetans from nearby villages, as well as those coming into town from farther
afield to purchase goods, particularly in the lead-up to the new year. It makes
most of its income through the sale of religious products, such as incense and
butter for offerings, as well as drinks.
In monasteries operating monk-run shops, the position of shop-
keeper/manager has become one of the various administrative posts that
a monk might be required to take on as part of his service to the collective.
Depending on the monastery, the terms of office vary from one to three years.
Appointment is usually based on age or length/stage of monastic career,
although in the case of Rongwo’s Tantric College, selection is through a lot-
tery, and at Ditsa it is partly based on character and capability. In each case,
these monks spend much of their time working behind the counter in the
shops (at least some of which are open from early in the morning until well
into the evening), as well as dealing with stock control and replenishment. At
the Tantric College shop in Rongwo town, the managers take turns sleeping in
the shop for security purposes, a common practice among small businesses in
town. As is the case for other monastic administrative office holders, such as
stewards, shop managers are excused from participation in religious assem-
blies and Dharma sessions during their term of office, but they still receive
their share of food and donations. In some cases, they are also given a stipend
(at Ditsa, e.g., the shopkeepers were paid roughly 2,500 yuan per year as of
2009). At only one monastery (a relatively remote practice center) did I find
a shopkeeper who was indefinitely in post. His one-room quarters were in the
same building as the shop, which sits inside the grounds of his monastery and
caters largely to monks and nearby villagers. He had apparently been judged
to be the best monk for the job, leading the monastery to abandon its previ-
ous rotation of the post, and seemed to take great pride in his work, which
was now his full-time occupation. For the other monk-shopkeepers/manag-
ers with whom I spoke, the job was seen as an important but not particularly
welcome responsibility—and for some it was an onerous one. Some monks in
this position were uneasy about selling goods for a profit, echoing Könchok’s
logic that doing so involved being a little deceptive, or they were uncomfort-
able about having to bargain; one monk evaluated regular customers from
certain nearby villages as “really good” because, unlike others, they did not
bargain. Some felt a sometimes simultaneous, if contradictory, pressure to
make a healthy profit, particularly if they had to distribute surplus income to
the monks at the end of their term in office. The amount would, they believed,
be compared favorably or negatively to that disbursed by previous shopkeep-
102 Chapter 4
It would be of great benefit to the people, and it would also help the
monastery’s economy. Not only does the monastery teach medi-
cine and have the ability to manage the clinic itself, but the work of
a doctor is completely fitting work for a monk. From this perspec-
tive, this would be the best way to develop the monastery economy.
The appropriateness of this work for a monk lies in its concordance with the
Mahāyāna ethics of benefiting sentient beings by ministering to their needs
on both mundane and transmundane levels, which includes nursing the ill
(Tatz 1986, 50, cited in Peter Harvey 2000, 131). At an ideal level, working as
a doctor is therefore meritorious (moral) work through which a person can
cultivate and exercise compassion.
Nevertheless, through their experiences of the world, some monks
have reevaluated the appropriateness of running clinics. Ideally, clinics may
be a more ethical form of enterprise than, for example, a shop (although, as
we saw in chapter 2, these too have been represented as a public service).
In practice, however, they are perhaps even riskier. Monastic doctors spend
time with laypeople, just as monks working in shops do. More significantly,
they have access to an alternative status and material basis for life outside
the monastery. I heard many stories about monks who trained as doctors and
then left their monastery, either remaining as monks but setting up private
clinics, or disrobing and working as lay doctors. An elder monk-doctor in
charge of a monastery clinic in an urban area, told me that when the clinic
first opened in 1989 there were two doctors from the monastery and four or
five monk-students who were sent away to study medicine. On their return,
they either left to start their own clinics or disrobed. In 2008, I saw a new
monastic medical college under construction in Xunhua County, sponsored
by a local lama. By summer 2009 a teacher from the area told me that a deci-
sion had been made to construct a college of dialectics instead. There had
been concerns that monks who trained as doctors would leave the monastery
or even turn back to lay life.
Monastic Development 103
astery businesses is not the only issue that monks have been wrestling with.
Even more hazardous (and figuring prominently in concerns about moral
decline) is their engagement in private income-generating activities. A col-
lective capacity to increase support for individual livelihoods has been seen
as a way of containing monks within monastic space, an environment that (it
is hoped) moves monks closer to the ideal of the monk as a particular kind of
moral subject.
Containing Monks
a family to provide a religious service and monks who seek out this kind of
work. While criticisms of “ritualists-for-hire” are “not particularly novel” in
Tibetan religious discourse (Kapstein 2002, 102), it is not just the monastic
scholarly elite who are critical.
Monks play an important role in rituals for the dead, part of what
Samuel (1993) refers to as the “karma-oriented” sphere of death and rebirth.
They also provide religious services oriented toward this-worldly concerns
such as curing sickness and bringing success in business or exams. Con-
ducted collectively in the assembly hall or by individuals in the community,
these are an important source of support for monks, and many, particularly
those at the branch monasteries, specialize in providing such services. There
has been a long-standing tension between the role of monks as religious ser-
vice providers and their role as scholars/practitioners. This tension is dealt
with to some extent at an institutional level. I was told at several monasteries
that their monastic constitutions contain rules about the times during which
monks are permitted to go into the community to provide religious services.
However, monks from some of the smaller monasteries spend much of their
time performing rituals, either locally in the community, in other parts of
Qinghai, or, in some cases, in inland China. Recalling how poor life was for
both the monks and the villagers when he entered Lhündrup’s monastery in
the early 1980s, Püntsok said that it got much better around the turn of the
millennium. As economic development brought improvements to villagers’
lives, more families invited monks to perform rituals. At the same time, the
number of monks at his practice center was decreasing, with some return-
ing to lay life and fewer new monks enrolling. This dynamic, played out
more generally in Amdo, has meant that many monks have spent increasing
amounts of time providing religious services outside their monastery. This is
good for their livelihoods, one young monk at a scholastic center remarked,
but “harmful” to studies.
Despite the increasing demand for religious services from the laity,
there is also a belief among laypeople that monks should be inside the mon-
astery, living a simple life and focusing on Buddhist study and practice.5 Vis-
iting monasteries with friends, I generally found them to be disparaging if few
monks were in evidence; they assumed that most of the monks were outside,
“chasing money.” Monks travelling to inner China are particularly criticized
(Caple 2015). When monks are “outside,” they are generally understood to
be engaged in work of a religious nature (rituals or religious arts and crafts)
rather than secular commerce. However, production of religious arts and
crafts is widely perceived to have been commodified, and the line between
“business” and the provision of religious services has blurred. This is evident
not only in rumors of religious fraud but also in complaints that monks are
“expensive” these days; that there is a going rate for their services, which (it is
108 Chapter 4
claimed) never used to be the case; and that laypeople treat monks as workers,
not respecting them as they did in the past.6 The normative basis and efficacy
of the ritual relationship are predicated on the faith of the person requesting
the service and the virtue and power of the person providing the service. They
are undermined if that relationship is reduced to its economic dimension, as
Gendün Chömpel did with characteristically iconoclastic style in his alphabet-
ical poem about the nature of humans (trans. in Lopez 2009, 99):
They [monks] read the scriptures of the Victor for the sake of
offerings.
If we consider it calmly, it’s all for the sake of wealth.
I was commonly told that the really good Geluk monasteries in Amdo were
Ditsa, Ragya, and Rongwo in Qinghai and Labrang in Gansu, all scholastic
centers.8 Evaluations of these and other monasteries were based on perceived
standards of discipline and education.9 That “education” meant, more specif-
ically, scholastic education was sometimes conveyed through an accompany-
ing clapping gesture symbolizing Tibetan monastic debate: the speaker’s right
hand moving down from his right shoulder to strike his left hand, held out
and palm turned upward.10
It is perhaps not surprising that a scholastic center like Rongwo
has placed considerable emphasis on raising standards in education, taking
the medieval Indian monastic university of Nālandā as its model. The eco-
nomic reforms we have examined suggest the aim is now for all of Rongwo’s
monks to be scholars. The College of Dialectics introduced financial incen-
tives to encourage all monks to attend debate; moreover, by appointing the
Abhidharma class to act as the monastery’s managers, any distinction between
scholar-monks and others who engage in work for the monastery was abol-
ished. Once again, India was drawn upon as a source of legitimacy. “In India,”
one monk commented, “all monks are the same, whether or not they are good
at study.”11 The college also shortened the assembly time during which col-
lective rituals are carried out, to allow more time for studies, and increased
the number of annual collective debating sessions from two to four (figure 8).
FIG. 8 Collective debating session for the monks of Rongwo and its affiliate monasteries to
celebrate the completion of the College of Dialectics’ new debating courtyard, 2009
110 Chapter 4
monks closer to it. Makley (2007, 255) has argued that Geluk monastic elites
had an “urgent interest in reestablishing the authoritative foundations of
Buddhism in Labrang as a superior form of rationalized and moralized knowl-
edge production.” This coincided with state attempts “to distill the commu-
nity down to a group that most nearly approximates the ideal state monastic
subject” (ibid., 257). The rationalization and “purification” of Buddhist tradi-
tions have been interpreted more generally as characteristics of modern (in
many cases postcolonial) state formation in Asia (e.g., Tuttle 2005; Ashiwa
and Wank 2009). However, instead of reading the contemporary emphasis
on discipline and education as the response of “traditional” religion to “the
modern world” or as an internalization of colonial values, I follow Borchert
(2008, 138) in arguing that we should be interrogating “modern forms of
Buddhism . . . as the way in which contemporary people practice their religion
and build their communities within contemporary conditions.” I suggest that
rather than being a refiguring of the ideal in response to modernity or state
discourse, a privileging of the monk as scholar reflects a sense of urgency—
driven by various factors and by both monks and laity—for all monks to live
up to Geluk ideals in contemporary conditions.
The Geluk tradition is characterized by its scholastic approach, con-
tinuing the academic and clerical tradition of early Indian Buddhism (Samuel
1993, 504). In the fourteenth century, Tsongkhapa placed a renewed empha-
sis on the status of the ordained monk—and thus monastic discipline—as the
basis of Buddhist practice and on the importance of philosophical training
(ibid., 26). Himself a visionary, Tsongkhapa did not reject tantric practice, but
he saw it as dangerous and suitable only for advanced students (ibid., 507). In
the Tibetan tradition, the ideal thus came to be “the master who was believed
to have successfully integrated the highest tantric levels of attainment with
the intellectual refinement of a monk-scholar” (Kapstein 2006, 231). Some
of Repgong’s great Geluk masters of the past, such as the First Shartsang,
spent lengthy periods in meditative retreat. Geshé Tendzin, already fitting
the ideal of a scholar-monk, said that his great regret was that he had not
been able to do this himself. When he was younger, he was caught up in the
turmoil of the Maoist years. Now that he had the aspiration to practice as a
hermit, he no longer had the physical capacity. However, as Cabezón (2006,
18) notes, the goal of the Geluk scholastic centers “was not to produce hermits
and meditators, but to create scholars who were the embodiments of the Dge
lugs tradition,” exemplifying Tsongkhapa’s teachings “through their learning,
comportment, and ritual skills.” It is this ideal that is being emphasized in the
push to raise standards of education and discipline in at least some monaster-
ies in Repgong and western Bayen.
This ideal framed the ways in which monks evaluated other monas-
teries but also how they talked about their personal inadequacies. For example,
112 Chapter 4
Künsang (the monk who saw little value in state-sponsored renovation when
monastery schools were being shut down) regretted that he had not studied at
Rongwo, because it is a great center of scholarship. Yet monks’ expressions of
regret and self-evaluation were conditioned by their position, not just as Geluk
monks, but also as Tibetans. Gyeltsen, from Kumbum, expressed “some strong
regrets” that, due to his own laziness and mental distractedness, he had not
studied to a satisfactory level nor strictly adhered to monastic rules. When he
entered monastic life at age fourteen, he thought his duties would simply be to
put on the robes and recite scriptures, but he later realized that “a monk is a
guardian of tradition and studies.” This observation brings us to another factor
in the contemporary emphasis on monastic discipline and education: the rela-
tionship between monastic Buddhism and Tibetan identity.
the importance of Tibetan Buddhism in the world, and the difference between
monks and university students. “Which is more important for the future of
Tibetan society?” one monk asked. I had started to realize how sensitive this
issue could be for monks during one of my first interviews. Attempting (quite
innocently) to draw an analogy between monks and students, a friend helping
me that day intervened, explaining in English that I should find another way
to put the question. By the time I was facing the monks in the debate court-
yard, I had become more familiar with their feelings of insecurity vis-à-vis
secularly educated youth, as well as their sense of displacement from the cen-
ter to the margins of education and culture. These dynamics have influenced
monastic development, not only reinforcing the emphasis on “traditional”
Geluk scholasticism but also shaping attempts to reform monastic education.
As Kapstein (2002, 110) has previously argued, criticisms of monas-
tic morality now come from outside the religious establishment through a
corps of secular intellectuals that did not exist in pre-Communist Tibetan
society and that privileges modernist, materialist values. Moreover, since the
turn of the millennium, the debate among these intellectuals about Tibetan
development and “survival” has intensified the search “for a cause of the
backwardness of Tibetan society” (Hartley 2002, 6), which is often associ-
ated with its Buddhist culture and the mass monastic tradition.18 Although
most of my interlocutors were more concerned with issues of discipline and
education, there is some pressure from within and without the monastic com-
munity for monks to engage more with society and this-worldly concerns—for
example, by sponsoring secular education projects rather than temple build-
ing.19 Therefore, at least some tension exists between different ideals of ser-
vice, and some voices question the idea expressed by Künsang that “there are
many different ways to serve others, but the best way is through the Dharma.”
Monks are sensitive to the questions such debates raise as to the
value of monastic Buddhism and its role in the future of Tibetan society and
the Tibetan nation. Yet, for many Tibetans, the problem seems to lie, not
in the value of monks per se, but in the failure of most monks to live up to
monastic ideals, with questions being raised about the extent to which most
monks are serving others through the Dharma. As we saw, Könchok’s great
concern about monks engaging in business was that “in the eyes of society, the
value of monks will really decline.” Many younger, secularly educated Tibet-
ans firmly believe in the importance and value of Buddhism and monasticism.
However, those I have met tend to have an evaluative attitude toward monks
and even reincarnate lamas. Rather than viewing them as, by definition,
“higher” than the laity, these Tibetans believe that respect is something to be
earned. Tupten, the student who was so disheartened on his first visit to Kum-
bum, had studied Buddhism with monks at his home monastery during the
holidays. He displayed a meritocratic attitude to religious figures, respecting
116 Chapter 4
only those reincarnate lamas who are “very good, very wise,” and attributing
greater value to the “three good characteristics” of erudition, moral discipline,
and altruistic intention (khé tsün zang sum [mkhas btsun bzang gsum]) than
to the inherited status of a reincarnation lineage. He considered his Buddhist
teachers at his home monastery, who possessed these qualities, to be higher
than reincarnate lamas. It was they, not the lamas, who embodied Buddha-
hood: “They are the trülku [sprul sku]!”20 Such meritocratic attitudes, which
some monks also display, have been legitimized by the Fourteenth Dalai
Lama’s own openly expressed distrust of the institution of the reincarnate
lama (Dreyfus 2005, 8).
The extent of social criticism of monks, and particularly reincarnate
lamas, should not be overemphasized. Several people said they would not be
able to express their views to their families. Tupten talked about his friend-
ship with a young reincarnate lama. One evening he was working and had
asked the lama to pour him some tea: “In my hometown, if I let the reincar-
nate lama pour a cup of tea, my father would beat me!” Another student, after
relating an occasion on which he witnessed a lama behaving inappropriately
with some young women, said that he could not talk about this with his fam-
ily. They would consider such talk to be harmful for his next life. Moreover, if
his father witnessed similar behavior, he would explain it in terms of “skillful”
action, the idea found in Mahāyāna Buddhist doctrine that a highly realized
being might do something that appears to contradict Buddhist norms and val-
ues if this is the most beneficial course of action for sentient beings.
Nevertheless, both laypeople and monastics commented on a shift
in the laity’s attitude toward monks, particularly among younger people. A
change in bodily dispositions was the most common evidence cited. In the past,
I was frequently told, a layperson would automatically stand if a monk (even
a child monk) appeared, but nowadays this was not necessarily the case. This
change was perceived as both a cause and a symptom of moral decline. A lack
of respect or faith among the laity reflected the dubious quality of many con-
temporary monks and lamas and was also perceived by some as being indica-
tive of a moral decline that was tied to ideas of Sinicization. People’s attitudes
toward monks were a measure of a person’s culture and “education,” revealing
whether they had been instilled with Tibetan values rather than the materialist
values of the modern Chinese state and its secular education system.
At the same time, narratives of moral decline, combined with the
emergence of a secularly educated elite, have challenged the position of
monks as the educated and cultured corps of society, thus reinforcing the
emphasis on Geluk scholastic ideals. Their roles in education and knowl-
edge production have been dissolved into a larger field of education, within
which they feel marginalized, pushed into niches defined as “religious” and
“traditional.”21 It seems plausible that the relatively new emphasis on award-
Monastic Development 117
ing degrees at Ditsa and Gartsé (which, at Gartsé at least, are certificated)
bears at least some relation to new definitions and markers of status, such
as certificated educational qualifications, within the secular education sys-
tem.22 More generally, there is a sense that monasteries must make efforts
to improve their educational levels. In 2009, Yeshé Gyatso, the head lama
of Lhündrup’s monastery, said that the monastery was originally one where
monks focused on ritual, but “nowadays that wouldn’t do.” Monks needed to
have a good grasp of Buddhist principles, and “that means we have to study
texts such as [the] Lamrim [Stages of the Path to Enlightenment].” The pres-
ence of secularly educated youth can cause monks to reevaluate their position
even in the field of “traditional” culture and its linchpin, the Tibetan language.
The Geluk curriculum is largely based on oral training methods. Therefore,
even monks who are skilled in oral debate and learned in philosophy will not
necessarily be as accomplished in writing as university students who study
the Tibetan language and literature. At practice centers and branch monas-
teries that focus on ritual, the emphasis is on learning to chant and memorize
texts, rather than on writing. The head of the Management Committee of a
relatively remote practice center explained why, in 2008, its monks decided
to introduce study of Tibetan language and grammar and the Lamrim. The
laity expects monks to be well educated, he said, and students would tease
monks if they made a mistake when writing the names of villagers—a basic
requirement when receiving donations or requests for ritual services. In other
words, the perceived importance of education extends to monks’ fulfilment
of their roles as ritual service providers, since this role puts their literacy and
erudition (or lack thereof) on public display.
Efforts have also been made to broaden the monastic curriculum
at some monasteries, often by starting schools that teach not only Tibetan
writing and grammar but also subjects such as Chinese, mathematics, and
English. These educational initiatives have precedent in the efforts of senior
Geluk hierarchs to modernize monastic systems. For example, the Four-
teenth Dalai Lama expanded the curriculum of monasteries in exile to include
primary-school-level Tibetan, Hindi, English, social studies, science, and
mathematics (Tsenzhab Serkong Rinpoche II, n.d.), and Arjia Rinpoché
(2010, 182–183) started a “Western style” school at Kumbum in 1990 “to
adapt to modern times.” Once again, reformist ideas are contentious. Some
of my interlocutors argued that monks should focus on studying Buddhism
and that “modern” education only serves as a distraction and, at worst, con-
tributes to the problem of monks disrobing. Others, such as Geshé Lozang,
displayed remarkable pragmatism, arguing that one reason for broadening
monastic education is to provide young monks with some transferable skills
should they return to secular life (see also Goldstein 1998, 43). At some
monasteries, schools were established partly to deal with the issue of under-
118 Chapter 4
age monks. However, I was also offered other explanations for educational
reforms, including the above-mentioned contingency that monks may dis-
robe, the need to improve basic literacy, the need to cater to those monks
not interested in studying philosophy, the need for monks to function in con-
temporary society, and the capacity built by foreign-language learning for
Buddhist exchange and propagation. Only the last explanation is explicitly
connected to the religious goals of monastic life. The other reasons are related
to a perceived need to keep up with a fast-moving and fast-changing society
in which the monastery is not the only educational option and the minds and
aspirations of young men are changing.
Ditsa’s “Triumph”
On one of my visits to Ditsa in 2009, Ngawang had been explaining the mon-
astery’s commercial development and its decision to ban the steward from
collecting alms. Stating that his monastery was not like others, he launched
(unprompted) into a comparison with nearby Jakhyung to explain and extol
the direction of development taken at Ditsa, linking issues of financing to
wider issues of monastic discipline, education, and “quality.” Ditsa, he said,
had “prioritized studies over economics and construction”:
122
Monastic Recruitment and Retention 123
Monk Numbers
Given that most monks had either died or married during the Maoist period,
the speed and scale of monastic repopulation in the 1980s was dramatic. Fol-
lowing their closure in 1958, monastic centers (such as Rongwo, Jakhyung,
Ditsa, and Gartsé) were temporarily reopened during the relatively liberal
period between the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution (1962–
1966), but the numbers of monks remained low (table 5.1).1 In the early
1980s, following the return of reincarnate lamas and monks who had been
ordained prior to 1958, there was an extraordinary upsurge in new monks.
By 2008–2009, however, I was told that their numbers were decreasing at
most practice centers and branch monasteries, although the extent of the
decrease varied (see table 5.1 for indicative figures in 2009–2010). At Dechen
and Dzongngön the numbers were reported to be holding steady, but at most
branch monasteries and practice centers they appear to have peaked during
the 1990s, or even as early as the late 1980s at Gomar.2 After that, the gen-
eral trend toward growth reversed, even taking into account the variation in
individual monastic populations from year to year (for example, monks may
take a leave of absence to study at other monasteries). The decreasing Geluk
monastic population was mentioned more generally by Tibetans in north-
eastern Amdo, and anecdotal evidence suggests that this trend extended to
other parts of Amdo and Kham.3 After 2009–2010, some branch monasteries
and practice centers, including Dowa Drok, Kasar, Nyentok, and Trashitsé,
continued to shrink.4 Others, including Gomar and Lower Senggé Shong, saw
an influx of young monks after lamas and elder monks initiated recruitment
drives in their patron communities, encouraging households with more than
one son to send a boy to the monastery. Monks continued to leave these mon-
asteries, but the influx of young monks enabled them to prevent the popu-
lations from falling significantly. Thirty boys entered Gomar, for example,
following a recruitment drive in 2010 or 2011. Even though some monks have
Table 5.1 Numbers of monks by monastery, 1958 to 2009–2010
Peak in
1959– 1966– 1987– 1991– 1980– 2009–
Monastery 1958 1962 1962 1965 1980 1989 1992 2009 2010a
Scholastic centers
Ditsab 700c 0 57 57 0 163 250 403 403
Gartsé 137d 0 10 10 0 70 117 >160 164
Jakhyung 887 0 130 94 0 224 350 600 385e
Rongwob 1,712 0 70 170 0 291 307 700 524f
Branch monasteries and practice centers
Dechen 204g 0 0 0 0 24 65 80h 80
Dowa Drok 60 0 0 0 0 20 36 50 25
Dzongkar 94 0 0 0 0 40 44 70 50
Dzongngön 43 0 0 0 0 9 14 25 25
Gomar 305 0 0 0 0 72 119 160 100
Kasar 115 0 0 0 0 41 55 60 50
Nyentok 210i 0 0 0 0 15 35 65 54
Lower Senggé Shong 350 0 0 0 0 80 100 170j 134k
Upper Senggé Shong 208 0 0 0 0 80 116 140 120
Trashi Khyil 290 0 0 0 0 — 34 60 30
Trashitsél — — — — — — — 146 71
Yershong 90m 0 0 0 0 48 64 70n 55
Sources: Unless otherwise indicated, data for 1958, 1962, 1965, and 1991–1992 are from Nian and Bai (1993); for
1987–1989, from Pu Wencheng (1990); and for the peak in 1980–2009, from interviews with monks (2008–2009).
Data for 2009–2010 are from interviews in 2009 and, where indicated, personal communications with key infor-
mants in 2010 and 2011.
a
Where estimates were given as a range, the median is used.
b
This monastery’s monk population has risen above the peak since 2009–2010.
c
This figure is a rough estimate, but note that there is considerable discrepancy between different sources. An elder
who joined Ditsa in 1947 at age fifteen said he knew there were “more than 700 monks” in 1958 because he was
responsible for apportioning butter for each. The monastery’s website and brochure (Zhizha Da Si 2004, n.d.)
report 800 monks in 1958, while Pu Wencheng (1990, 92) and Nian and Bai (1993, 54) respectively report 571 and
550.
d
Pu Wencheng (1990, 449) reports 82 monks at Gartsé in 1958.
e
Pers. comm. with a key informant, June 2010.
f
Pers. comm. with a key informant, April 2010.
g
Pu Wencheng (1990, 458) reports 154 monks at Dechen in 1958.
h
Pelzang (2007, 336).
i
Both Pu Wencheng (1990, 430) and Nian and Bai (1993, 157) give this figure for 1954. No data are available for
1958.
j
Pelzang (2007, 261); Gruschke (2001, 54).
k
Pers. comm. with a key informant, February 2011.
l
Trashitsé was founded in the mid-1990s.
m
Pu Wencheng (1990, 441) reports 60 monks at Yershong in 1958.
n
Pelzang (2007, 143).
Monastic Recruitment and Retention 125
since disrobed, I was told that the population as of 2015 remained at a level
similar to that of 2009.5
The picture at the scholastic centers has been slightly more compli-
cated. We have seen that one of Ditsa’s “triumphs” has been its success in
increasing and sustaining its population, whereas Jakhyung experienced a
significant decline.6 Ditsa had grown to around 300 monks by 1995, at which
point nearly half left to found a new monastery (Trashitsé). Nevertheless,
Ditsa recovered, and by 2009 it housed around 400 monks. Despite some ups
and downs, it managed to keep its population at roughly this level, boasting
420 monks as of summer 2015 (pers. comm. with a key informant, August
2015).7 Gartsé is the only monastery among my field sites that has grown big-
ger in the post-Mao period than it was in 1958. It saw a decrease after 2008,
but I was told that this was because monks who had come from other areas
were no longer able to stay.8 On the other hand, until 2008 Rongwo had been
experiencing a significant decrease in numbers across all three of its colleges
since the 1990s, when it had housed as many as 700 monks: 570 in the Col-
lege of Dialectics, 70 to 80 in the Tantric College, and 40 to 50 in the Kāla-
cakra College. Following the 2008 protests, monks who had been studying in
Lhasa were returned to their places of origin after a lengthy period of deten-
tion and political reeducation.9 This shift in the political environment resulted
in a new influx of monks, mostly into the College of Dialectics. Even so, Rong-
wo’s population remained well below the 1990s peak, with an estimated 524
monks as of spring 2010 (pers. comm. with key informant, April 2010).10
However, the population of the College of Dialectics subsequently continued
to grow (from around 450 monks in 2010 to over 600 in 2015), partly because
it attracted monks from other Tibetan areas. This trend was probably due, to
a large degree, to the presence at Rongwo of many scholars (geshés) who had
previously been in Lhasa, as well as restrictions on monks studying at Lhasa’s
monastic seats. By 2015, Rongwo Monastery as a whole once again housed
around 700 monks.11
Monks see issues of recruitment and retention as some of the most
problematic and pressing issues they face. The decreasing numbers of monks
is also an issue of considerable urgency for many laypeople. Yet it is barely
mentioned in the literature. Makley (2007, 268–269) touches on the subject,
stating that a “decrease in the number of young men choosing (or agreeing
to) the monastic life by the late 1980s” was linked to their aspirations for
social mobility and participation in the modern globalizing economy. Costello
(2002, 228) makes a passing reference to a “natural decrease” in Rongwo’s
numbers “as fewer monks than before are entering the monastery, and more
monks are leaving after a period of study,” but offers no further analysis.
Other than this, the issue of monastic population has only been discussed in
the context of state control and regulation of monasteries.
126 Chapter 5
State Restrictions
Scholars and activists have claimed that state regulation and control of mon-
asteries have been an obstacle to their growth (e.g., ICT 2004, 63; Childs
2008, 274; Cabezón 2008, 277–283). Policy shifts over the past thirty years
have included a tightening of regulation over monastic populations. During
the 1980s the growth of monasteries and numbers of monks was more or
less unrestricted (with the possible exception of Ganden, Drepung, and
Sera in Lhasa; see Cabezón 2008, 278). This countered the Chinese Com-
munist Party’s religious policy as outlined in Document 19. Shakya (1999,
419) argues that local officials were unwilling to provoke tensions with the
Tibetan population; according to Arjia Rinpoché (2010, 126), they would
neither approve nor act against monastic expansion, because of a lack of
clarity on what should be permitted under the new religious policies. Monks
at Kumbum referred to this as “the policy of ‘three not-knows’: not know
how to regulate religion; not know how religion would eventually be regu-
lated; and not want to know” (ibid.). However, the shift toward increased
regulation of religion from 1990 included efforts to control monastic
growth. New regulations codified requirements for monasteries to fix maxi-
mum quotas of monks and for monks to undergo approval and registration
before being allowed to enter monastic assemblies. In Qinghai these regu-
lations were implemented in 1992 (QZCG 1992; QZRG 1992), and monastic
quotas were fixed by 1996 (TIN 1999b, 9; Kolås and Thowsen 2005, 85).
However, the policies did not necessarily work to contain the number of
monks but, rather, led to the existence of large populations of “unofficial”
monks, particularly at major sites such as Kumbum, Labrang, and the big
Lhasa monasteries (Schwartz 1994, 63; Goldstein 1998, 31, 43; TIN 1999b,
10; Makley 2007, 253, 267).12 Since the early 1990s, there have been peri-
odic attempts to deal with the population of unofficial monks (although not
always through expulsion),13 to enforce monk quotas, and to return school-
age monks to their villages (Schwartz 1994, 180–181; TIN and HRW 1996,
115–120; Goldstein 1998, 45; TIN 1999b, 6–8).14 Some monasteries without
official approval have been closed down (TIN and HRW 1996, 118). In gen-
eral, regulation and control appear to have been tighter in the TAR, although
the largest-scale expulsions, numbering in the thousands, have been at the
Buddhist institutes of Larung Gar [bla rung sgar] and Yachen Gar [ya chen
sgar] in Sichuan, first in 2001 (TIN 2002, 50–58; ICT 2004, 64–72) and
again in 2016–2017.15
Despite periodic campaigns and specific instances of mass expul-
sions, in practice there appears to have been a general lack of enforcement
of monk quotas (Kapstein 2004, 256; Kolås and Thowsen 2005, 87; Makley
2007, 253), and monasteries have employed a degree of “creative accounting”
Monastic Recruitment and Retention 127
(Kolås and Thowsen 2005, 87). Restrictions on minors being allowed to join
or remain at monasteries seem to have been more problematic, particularly at
larger monastic centers such as Rongwo (see also Costello 2002, 224–225),
but monasteries have found ways around this.16 As of 2014 there were indica-
tions that the policy on child monks had been relaxed in Repgong, which had
recently seen recruitment drives in some villages. Many young monks were
still in evidence at monasteries, and most of the monks with whom I talked
(including those who had only recently become monks) entered monastic life
when they were under the age of eighteen.
Finally, regular political campaigns inside monasteries, including
pressure on monks to denounce the Dalai Lama, have provoked tensions
between monasteries and state authorities, the consequences of which have
included monastic expulsions, arrests, deaths in detention, and even sui-
cide (see, e.g., TIN 1999a; CECC 2010). Political tensions have heightened
since the 2008 protests, and since February 2009 there has been a series
of more than 150 self-immolations by Tibetan monks and laypeople. These
include at least one monk from Rongwo Monastery, Jamyang Penden [‘jam
dbyangs dpal ldan], who set himself on fire in Drölma Square in front of
the monastery in March 2012. Three days later, Tibetans carried the body
of a farmer, Sönam Dargyé [bsod nams dar rgyas], to the square after his
self-immolation. Ten further self-immolations took place in Repgong that
November, one in Drölma Square, coinciding with the Eighteenth National
Congress of the CCP, which marked the transition to its fifth generation of
leadership headed by Xi Jinping. As of summer 2015, a fire truck and what
appeared to be police surveillance vehicles were still permanently stationed
in front of Rongwo Monastery, as well as army trucks during public religious
festivals. There has also been a visible display of security forces at Kumbum
during its Great Prayer Festival since 2013. Some of my interlocutors spoke
about the psychological stress they were under, which had led some monks
to move to monasteries in exile or disrobe. A significant influx of monks from
Tibetan areas of China into monasteries in India took place in the 1980s and
1990s (Ström 1997, 41; Dreyfus 2003, 328; Childs 2008, 144). At Sera in
Mysore, for example, the population of monks increased from 650 in 1980 to
3,000 in 1994, 60 to 65 percent of whom were newcomers from Tibet (Ström
1997, 41), and to 4,477 in the early twenty-first century (Sherab Gyatso 2004,
221). According to Childs (2008, 144), 79 percent of monks in the Tibetan
community-in-exile aged between fifteen and thirty-four were born in Tibet.
However, many monks, including some of my interlocutors, have gone to
India temporarily to study and then returned to their home monasteries (see
also Ström 1997, 39–40).
In short, the implementation of religious policies by the state has at
times had an adverse impact on the numbers of monks, at least at some insti-
128 Chapter 5
When Chömpel was eight to ten years old, he wanted to become a monk. His
parents disagreed, because one of his four older brothers had already donned
the robes. “The family already had one monk, so they sent me to school,”
Chömpel said. Rather than entering monastic life, he ended up, more than
a decade later, as one of a group of postgraduate students engaging in lively
discussions with me in their student dormitory. Many young Tibetan men
have told me that they considered becoming monks at some point in their
childhood. Some explicitly said that the reason they did not become a monk
was that their parents had been opposed or that they were the only son or the
eldest son or—in Chömpel’s case—their brother was a monk. In other words,
Chömpel and other potential monastic recruits have a role as household
members. While the fulfilment of this role has been recognized as a reason for
boys ending up as monks (Mills 2003, 40), it is also a reason why some boys
do not end up as monks.
A significant demographic transition has occurred in the Tibetan
population since the mid- to late 1980s. Whether it is a result of the state’s
family planning policies (as most of my interlocutors saw it) or socioeconomic
Monastic Recruitment and Retention 129
Chömpel told me that if he was to have a son who wished to enter monastic
life, he would “strongly agree and support him.” However, he believed that
children are no longer willing to enter monastic life because the conditions
are poor and the life hard. He recalled staying in Labrang Monastery during
his primary school holidays, rising early to study and read scriptures and
not getting to bed until midnight: “They are not willing to live this kind of
130 Chapter 5
and men have entered monastic life, we can move toward a thicker under-
standing of these shifting social dynamics and aspirations. Previous studies
have tended to focus on the initial revival of monasteries and to emphasize
active religious or religio-nationalistic motivation and rational choice on
the part of parents or young men (Schwartz 1994; Goldstein 1998; Kapstein
2004; Makley 2007). From listening to the stories of many monks and for-
mer monks, I suggest that two interrelated factors have been overlooked:
the social relationships that they formed as boys and young men, and their
imaginings of monastic life.19 These help explain not only why they entered
monastic life but also why increasing numbers of boys and young men might
be choosing not to.
During that time, my grandfather said, “You may not agree, but
if you would consider my wishes, then you should become a
monk.” I thought long and hard. I had been in the army, and when
I returned, they let me join the [Communist] Party, and the local
government also took me in. Then the policy of religious freedom
was introduced. . . . I became a monk, thinking that if I become an
official, I will be sure to get some money, but to become a monk is
beneficial for both this life and the next.
Many, however (like Tenpa), understood their initial attractions to the monk-
hood as less purposeful than this. In fact, nine of the monks with whom I
spoke explicitly said that they did not really understand much about Bud-
dhism or the value of monastic life when they joined their monasteries. When
I asked Könchok why he became a monk in 1980, he laughed and said that
he had been encouraged by some elder monks and that he himself thought
it would be good, adding, “It was not because I understood the real meaning
of Buddhism—for example, realization of the meaninglessness of samsara or
aspiration for liberation.”
In their own understandings of why they became monks, many of
the men I spoke with saw their interactions with other monks and their own
imaginings of monastic life as important. Twelve men said that they had
wanted to study Tibetan language, culture, and/or Buddhism; to serve others
through religion; and/or to work for the next life rather than this one. Eight
mentioned socioeconomic reasons for entering monasteries (in two cases,
alongside religious/cultural motivations), including one or a combination
of the following: difficult family circumstances, livelihood concerns, a need
to care for monks or lamas who were relatives, a lack of secular educational
opportunities, or unhappiness at school. However, the most common theme
in their narratives (mentioned by twenty of the thirty-six monks entering
monastic life in the 1980s and 1990s, sometimes in combination with other
factors) was attraction to the monastic life through interactions with other
monks: they had lived with elder monks, spent time in monasteries as a young
child, seen and admired other monks, seen others entering monastic life, or
been advised by monks (elders or relatives) about the goodness of monastic
life.24 As we saw in chapter 1, even during the 1970s, boys were influenced
by their interactions with “secret” monks, some of them being socialized into
monastic life even though there were no monasteries. Others learned of the
virtues of monastic life through the hearthside counternarratives of secret
monks, former monks, and relatives.
Monks’ conceptions of “attraction” to monastic life (drawa jé döpa
[grwa ba byed ‘dod pa]) were also grounded in the framework of karma and
rebirth, according to which a child is understood to have a predisposition
134 Chapter 5
toward the monkhood through the virtuous actions of his previous life. Jikmé
explained his pathway into monastic life in 1990 in such karmic, as well as
social, terms:
On a drive through the mountains in spring 2009, Pema told me the moving
tale of his homecoming after he decided to “turn back” from monastic life
almost twenty years earlier. Having run away from the monastery we were
on our way to visit, he started travelling home, stopping in the county town
to buy lay clothes. When he arrived in the small town near his village, literally
disrobed, he was too shy to go home. He went to the town where his older
brother worked as a teacher but also couldn’t face seeing him either. Having
Monastic Recruitment and Retention 135
Some monks become monks because they get carried away by the
popular trend—“Oh, people are becoming monks, and I want to be
a monk.” Then they become a monk and get bored with monas-
tic life and return [to secular life]. Some people turn back because
there aren’t enough people to work at home. Some people turn
back because they did not know how hard monastic life is. To be a
monk is very difficult. It entails hardship. You need to study hard
136 Chapter 5
and abide by rules. Once they become a monk, they get fed up with
these things and return to lay life. There are some who return to
lay life because they encounter all the distractions of modern life
through using computers, watching TV, and listening to CD play-
ers and believe the deceptive messages conveyed by some of these.
expressed by Gyeltsen from Kumbum. He had told a mutual lay friend that
monastic studies had no relevance for modern life, and he wanted to return
to secular life but was concerned about how he would make a living. When I
interviewed him, he would not say directly that he had considered disrobing,
but when I asked what difficulties a monk would have should he disrobe, he
said that there were many because he would need “to start a new life all over
again”:
The reality that young men may disrobe is a problem for monaster-
ies in terms of retention. It also appears to be having an impact on monastic
recruitment. I was told that some parents were reluctant to send a son to a
monastery because they were concerned that he would later “turn back.” Tse-
wang, for example, said that his parents had mixed feelings when he became
a monk in 1992 at age nineteen. One of his brothers had disrobed, so while
they were happy for him to become a monk, they were worried and would be
upset if he was to turn back after a short time. Just as parents may have coex-
isting motivations in wishing a son to be a monk, a son’s disrobing is prob-
lematic not only for religious (karmic) and social (status) reasons but also for
economic reasons: a boy who grows up and is educated in a monastery will
not have received a secular education. He will therefore have lost the oppor-
tunity to pursue other secure, high-status occupations, such as that of gov-
ernment official or teacher, and to provide economically for his household.
As Lungtok put it, he will become “stuck in limbo—somebody who is neither
an able student nor an able monk nor a good religious person.” Therefore, as
more monks disrobe, the monastic life is seen as a riskier prospect for both
the household and the individual.
Pema had been a monk at a scholastic monastery for two years before he ran
away, eventually returning to his village to face his family. His story and that
of another former monk, Sönam, illustrate the complex individual trajectories
138 Chapter 5
of young men into and out of monastic life. Pema became a monk when he
was fifteen years old, influenced by various factors. When he was nine or ten,
at the beginning of the monastic revival, his grandfather took him to Kum-
bum, where he saw a monk from his village. This made him think that per-
haps it would be good to be a monk. He also had two cousins at the monastery
he would end up joining, who talked to him about the virtues of monastic
life. His parents had conflicting attitudes: when he was at primary school his
mother had asked him to become a monk, but his father was opposed and
wanted him to become an official. After finishing middle school, he made
what he described as a conscious choice: he felt that if he did not become a
monk then and instead went on to high school, he would end up with a job
and would never enter monastic life. When he told his parents, his mother
was very pleased and his father unhappy. His mother contacted an elder
monk from his village, and they arranged for Pema to enter a scholastic mon-
astery where he lived with another junior monk in the quarters of their home
teacher, an older monk who introduced them to the rules and life of the mon-
astery and enforced monastic discipline.
Pema enjoyed chanting and playing with the other young monks, but
his home teacher was very strict. He did not let Pema go out to play or study
other subjects such as grammar and poetry. One of his cousins had left to
go to India, and the other kept telling him that it was not good to be a monk
because of homosexual practices within the monastery. He started wondering
if he should return to his village to be a farmer. The pivotal moment came
during a visit to his family. A Nyingma ritual was being performed in the
house. Pema recalled, “At the end of the ritual, the laypeople were drinking
this kind of water and I also drank it. And then I found out that it contained
alcohol. So that made me feel—oh, now I’m not a monk anymore because I
drank a little alcohol. So I decided I definitely couldn’t stay in the monastery
as a monk.” He returned to the monastery but felt uncomfortable participat-
ing in ritual activities, thinking, “Oh, the other monks are pure, and I am not.”
One morning, after his home teacher had left for the assembly hall, he ran
away. When he eventually found the courage to return home and face his fam-
ily, his mother begged him not to disrobe and locked him inside the house. He
escaped over the wall and ran away to school with a relative who wanted to
leave an unhappy marriage.
Sönam’s transition out of monkhood was a more gradual process. He
had entered his local monastery at the age of eleven. His father had died, and
his mother could not afford to pay school fees. His older brother remained at
home to help with farmwork, while he was sent to the monastery to care for
an elderly relative.27 When he was fourteen, he left his home monastery and
went to Lhasa with the aim of going to India. He stayed at one of the monas-
tic centers for only a short time before moving into the city to find work. By
Monastic Recruitment and Retention 139
the time he was seventeen, he had started wearing lay clothes. However, he
said that his heart “stayed clean” until sometime later he had sex with a girl:
“I was sad the next day because I knew I couldn’t be a monk anymore. If you
do that, your complete nature changes. . . . I had sex with a girl, and I drank
beer. I broke two rules, and there is no way to go back.” Sönam does not think
that he ever really wanted to be a monk. During his time at his local monas-
tery, he had liked collecting and repairing broken things, such as radios. “As a
monk, you really honestly and purely study and practice philosophy and med-
itation,” he observed. “But I did not do that. I was more interested in modern
society.” He said that he felt bad because he was not a good student, and “if
I continued to be a monk, my family would feed me until my death.” He was
also uncomfortable that, regardless of his state of mind, local people “just see
the robes and respect you.” He thought that if he could not be a “respectable
person,” he should no longer be a monk.
Sönam’s and Pema’s stories contain many of the elements already
discussed: the relationship of boys to their households and their simultane-
ous positioning as agentive individuals; the importance of social relation-
ships with other monks; and their experiences of the realities of monkhood.
Despite the symbolism of the monastic robe in social relations (one of the
aspects of monastic life felt by Sönam to be problematic), the pivotal moment
in their narratives related to transgression of their monastic vows, although
Pema had not committed a defeating offence. It was through their actions that
they ceased to be monks, whether or not they were still wearing robes or liv-
ing in a monastery. Both men mentioned various contextual factors in their
transitions back to secular life, but they also expressed a moral rationale for
their decision to disrobe, framed in terms of their own personal inabilities to
live up to monastic ideals.28 For Pema, this was linked to breaking a vow. For
Sönam, it was his failure to live up to his understanding of the ideal monk and
therefore the lack of value to his parents and community in his continuing in
this role.
One of the most striking elements of these and other stories of men
who have disrobed is their individual mobility. Pema ran away from his mon-
astery relatively early on, in 1987. We have seen how terrified he was to return
home and face his parents. Even today he does not tell people that he used to
be a monk. Sönam, who disrobed in 1998, said that he did not tell his mother
that he had left monastic life until, many years later, he finally returned home
to visit her. Nevertheless, both men made the move to “turn back” from their
lives as monastics against the wishes and interests of their households and in
contravention of social norms. Both seem to have made relatively successful
transitions, doing well in their respective secular professional occupations,
and both are married with children.
140 Chapter 5
Monastic Responsibility
All monasteries have faced challenges in recruiting new monks and the practi-
cal reality that young men might not remain monks for life. Yet monks viewed
the size of a monastery’s assembly as an indicator of standards in education
and discipline. Although there is little they can do about macro-level changes
such as demographic transition, the monastic leadership—reincarnate lamas
and senior monks—is nevertheless perceived to exercise a degree of agency
in maintaining monastic populations. Their success in doing so has varied
considerably.
Monks at monasteries that have been relatively successful in main-
taining their populations attributed this to several interlinked factors: their
reputation in the local community (Dechen, Gartsé, Ditsa), their standards in
education and discipline (Dzongngön, Gartsé, Ditsa) and the guidance of their
head lamas (Dzongngön, Gartsé).29 Loten, a temple caretaker at the time of
our conversation, thought that Gartsé had attracted and retained many monks
because of its “traditional culture,” education (they study the full Geluk curricu-
lum), and, above all, because the head lama “has great power in his supervision
of the monastery”: “He does not go to other places. He has done much for the
education of the monks and the local people. Since his leadership is good, there
are many who have gone forth on the path [i.e., become monks].” Alak Gartsé
has passed away since Loten and I had this conversation. However, the empha-
sis Loten placed on the head lama’s physical presence, as well as his leader-
ship, was echoed by other monks who viewed the poor example and absence of
head lamas—some of whom have themselves disrobed—as a factor in monastic
moral decline and, linked to this, the decreasing numbers of monks. To a cer-
tain extent, the qualities of individual leaders can be an ephemeral factor in
explaining the success or otherwise of any institution or organization. However,
reincarnate lamas have played a particularly significant role in Geluk monasti-
cism as “transmitters of lineages of tradition that related directly back to Bud-
dhahood, a Buddhahood they simultaneously represented as trülkus [sprul
sku; reincarnate lamas]” (Mills 2003, 317), as well as through their power to
tame/discipline/subdue (dül [‘dul ]), the Tibetan term for the monastic rule
(dülwa [‘dul-ba]).30 They should, ideally, be exemplary figures. The position
of a monastery’s founding lama and his subsequent reincarnations has been
described to me as analogous to that of a “parent” to the monks (see also Goyön
2009), a teacher and a spiritual and moral guide, as well as a provider of mate-
rial support. A weakening of the authority and morality of reincarnate lamas is
thus a significant element in narratives of monastic moral decline.
Monks at monasteries experiencing a decline in their numbers saw
that decline as a pressing issue. Some have used very direct ways to try to
boost their populations, actively recruiting boys by going out to speak to vil-
Monastic Recruitment and Retention 141
lagers in their patron communities. More generally, the issue of disrobing has
shaped attitudes toward monastic economic development and efforts to foster
education and discipline. Ideas about how to address the decline in numbers
have in part been shaped by pragmatic acceptance of the need to adapt to suit
the (morally declining) times. In 2009, for example, I heard stories circulat-
ing in monasteries about monks who had fallen ill and died alone in their
quarters, nobody discovering their bodies for many days. I was told that many
monks talked and worried about the solitary aspect of monastic life. Unlike
householders, they had no spouse and children to care for them. Lodrö, now a
senior monk at Lhündrup’s monastery, believed this was why so many monks
at his monastery had disrobed. His proposed solution was to establish an old
people’s home and communal canteen for monks to use free of charge, so that
they “do not have any other responsibilities apart from undertaking Dharmic
tasks at appropriate times,” echoing the logic of the interrelated financial and
educational reforms we have already examined. However, he saw the need for
this reform as stemming from the changing times and made a (moral) dis-
tinction between the younger reform-era generation and people in “the old
days.” The “mental preoccupation” of contemporary monks, he said, “is that
once you become old, there won’t be anyone looking after you because you are
a single simple monk.” He added, “This is the reason they return to lay life.
Nowadays people do not have faith. In the old days, the old people had strong
faith and stamina. With strong faith, they could take refuge in the Three Jew-
els. Nowadays, we young people are not like that.” However, pragmatic con-
cerns over maintaining assemblies, conditioned by monks’ sense of the times,
can also be in tension with monastic ideals. This is evident if we return to the
fate of Trashitsé, the monastery founded in the mid-1990s.
on the other hand, has experienced a bigger proportional decrease than any
other monastery I visited. Its numbers halved by 2009 and were reduced fur-
ther to only 65 by August 2015. In 2009 one of its senior monks, Lungrik,
offered the following explanation:
Some people went to India, some returned to lay life, some went
to other monasteries, such as Kumbum and Repgong, and some
became doctors or went to study medicine. That’s why the num-
ber is decreasing. There are more people leaving than coming
in. . . . This year only one person has become a monk, and six monks
have left: four returned to lay life, one went to Jakhyung, and one
went to a medical clinic in Tsekhok.
The monks’ stomachs are full, and the monastery does provide food
and clothes. But this does not satisfy today’s youths. Therefore, if
Monastic Recruitment and Retention 143
Yeshé Gyatso—the head lama at Lhündrup’s monastery, which had also seen
many monks disrobing—felt that economic development was crucial to his
plans to develop monastic education. He said that his monastery was in a “dif-
ficult situation”:
If you say, “You need to study,” then you need to guarantee their
livelihood. . . . Nowadays society has developed and there has been
economic progress, and there needs to be a little improvement in
monks’ livelihoods. If there is no improvement, then the situa-
tion is not good for the monks. If they want to improve their live-
lihoods, they have to do it for themselves because the monastery
cannot provide for them.
The idea that monasteries must improve material conditions and even
compete with the economic standards of secular life is in tension with the ideal
of the “simple monk.” The large scholastic centers of Ditsa and Rongwo have,
in different ways, increased the level of support that individual monks receive
from the monastery, but how far this should be taken remains a question—
remember Ngawang’s emphasis on getting the balance right at Ditsa (enough
for basic necessities but not enough “to buy cars and other material things”).
The increasing material well-being of monks and their engagement in contem-
porary consumption practices (e.g., using smartphones, eating in restaurants,
and driving cars) have influenced public perception and, by extension, monas-
teries’ reputations and ability to attract monks. My interlocutors also saw them
as factors in monks disrobing. As monasteries have tried to work out the best
way forward, monks like Lungrik seem to have found themselves in something
of a catch-22 situation. However, they strike me as no different from Ditsa’s
monks in what they have been ultimately attempting: to meet the continuing
challenge of maintaining the intermeshed religious and mundane foundations
of monasticism in a changing world.
As fewer boys join monasteries and more monks disrobe, the shrinking
monastic population has become one of the most pressing concerns for monks.
Although state-monastic interactions have been a factor at some institutions,
socioeconomic transformations have brought deeper structural changes that
pose greater challenges. Issues of recruitment and retention have surfaced
in many of the debates and dilemmas explored in previous chapters. Should
144 Chapter 5
Over a long lunch in a teahouse with two businessmen in summer 2013, the
conversation turned to the issue of monks returning to secular life. I men-
tioned the tradition of temporary ordination in Thailand. Norbu, who had
himself been a monk as a child, simply said he had heard of this. Rinchen
was more forthcoming. He could see that it would be good moral training for
children to stay in a monastery for one or two years. “But,” he added, “the
145
146 Chapter 6
Buddha never said, ‘Stay in a monastery for one or two years’—so they should
try harder!” It is a practical reality that men do not necessarily remain monks
for life. My interlocutors also felt that the social stigma of the disrobed monk
is lessening. However, as a moral principle, the idea that a monk should
remain so for life appears to persist as a largely unchallenged norm. When
I talked with monks about the system in Thailand, they, like Rinchen, were
unable to conceive of such a system for Tibetan Buddhism: after all, the vow
of renunciation is taken for life, according to the version of the monastic rule
they follow. Sihlé (2011) has uncovered a fascinating case of what he refers
to as “quasi-generalized, mostly temporary, monasticism” in Repgong prior
to 1958, involving nearly all boys from the nearest village temporarily enroll-
ing in Rongwo Monastery at a young age and then leaving at age eighteen.
None of my interlocutors seemed to be aware of this local precedent for tem-
porary ordination. They understood that turning back from monastic life car-
ried negative karmic consequences, even if it is becoming more commonplace
and, for some at least, understandable. Yet I did participate in several conver-
sations suggesting that some people saw at least some benefit in temporary
ordination, even if it is not the ideal.
At least some men who have returned to secular life felt that their
experience as a monk distinguished them in culturally and morally positive
ways from other men. A village elder who had been a monk in 1958 and mar-
ried during the Maoist years commented that the literate members of the
male lay elder population had previously been monks. Although his remarks
elide the link between lay literacy and family lineages of nonmonastic tantric
specialists in at least some of Repgong’s villages,1 monasteries would certainly
have been one of the main centers of education for many Tibetans.2 For those
entering monasteries in the post-Mao period, when secular schooling became
universal, monastic training, even at the most basic level, involved a particu-
lar kind of moral cultivation and the inculcation of values different from those
embedded in the state education system. Sönam said that he and others who
had experienced monastic life thought differently from other men. He cited
their treatment of women as an example:
The person who was never a monk will cheat on girls and kick them
out easily, with no heart, nothing. The person who was a monk is
always thinking and takes a long time, even if they don’t like the
girl. It’s natural because they learned that from the monastery,
and these guys are always thinking about this, always—that’s their
nature. I used to have a girlfriend for a few years, and we fought
a lot. Sometimes it made me really unhappy, and she was really
unhappy too. My friends said, “Kick her out,” but I couldn’t do that.
It was hard, [because] she might be sad. It was horrible for me.
Future of Mass Monasticism 147
My conversation with Rinchen and Norbu about the Thai system had stemmed
from a discussion about the ideal age to become a monk. Both felt that it was
better that young men should go to school. When they were old enough to
decide for themselves, they could, if they wished, become monks. Their views
placed them firmly on one side of what is now considerable debate about the
“younger is better” ethic.
Before 1958 most monks were placed in monasteries by their parents
148 Chapter 6
as young boys so that they would be socialized within the monastic commu-
nity before their minds were exposed to the polluting influences of household
life. Many Tibetans, both monks and laity, still consider this to be the best sys-
tem. Künsang, who himself became a monk in 1980 at age seventeen, said that
in his experience there was a big difference between monks who entered the
monastery as children and those who became monks when they were eighteen
or older, after finishing school. The former became familiar with monastic
norms and conduct from a young age, he said, and felt at ease with them:
Those who became monks during their childhood were very young,
and so ethical conduct has become ingrained. Some of those who
became monks at eighteen or over have been to school. Their con-
duct is very bad, and among them there are even those who smoke!
They don’t have the patience to stay in and study. So, in my opin-
ion, there’s a huge difference. If they become a monk after they
have gone to school, it is very difficult to remain a monk for long,
because of their old attitudes. Their conduct is indeed bad!
Others, like Rinchen and Norbu, disagree. They do not believe that the condi-
tions exist nowadays for monks to be cut off from secular life (which, accurate
or not, is how they imagine things were in the past). Their concerns over the
growing numbers of young men who disrobe challenge the normative logic
of sending young boys to monasteries. There is a perception that many who
disrobe do so because they became monks without understanding the lived
realities of monastic life or what it means to be a monk. Some of my interloc-
utors, including monks, therefore thought it better for young men to make a
conscious decision to become monks when they were older, after finishing
high school or even college.
The divergent views on this issue are well illustrated by a discus-
sion I had in summer 2009 with postgraduate students Chömpel and Dorjé.
Both believed that many children nowadays were unwilling to become monks.
However, in principle, Chömpel was a proponent of the “younger is better”
ethic, citing senior Geluk figures as models to be followed. Dorjé disagreed.
Perhaps the most significant ideational shift has been in relation to the very
idea of the mass form of monastic Buddhism that has been characteristic
of Tibetan societies. Challenges to the idea of mass monasticism have been
expressed from the beginning of the post-Mao period, with some Tibetan
intellectuals viewing its revival as holding back Tibetan modernization
(Shakya 1999, 403; Makley 2007, 258). This stance appears to have been pop-
ularized in Amdo by radical writers such as Shokdung (pen name), who has
been influential among many Tibetan university students (see Hartley 2002).
However, challenges have also emerged from beyond this secular elite. Many
people with whom I spoke, including monks and villagers as well as students
and intellectuals, felt that there were now “too many monks.” They tended to
put forward the argument that most monks did not conform to imaginings
of the ideal Geluk monk, the unspoken implication being, “So of what value
are they?” Makley (2007, 276) found similar attitudes in 1990s Labrang. The
“inappropriate” behaviors of many monks, she argues, led villagers, monks,
and officials “to question the benefits of mass monasticism.”
We have seen that considerable emphasis has been placed on monas-
tic education and discipline in Repgong and western Bayen, both within and
without the monastic community. As one businessman put it, nowadays peo-
ple care a lot about the quality ( püka [spus ka]) of monks. Previous work has
drawn a direct correlation between concerns over monastic quality—whether
among the monastic elite (Goldstein 1998) or among villagers, monks, and
officials (Makley 2007)—and the emergence of a high-quality, low-quantity
ideal, which echoes state discourse. This suggests that the idea of purifying
monastic Buddhism in response to what are perceived as times that are both
morally troubled and politically challenging necessarily involves, in Tibet, a
shift away from its mass form.
150 Chapter 6
agents of continuity of the culture that incorporates the shared values, beliefs,
and morality distinguishing “Tibetan” from other. This identity is felt to be
under threat from assimilation into a “Chinese” modernity. Although the role
of monks in Tibetan figurations of modernity may be contested for socio-
economic reasons, most people with whom I spoke saw the continuation of
monasticism as linked to the survival of a “Tibetan” people. However, a ten-
sion exists between the role played by monasticism in the nation’s cultural
survival and that played in the nation’s physical reproduction.
Low fertility among Tibetans and the in-migration of non-Tibetans
have generated fears of assimilation that place a greater emphasis on the
reproductive responsibility of young men and women, not just for the good
of the household, but for the good of the Tibetan people. Childs (2008, 275)
and Makley (2005a, 283) have commented on the tension between women’s
reproductive responsibilities and celibate monasticism in the context of the
gender politics of contemporary nunhood. However, the issue also extends to
monkhood. Indeed, the Fourteenth Dalai Lama has pointed to the dangers for
the Tibetan population “if the number of monks and nuns is raised further”
(Tenzin Gyatso 2006). This tension was evident in a conversation with Kön-
chok. He emphatically stated that the increase in numbers of nuns was “not
good,” but when I asked him why, his reply incorporated the reproductive
responsibility of both women and men:
Our land mass is big, but our population is small, so having too
many monks is not good for the population. Also, we need dif-
ferent kinds of education. If all education is Buddhist, then what
about law, economics, and so on? We also need to develop these to
develop our culture. Doing this inside the monastery is in conflict
with Buddhism and the practice and life of a monk. So again, it is
not good if too many people only study Buddhism.
When I asked Drölma what she made of Trashi’s arguments, she disagreed
with them:
I think that having many monks is good because they are con-
tinuing Tibetan culture in the monasteries. The level of Tibetan of
school students is not good. They study maybe two hours per day,
whereas monks spend all their time studying traditional language
and culture. Anyway, I don’t think it is ever going to be the case
that there are too many monks now.
Even for those who, like Drölma, continue to view mass monasticism as the
ideal in terms of both nationality and religion, there are other competing pri-
Future of Mass Monasticism 153
orities. Her final comment that it is no longer possible for there to be too many
monks reflects a tension between her sense of what is good regarding monas-
ticism in society and her conception of the good at the level of the household.
When I asked her whether, if she had a son, she would want him to be a monk,
she replied: “If I only have one child, no. If I have two or three . . . maybe.”
The emphasis on education and quality would seem to beg one final
question: would it matter if all the monks gathered in the monastic centers
and the branch monasteries and practice centers disappeared, as Könchok
predicted? Some people, like Norbu, might not see their loss as being of any
significance. He thought it better to have scholastic centers that provide good
education and discipline. The practice centers “never used to provide religious
services,” he argued: “They were centers of meditation and practice. Then
people needed services, and they started doing this.” However, many others
considered both scholastic centers and local monasteries to be important. As
Künga pointed out, each monastery has its own history and ritual traditions
and carries its own teaching and practice lineages. He and many other peo-
ple I have spoken with have strong affective ties to “their” monasteries. They
also worry about who will perform essential rites for the dead if there were to
be no local monasteries, because the scholastic centers are very distant from
some communities. Moreover, as Jansen (2014, 175) points out, monks play
an important role in pacifying local spirits and deities and thus in contribut-
ing to the well-being of local communities. Monks are not the only religious
specialists able to care for the ritual needs of their communities, particu-
larly in Repgong, where there are strong traditions of Nyingma nonmonastic
tantric specialists (ngakpa) in many villages. There can be a large degree of
overlap in the case of ritual services oriented toward mundane affairs. How-
ever, the role of monk and ngakpa is nevertheless different, as are Geluk and
Nyingma ritual traditions. In people’s daily lives and practices, they are not
seen as alternatives, just as scholastic centers are not, for many people, alter-
natives to their local monasteries. These and other types of institutions and
specialists all form part of the complex—and as yet little-understood—fabric
of their local world. There is thus a further tension between the idea that there
are too many monks and people’s relationships to, and thus investment in
maintaining, specific monasteries, embedded as an integral part of their local
communities.
155
156 Chapter 7
Sahlins (2002, 52) puts it, “cover every historical eventuality” in some com-
bination. Practices that converge with state discourse and policy represent
accommodation, while those opposing or subverting state-defined limits of
legitimate action are forms of resistance. However, other logics emerge when
these practices are examined in relation to what Ortner (2006, 144) refers
to as the “agency of projects”—in other words, when we think about them as
things that are valuable (or not) to people in “the framework of their own
terms” (ibid.). When we start to move beyond the idea of accommodation and
question the terms of resistance, we can see that practices are often shaped by
relationships, priorities, and values that have very little to do with the state.
have been based on the same distinction as the ethics of business and trade:
the individual versus the collective (Jansen 2014, 162). As part of the monas-
tic leadership, and hence an institutional actor, Jamyang has thus played a
part in affirming and (re)defining the limits of the ethical space within which
monks may appropriately engage in profit-making business activities and rely
on support from the laity.
At the same time, he was feeling his way along, moving within,
around, or over moral boundaries in a step-by-step process of “muddling
through,” interpreting “the results of and reactions to an initial step in order
to determine the next step” (Scott 1998, 328). His first sense that it was inap-
propriate for a monastery to develop businesses was challenged when he saw
the monastic economic system in India. He appeared very proud of his sub-
sequent role in developing the economy of his monastery and of the benefits
this had brought to monastic education and discipline, as well as financing,
but he also said it should not “become too much.” Moreover, his original sense
of uneasiness about the ethics of monastic engagement in commercial activi-
ties resurfaced when he showed me around his monastery’s medical clinic. He
emphasized the service it provided for the monks and local laypeople: “At the
hospital, if you have to pay forty yuan, maybe here it will be twenty yuan or
less because we don’t want to make a profit” (emphasis mine).
Although I have made a conceptual distinction between two modes
of negotiation, in practice Jamyang and other monks were moving between
them in an ongoing iterative process of negotiation as movement (within,
around, and over moral boundaries) and negotiation as arranging or settling
(affirming or redefining moral boundaries). For example, the ethics of alms
collection was challenged from within the monastic community. However,
new economic practices that were deemed a “good” (businesses)—because
they enabled monks to stop doing something that had become a “bad” (alms
collection)—have been contested and produced new dilemmas. The running
of medical clinics, which seemed very fitting to many, became problematic
when understood to be a cause of monks disrobing. Könchok’s feelings on
the issue of monastic businesses reflected a common dilemma. It was wrong
for the monastery to collect alms. However, engaging in business was also
problematic for monks because of the potential effects on their conduct and,
by extension, on the confidence of laypeople, who might start to question the
value of monks. Once again, the boundaries of the good and proper were shift-
ing, and new ideas and strategies were being formed.
Beyond “Accommodation”
religious space. However, I have argued that these patterns do not simply rep-
resent the adaptation and accommodation of institutionalized Buddhism to
the modern category of “religion” in the PRC. Monks’ assessments as to the
possibility of taking particular paths have been at least partly contingent on
state-imposed definitions of the sphere of legitimate action for Geluk monas-
ticism. Those definitions may have informed the way they tactically moved
through this space (e.g., finding ways around monastery quotas or age lim-
its). However, state-imposed “walls” and “paths” have little moral force. The
ethical contours of the terrain that monks have been negotiating (in both
senses) has shifted less through state-monastery interactions than through
local, translocal, and transnational exchanges of ideas and practices within
the moral communities with which monks identify and with which they there-
fore share common values.
The values and judgments that have constrained and enabled monks
negotiating monastic development have not been drawn solely from the insti-
tutionalized norms and values of Buddhism and, more specifically, Geluk
monasticism. They have been shaped through “a continuous dialogical pro-
cess” (Zigon 2008, 155) of interaction between their senses of right and wrong
in relation to others they care about or feel some sense of obligation toward
(members of their moral communities) and the judgments and evaluations
of these others. The “stronger the commonality of values” (Sayer 2005, 954),
the greater the moral force of these judgments. Monks have become wary of
certain practices through experience of their impacts on, for example, educa-
tion, discipline, monastic retention, and (interlinked to this) the way in which
particular practices, individuals, and even entire institutions are perceived
and judged by others. When Jamyang remarked that businesses should be
developed in moderation lest they have a negative impact on education and
discipline, he added: “Like at Kumbum and Labrang.” As we have seen, Kum-
bum has acted as an exemplar of contemporary monastic decline in Tibetan
popular discourse. Monks have also drawn on examples and ideas from other
times and places, including individual or collective memories of how things
were done in the past. Contact with monasteries and the Geluk hierarchy out-
side the PRC appears to have had a significant impact on the “younger gen-
eration” of monks, making them feel differently about monastic organization,
financing, and education systems and leading them to reevaluate what is right
and wrong, fitting and unfitting, for monasteries and monks in contemporary
times. The moral force of “modern” yet “Buddhist” values seems to have been
much greater than the moral exhortations of an external, competing order,
the moral/legal framework of which privileges values largely irrelevant to the
pursuit of the monastic project.
Moral judgments about what is right for a monastery and its monks
are intermeshed with evaluations of what is felt to be right for “the peo-
Seeing beyond the State 159
ple” (mangtsok) or the Tibetan people or nationality (mirik [mi rigs]). The
emphasis on a “social moralism . . . a solidarity with the people that defines
you morally” (Lamont 1992, 31) is particularly prominent in Goyön’s (2009)
polemical essay, when he appeals for monastic reforms in terms of their rela-
tionship to the “fate of the whole Tibetan people.” In this context, the moral
community in question is an imagined Tibetan collectivity. I have suggested
that monks’ identities as Tibetans have conditioned the moral value they have
accorded to particular paths—for example, in the context of monastic eco-
nomic reforms, scholasticism, discipline, and even their conceptions of the
“good” of mass monasticism. However, this social moralism oriented toward
the “Tibetan community” is intermeshed with the idea of the monk as a par-
ticular kind of moral subject whose mind is different from that of the layman.
The monk should, ideally, be an exemplar, embodying the social moralism
of Mahāyāna Buddhism (and its normative emphasis on compassion for
all sentient beings) that distinguishes Tibetans from others—a responsibil-
ity heightened in the context of contemporary narratives of moral decline
and national imaginings. This was apparent in the narratives of monks who
emphasized the services they provided to the community through their com-
mercial activities. Ngawang asserted that for the new year’s festival (Losar [lo
gsar]), which presented a good opportunity to generate income for the mon-
astery, Ditsa instead hired trucks to transport large quantities of goods to
sell at wholesale prices to the laity, giving them a “huge saving,” even though
this was harmful to the business of its shop. “We are not purely thinking
about making money,” he said. “We are also thinking of ways to help [the
people].” This social moralism was also evident in the trope of “reducing
the burden on the people,” most vividly in the moral reasoning employed
by Geshé Tendzin: “The sacred Dharma is for the benefit of the people, not
to increase the burden of the people, so we ceased the traditional practice of
asking for donations.”
Thus, in pursuit of the project of monastic revival and development,
monks’ practices (actions, speech, thoughts, perceptions, feelings) have been
constrained and enabled by their multiple positioning as “Tibetan” “Bud-
dhist” “Geluk” “monks” who belong to particular localities and monasteries.
In other words, they belong to multiple and overlapping moral communities.
There can be tension between conceptions of the good in relation to an indi-
vidual’s role and responsibilities within different moral communities, and
the relationship toward one or another moral community may be privileged
in different contexts. Goldstein (1998) highlights such tensions, although he
draws too hard a line between Buddhist monastic and Tibetan nationalist
moral communities when he argues that “once some Drepung monks began
political dissidence in 1987, all monks were forced to reassess whether their
primary loyalty was to Buddhism and their monastery as in the past or to their
160 Chapter 7
nationality and the Dalai Lama” (ibid., 42). The lived practices of the indi-
viduals I have met are not this clear-cut. Even when moral communities are
oriented toward pursuing a particular project, such as monastic development,
the boundaries between them are fuzzy and overlapping—and are not limited
to those of “nationality” and “religion.” It is therefore not surprising that there
are apparent contradictions in the ways in which both monks and laypeople
view monastic development and the position of monasteries in contemporary
society. Overlapping and contested conceptions of the good can lead to ambi-
guity, ambivalence, and contradiction. This is due, not to an irrationality or
inconsistency or lack of belief in a particular value, but to the complexity of
the moral landscape through which these individuals are moving and the rela-
tional nature of morality. It is entirely “logical” that Jamyang may be both
proud of and uneasy about developing profitable businesses; that Könchok
may believe that there are too many monks and yet also express genuine con-
cern that their numbers are decreasing; and that Drölma may feel that the
more monks there are, the better, yet might not want her own son to enter
monastic life.
make much of their profit from sales of incense and other products used in
devotional practices, while Tibetan medicine is strongly linked to Buddhism
as well as being a social service. Use of these businesses has even been rein-
terpreted by some people as a form of giving. The ambivalence toward monks’
involvement in business in practice stems from the perception that every-
day physical interactions between monks and their lay customers blur ideal
lay-monastic boundaries and that monks should be inside the monastery
studying and practicing Buddhism rather than out in lay society engaging in
commerce. Nevertheless, these kinds of commercial ventures at a collective
level do not, in principle, undermine monasticism’s moral-economic frame-
work and are seen, in at least some cases, to support the upholding of monas-
tic discipline and education, as well as monastic reputations.
The current model of state-sponsored mass tourism, on the other
hand, transgresses the boundaries of the monastic moral community. It
brings outsiders into monastic space and disembeds monastic financing
from a merit-and-renunciation-based moral-economic framework. Not
only does this kind of tourism pose a greater risk of disruption and pollut-
ing interactions than other businesses do, but (from the perspective of the
monks I interviewed) it also has little positive moral value. We have seen
that tourism can be conceived as a “good” if tourists are, to at least some
degree, operating within the monastic moral community, thus transform-
ing tourism into a form of merit-making activity. However, unless tourists
have some investment in shared values, there is a risk that monastic tourism
becomes a tool of exploitation (of and by both tourists and monks), rather
than functioning as a process of mutually beneficial exchange. These shared
values do not necessarily have to be oriented toward the religious goals of
Buddhism. Many monks conceive of monastic tourism as being for the good
if it increases awareness of and support for Tibetan culture, of which monas-
ticism is an integral part. In this context, the tourist stands inside the bound-
aries of a moral community brought together through the “modern” values of
a liberal rights-based discourse. Within this framework, Geluk monasticism
is viewed as an integral element and important symbol of a culture under
threat. However, as already argued, these communities overlap. Moreover,
the logics of the monastic project are rooted in its religious/moral value
rather than its socioeconomic or purely “cultural” value, even (perhaps even
more so) in relation to an imagined Tibetan collectivity. “Good tourists,”
whether self-identifying as possessing faith in Buddhism or not, are brought
inside the monastic moral community through their interest in and support
for Tibetan culture. I suspect that I have been imagined into precisely such a
position in many of my encounters.
Despite the differences in the way in which they are perceived,
underlying unease toward both monastic business and tourism is grounded
162 Chapter 7
in the same moral issue: the undermining of the lay-monastic boundaries that
underpin monasticism’s moral-economic framework, in particular monas-
tic adherence to ideals of renunciation, conduct, and mental disposition that
distinguish the monk as a particular kind of moral subject. The erosion of
these boundaries in practice or belief undermines the integrity of the moral
community on which the continuity of monasticism depends. I suggest that
an underlying logic to monastic development has been the reaffirmation of
these boundaries through the negotiation (as movement) and renegotiation
(as definition) of moral space.
Since the early reform years, most monasteries I visited in Repgong and west-
ern Bayen have renegotiated the moral boundaries of their relationship with
their patron communities by first resuming and then distancing themselves
from methods of institutionalized alms collection. The former movement rep-
resented at least a partial reinstitutionalization of patronage relations, follow-
ing a process of social and moral reordering that had restored laity, monks,
and reincarnate lamas to their proper social and spatial places. The subse-
quent movement away from alms collection was influenced by both practi-
cal necessity and moral considerations. Seen through a state-society lens, it
seems to have shifted the monastic economy closer to the limits of what the
state defines as permissible. Moreover, monks’ representations of almsgiv-
ing as a burden and their emphasis on being self-supporting suggest a reflex-
ive questioning of the taken-for-granted monastic-lay interdependency—an
interdependency that underpins monasticism’s merit-and- renunciation-
based moral-economic framework. Schrempf (2000, 338–339) has argued
that self-sufficiency and financial independence from the laity were unwanted
and “even damaging.” Schwartz (1994, 67) has gone as far as to argue that it
is the relationship between the laity as donors and monastics as benefactors
“that Chinese religious policy finds politically threatening and attacks through
sanctions.”2 However, when conceptualized in relation to the monastic proj-
ect rather than state-society relations, and taking into account the internal
pressures for reform, we can see how this movement has in fact worked to
reinforce (rather than undermine) the normative framework on which the
Buddhist monastic economy is based.
By distancing themselves from practices tainted with connotations
of coerced giving, my interlocutors (monastic and lay) have reestablished the
possibility of a moral monastic-lay relationship. Monks have not eschewed
sponsorship. Rather, they have drawn a line between different forms of
patronage that works to reassert their virtue. This makes them worthier of
(voluntary/spontaneous) gifts, the receipt of which in turn acts as a marker
Seeing beyond the State 163
165
166 Coda
ulated at these and other monasteries in northeastern Tibet were the same:
their long-term survival is dependent on their ability to cultivate monastic
education, practice, and discipline and to maintain their monastic assemblies
in morally troubled times. They thus face the continuing challenge of sus-
taining the intermeshed religious and mundane bases of monasticism within
changing social contexts—as well as what seems to be an increasingly oppres-
sive political climate.
The social dynamics of monastic revival and development in north-
eastern Tibet have been intermeshed with complex processes of wider change
and modernization. These processes have been conditioned by the incor-
poration of Tibetan societies into the PRC and the resulting restructuring
and transformation of the region’s economy, politics, and society. However,
state-defined space has been superimposed upon preexisting and newly
emerging configurations of relationships that, as de Certeau (1984, 201) put
it, “lie in layers within it” and extend beyond it. Thus, as monks and other
Tibetans configure and refigure their place in the world (Adams 2008, 119),
struggling to “maintain and modernize” (Kolås and Thowsen 2005, 178), they
are not doing so “on Chinese rather than Tibetan terms” (ibid.). Rather, they
are situated agents who have drawn on the socioeconomic, cultural, and moral
resources available to them in pursuit of their own projects, “defined by their
own values and ideals, despite the colonial situation” (Ortner 2006, 152).
In their pursuit of the project of Geluk monastic revival and development,
monks have been both constrained and enabled by multiple, overlapping,
shifting, and sometimes conflicting moral boundaries that are not necessarily
tied to the temporal or spatial framework of the contemporary Chinese state.
With the political situation in Tibetan areas becoming increasingly
tense under the Xi Jinping regime, monasteries are being targeted by the
state for new rounds of political education and increased control and surveil-
lance. By the time this book goes to press, it is expected that the CCP will have
tightened its oversight of religious and ethnic affairs more generally, bring-
ing them directly under the management and supervision of the CCP’s United
Front Work Department and dismantling the existing governmental religious
and ethnic affairs bureaucracies. At the same time, more and more ordinary
Chinese are interested in Tibetan Buddhism, and increasing wealth is flowing
to monasteries from inner China, as well as from local communities, bringing
new opportunities but also new moral dangers and dilemmas for monastic
leaders (Caple 2015). Thus, developments in monastic Buddhism in Tibetan
areas of China in the years to come will continue to be shaped by the agency
that monks exercise, not only in their negotiation of state-defined religious
space, but also in their negotiation and renegotiation of the shifting moral
contours of a rapidly changing social and economic landscape.
Notes
INTRODUCTION
1 All personal names have been changed. “Akhu” [a khu] is the polite form of
address for a monk in Amdo [a mdo] Tibetan. I have chosen to use it only rarely,
feeling that its continued use might disturb the flow of the text and be off-putting
for readers unfamiliar with Tibetan. I certainly mean no disrespect in this choice.
Amdo is one of the eastern provinces of Tibet in traditional Tibetan geographical
terms (Kapstein 2006, 4), now incorporated into Qinghai, southwestern Gansu,
and northwestern Sichuan. The other is Kham [khams].
2 The Geluk [dge lugs] is one of the four main Tibetan Buddhist traditions, the
others being the Nyingma [rnying ma], Sakya [sa skya], and Kagyü [bka’ rgyud].
Bön [bon], in its organized, clerical form is often considered to be a fifth Tibetan
Buddhist tradition (Kapstein 2006, 205).
3 According to government regulations, each monastery must have a management
committee (dodam uyön lhenkhang [do dam u yon lhan khang]; Ch. siguan-
hui), which is a body of monks responsible for running its affairs, ensuring com-
pliance with government regulations, and acting as an intermediary between
state agencies and monks. The actual role, membership, and perception of these
committees varies (discussed further in chapter 2).
4 The Geluk monastic centers of Drepung [‘bras spungs], Sera [se ra], and Ganden
[dga’ ldan] were rebuilt by the Tibetan community-in-exile in India.
5 See Wang (2010) for a review of the Chinese-language literature on both his-
torical and contemporary Tibetan Buddhist monastic economies. An influential
Tibetan critical study of Tibetan monastic economy prior to the Chinese Com-
munist Party’s “democratic reforms” is Dungkar Lozang Trinlé (1997).
6 The “Tibet question” refers to the political struggle over the status of Tibet and
whether the Tibetan people have a right to self-determination. For analyses of
the Tibet question, see Smith (1996), Goldstein (1997), and Shakya (1999). I
follow Huber (2002a) in using the term “Tibetan” in a descriptive, rather than
essentialist, sense to refer to people and communities who “regard themselves as
being ethnically Tibetan in the sense of sharing some form of common language,
history, origin narratives, lifestyles, cultural systems and identity” (ibid., xiii).
Tibetan areas within the boundaries of the People’s Republic of China include
(but are not limited to) the Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR) and areas adminis-
tered as Tibet Autonomous Prefectures (TAPs), counties, and townships in Qing
hai, Gansu, Sichuan, and Yunnan Provinces.
7 Given the contemporary focus of this study, “China” is used as shorthand for the
People’s Republic of China (PRC). When my interlocutors used the term “China”
(Gyanak [rgya nag]), they were often referring to non-Tibetan parts of the PRC.
169
170 Notes to Pages 4–5
For example, they might talk about monks “going to China” to perform ritual
services. This usage reflects a drawing of cultural boundaries between “China/
Chinese” (outside) and “Tibet/Tibetans” (inside). It should not be read as auto-
matically implying separatist political intent.
8 Full name of Document 19: Shehuizhuyi shiqi zongjiao wenti de jiben guan-
dian he jiben zhengce [The basic viewpoint and policy on the religious question
during our country’s socialist period] (trans. in MacInnis 1989, 10–26).
9 Following the introduction of the national regulations in 2005, a series of reg-
ulations and measures relating to management of Buddhist monasteries and
personnel was subsequently introduced (e.g., HZFT 2009; QZST 2009; ZCCB
2010; ZFRB 2010; ZFSB 2010). These will be discussed where relevant. For an
overview of Tibetan Buddhist affairs regulations issued at the prefectural level in
2009–2010, see CECC (2011). A revised version of the national Regulations on
Religious Affairs came into effect on 1 February 2018. The new regulations pay
further attention to financial matters, as well as religious extremism, terrorism,
and incitement of ethnic separatism (Dubois 2016).
10 This is also the case in Xinjiang. For an overview of Sino-Uyghur relations, see
Gladney (2004b). On recent unrest, see Hillman and Tuttle (2016).
11 Sporadic unrest centered on monasteries has continued since 2008—for example,
in 2011 at Kirti [ki+rti] Monastery in Ngawa [rnga ba] (Ch. Aba), Sichuan (see, e.g.,
BBC 2011). Kirti monks and former monks have been prevalent among the esti-
mated 153 Tibetans who have self-immolated as a form of protest since 2009.
12 This reflects the wider literature on religion in China: a key perspective has been
state control and repression of religious freedom (Ashiwa and Wank 2009, 4).
Ashiwa and Wank (ibid.) argue that this perspective “overlaps with the neo-
liberal activist agenda of foreign media, human rights groups, governments, and
some scholars to ‘advance religious freedom in China.’ ” An emphasis on repres-
sion in popular representations of Tibetans is also “reinforced by the interests of
the Tibetan establishment in exile in presenting images of cultural destruction
and Tibetans as victims of abuse” (Barnett 2001, 272).
13 Kapstein (1998a, 149) notes the quandary this poses for the Chinese authorities:
“by suppressing Tibetan Buddhism, Tibetan resentment and hence the longing
for freedom are increased; but by adopting a liberal policy, the very cultural sys-
tem that most encourages the Tibetans to identify themselves apart from China
continues to flourish.”
14 Tibetan monasteries have always existed in complex interrelationships with
secular authorities and have had to “mediate competing interests” (Makley
2007, 39; see also Diemberger 2007b, 290–291). However, their relationship
to the modern Chinese nation-state is significantly different from historical
patron-preceptor relationships with imperial powers and other secular authori-
ties (discussed in chapter 3).
15 Diemberger’s work has highlighted the fuzziness of lines between “religious” and
“secular” and between “community” and “government” in the process of revival.
Makley (2007), who takes a gender perspective, illuminates issues of power and
authority at the local level as well as between state and society through her read-
ing of the Chinese nation-state and Geluk monasticism as competing patriarchal
orders. See also Ashiwa and Wank (2009, 8), who argue from an institutional
perspective that the construction of state and religion in modern China has been
a mutual process and that the politics of modern religion is “constituted by ongo-
ing negotiations, among multiple actors, including state officials, intellectuals,
religious adherents, and businesspersons, to adapt religion to the modern state’s
definitions and rules even as they are continuously being transgressed.” Tibetan
Buddhist leaders were part of this process during the Republican and Maoist
eras (Welch 1972; Tuttle 2005; see also Kapstein 2004, 237).
Notes to Pages 5–10 171
29 Drepung has also been a focus of Lhasa’s tourism development, but Goldstein
(1998) refers to tourism only as a monastic income source. However, I have
found that an important distinction exists between tourism and other self-
supporting activities (discussed in chapter 3).
30 Although not explicitly identifying these communities as Geluk, Härkönen (2017,
145) notes that it was the Geluk nuns she interviewed who lived in communities
rather than nunneries.
31 Schneider (2013) provides the most in-depth ethnographic study of female
monastics in post-Mao China, comparing a community of Nyingma nuns in
Kham with one in Himachal Pradesh. On the marginality of nuns in Labrang,
where two of the few Geluk nunneries in Amdo are located, see Makley (2005a).
See also Härkönen (2017), who explores the intersection of gender, religion, and
nationality in the lives of contemporary nuns in Amdo, Kham, and Central Tibet.
Other studies have focused on Himalayan communities outside the PRC, includ-
ing Gutschow’s (2004) ethnography of a Geluk nunnery in Zangskar. See Schnei-
der (2013, 24–28) and Härkönen (2017, 5–7) for more detailed reviews of the
literature on Tibetan Buddhist nuns.
32 Full names: Nyentok Trashi Dargyé Ling [gnyan thog bkra shis dar rgyas gling]
(Ch. Nianduhu Si); Gomar Ganden Püntsok Ling [sgo dmar dga’ ldan phun
tshogs gling] (Ch. Guomari Si); Kasar Gönpa Ganden Düzang Chöling [rka sar
dgon dga’ ldan ‘dus bzang chos gling] (Ch. Gashari Si); Senggé Shong Mamgö
Gönpa Ganden Püntsok Ling [seng ge gshong ma mgo dgon dga’ ldan phun
tshogs gling] (Ch. Wutunxia Si); and Senggé Shong Yamgö Gön Penden Chön-
jor Ling [seng ge gshong ya mgo dgon dpal ldan chos ‘byor gling] (Ch. Wutun-
shang Si).
33 Most inhabitants of these villages are officially classified Monguor (Ch. tuzu), as
distinct from Tibetan (Ch. zangzu). Their oral language is, in the Senggé Shong
villages, a mix of Chinese and Amdo Tibetan; in Repgong’s other “Monguor” vil-
lages, it is Mongolic in origin, mixed with Amdo Tibetan. Locally perceived as
somewhat different from other “Tibetan” villages (largely because of language but
also because the religious art traditions make them relatively wealthy), inhabi-
tants have asserted a separate Monguor identity in some circumstances (see, e.g.,
Stevenson 2002, 199). However, in relation to the issues discussed here, people
identified themselves, their monasteries, and their culture as being Tibetan. I
have therefore not made a point of labelling them “Monguor” in this book, instead
considering them in the context of Repgong’s Tibetan Buddhist monastic net-
work. For a discussion of ethnic identity in these villages, see Fried (2009).
34 Full names: Dechen Trashi Chöling [bde chen bkra shis chos gling] (Ch. Deqin
Si); Dzongngön Trashi Chödzong Ling [rdzong sngon bkra shis chos rdzong
gling] (Ch. Zong’e Si); and Dzongkar Kadam Podrang Trashi Dargyé Ling
[rdzong dkar bka’ gdams pho brang bkra shis dar rgyas gling] (Ch. Zongge Si).
35 Full names: Druppé Néchok Trashi Khyil Gönpa [sgrub pa’i gnas mchog bkra
shis ‘khyil dgon pa] (Ch. Zhaxiqi Si); and Yershong Gön Samten Chömpel Ling
[g.yer gshong dgon bsam gtan chos ‘phel gling] (Ch. Yeshijiang Si).
36 Full name: Dowa Drok Gön Do’ngak Dargyé Ling [mdo ba ‘brog dgon mdo
sngags dar rgyas gling] (Ch. Ranza Si). Not to be confused with Dowa Rong Gön
Trashi Samten Ling [mdo ba rong dgon bkra shis bsam gtan gling] in Dowa vil-
lage, down in the main valley, approximately ten kilometers south of Rongwo.
37 Full name: Gartsé Gyasar Gön Tupten Chönkhor Ling [mgar rtse gya sar dgon
thub bstan chos ‘khor gling] (Ch. Guashezi Si). Not to be confused with Chukhöl
Gartsé Gönpa [chu khol mgar rtse mthil g.yu lung dpal gyi dgon pa] (Ch. Qukuhu
Guashize Si) in Gartsé Village, down in the main valley approximately fifteen
kilometers south of Rongwo.
38 Full name: Ditsa Trashi Chöding Gönpa [dhi tsha bkra shis chos sdings dgon pa]
Notes to Pages 13–21 173
(Ch. Zhizha Da Si or Zhizha Shang Si). Alternative Wylie spellings of “lde tsha”
and “rdi tsha” are also found in Tibetan sources (Tuttle 2010, 33).
39 Full name: Trashitsé Ganden Dargyé Ling [bkra shis rtse dga’ ldan dar rgyas
gling] (Ch. Zhaxize Si).
40 I originally set out to collect each monastery’s constitution (chayik [bca’ yig]),
setting out rules relating to monastic organization, governance, and conduct, as
well as codifying observance of ritual activities and curriculum. After repeated
attempts to obtain copies, which were held by monasteries’ masters of discipline
( gekö [dge bskos]), it became apparent that they were not considered public.
Either I was directly told that they could not be shown to me, or my attempts to
access them were evaded. In one case, I was told that I could secretly make a copy
but must swear never to reveal its contents. Berthe Jansen and Brenton Sullivan
have also found it “difficult, if not impossible,” to access the constitutions of some
Geluk monasteries (Jansen 2014, 32; Sullivan 2013, 159–161). As Jansen (2014,
33) argues, “there seems to be a sacred . . . element to the bca’ yig,” although it
seems that only in Geluk monasteries is access to these documents restricted
(ibid., 32–36). It should be noted that even when I showed an awareness of the
existence of these documents, monks did not specifically cite them as sources
of authority in our conversations about monastic financing or, more generally,
monastic rules (driklam [sgrigs lam]) and conduct. Pelzang (2007) provides
brief information about the constitutions of each of Rongwo’s affiliate monaster-
ies and longer summaries of the constitutions of each of Rongwo’s colleges.
41 My particular thanks to Lama Jabb, who gave up a great deal of his time to sit
down with me and go through many of the extracts cited in this book. My thanks
also to other native speakers of Tibetan and Monguor who checked other trans-
lations but who must remain anonymous.
1 On the “liberation” of Repgong and the workings of the United Front policy there,
see Weiner (2012, 163–199). The deployment of this policy, which involved the
CCP’s working with non-CCP elites, had its roots in the early history of the party.
Under the influence of the Communist International (Comintern), the CCP and
the Guomindang (GMD) formed a “united front” during the 1920s to eradicate
warlordism and unify China and subsequently in 1937 to resist the Japanese. It
was the main strategy employed by the CCP in dealing with members of the reli-
gious and non-Chinese elite in the early PRC.
2 For firsthand accounts of the 1950s, see Arjia Rinpoché (2010) and Naktsang
Nulo (2014). For a translation of the Tenth Panchen Lama’s report of his find-
ings on visits to Tibetan areas (including parts of Amdo) in the early 1960s, see
TIN (1997). See also Makley (2005b, 2007) and Weiner (2012).
3 Scholastic monasteries such as Rongwo and Gartsé in Repgong and Ditsa and
Jakhyung in Bayen were reopened (or at least semi-reopened) between 1962 and
1966, as were the monastic centers of Labrang (Slobodnik 2004, 9) and Kum-
bum. See Arjia Rinpoché (2010, 52–4) for a description of life at Kumbum at this
time. Monks there could wear their robes and study for half the day (the other
half they were engaged in physical labor).
4 In a communication with Pelzang, he told me that the phrase tenpa yangdar
[bstan pa yang dar] was first used by the Tenth Panchen Lama in 1979. How-
ever, I have been unable to verify this.
5 See Kapstein (2006, 80–81) on the scholarly debate about whether the persecu-
tion of Buddhism by Lang Darma occurred.
6 My thanks to Nicolas Sihlé for pointing this out.
7 See Humphrey (2003, 188–189) for a similar association, made among Buryats,
174 Notes to Pages 21–23
between Lang Darma and Stalin. It should be emphasized that the ways in which
Tibetans have reacted to and situated Mao are many and complex; e.g., although
some identified Mao with Lang Darma, others identified him with Manjushri,
one in a line of Chinese/Manchu emperors (McGranahan 2012).
8 The actual number of monks is not known; based on available evidence it is likely
that the proportion of males who were monks varied considerably from area to
area. Goldstein (2009) gives an estimate of 20 to 30 percent, citing figures pro-
vided by the Tibetan government-in-exile (20 to 30 percent) and the Chinese gov-
ernment (24 percent). This is higher than his earlier estimate of 10 to 15 percent
(Goldstein 1998, 15). The larger estimate accords with Chinese statistics provided
for Repgong County in 1954 (Pu Wencheng 1990, 430): monks (over 90 percent
Geluk) constituted 14 percent of the total population. Samuel (1993, 309, 578–
582) had previously argued that assumptions that 25 percent or more of the male
population were monks appeared to be “greatly exaggerated.” Based on what
he then considered to be the most reliable ethnographic sources (dealing with
monastic populations in Dingri, Sakya, and Ladakh), he estimated that in central-
ized agricultural areas 10 to 12 percent of the male population were monks and
that in other areas the proportion would have been considerably lower.
9 Kumbum in Amdo, e.g., was an important training center for Mongolian monks.
Amdo’s monasteries were central in the cross-cultural network of Tibetan Bud-
dhism, being at “the center of a nexus of Inner Asian relations that played a crucial
role in linking Chinese, Tibetan, and Mongolian civilizations” (Tuttle 2010, 32).
10 See Cabezón (2006) on the history of the hermitages of Sera Monastery, includ-
ing their proliferation in the eighteenth century and subsequent transformation
into ritual institutions. In Repgong the main wave of Geluk hermitage building
appears to have come earlier, in the seventeenth century. However, Cabezón’s
(ibid., 17–19) discussion of the reasons why Geluk hermitages near scholastic
centers “do not stay isolated, meditation-oriented institutions for long” is useful
when considering the development of Geluk monasticism in Repgong—a topic
worthy of further research but beyond the scope of the present study.
11 As Tuttle (2010, 41) notes, the relationship between mother monasteries and
their affiliates is understudied. See Sullivan (2013, 34) for discussion of how
vague the meaning of “branch monastery” could be, with reference to the varying
relations between Gönlung Monastery (one of Amdo’s major scholastic centers
at the turn of the eighteenth century) and its branches.
12 Although the present study is concerned with Geluk monasticism, the network
of relationships between reincarnate lamas, monasteries, and lay Buddhists
extends across Tibetan Buddhist traditions (e.g., Beatrice Miller 1961, 200).
13 See Dreyfus (2003) for a detailed description of the Geluk education system. See
also Lempert (2012).
14 Exceptions included Degé [sde dge] (Ch. Dege) in Kham, which was an explic-
itly non-Geluk state (Samuel 1993, 513). Following Samuel (1993), the “Tibetan
region” includes Tibetan societies in present-day China, Bhutan, northern India,
and Nepal.
15 On the expansion of the Geluk into Amdo, see Tuttle (2012).
16 Both Cabezón (2008, 369n39) and Sullivan (2013, 11) have challenged Gold-
stein’s (1998, 15; 2009) characterization of “mass monasticism” as privileging
size over “quality,” a debate discussed in chapter 6.
17 See Sihlé (2011), however, for a discussion of a fascinating case that indicates
that the reality might have been more complex. His conversations with elders
suggest that almost all boys from the village nearest to Rongwo Monastery in
Repgong were, prior to 1958, enrolled temporarily as monks between the ages of
roughly four and eighteen. They received no religious education and spent much
of their time outside the monastery, but like other monks, they attended assem-
Notes to Pages 23–25 175
blies and were given a share of food. Sihlé (ibid.) tentatively suggests that this
case of “quasi-generalized, mostly temporary monasticism” might have served
the purpose of “instilling a sense of Geluk affiliation” in an area that also had a
strong Nyingma tradition, as well as having a redistributive function.
18 On the monk tax, see Cassinelli and Ekvall (1969, 294ff.), Michael (1982, 144),
Samuel (1993, 514), Mills (2003, 40), Sonam Tsering (2008, 2), and Goldstein
(2009, 7).
19 On the reasons for households sending boys to become monks, see Michael
(1982, 143), Samuel (1993, 515), Goldstein (1998, 16–17), Mills (2003, 40), and
Kapstein (2006, 119–220).
20 For a critical review of the Buddhist studies literature and its emphasis on the
monk as ascetic renouncer, see Mills (2003, 54–61). See also Robson (2010, 3–8).
21 Makley (2007, 244) interprets the act of renunciation as the virtuous intention
to tame to the service of Buddhism what are understood by Tibetans to be the
most compulsive of male attributes: physical violence and heterosexual desire.
22 The Geluk has a tradition of hermit monks (ritröpa [ri khrod pa]), although it
has received little scholarly attention, except for Cabezón’s (2006) work on the
Sera hermitages. In Repgong and western Bayen, monks who have taken ritröpa
vows are distinguished by their yellow upper shawl. It appears that, by the 1950s
at least, many Geluk ritröpa lived together in institutionalized monastic commu-
nities such as Ditsa and Trashi Khyil, rather than at the kinds of solitary hermit-
age sites examined, e.g., by Turek (2013) in her study of the revival of a Kagyü
hermitage tradition in Kham.
23 On the livelihood of individual monks in premodern Tibet, see Ekvall (1964),
Nornang (1990), Goldstein (1998, 2009), and Jansen (2014).
24 Pu Wencheng (1990), Nian and Bai (1993), and Gruschke (2001) provide general
descriptive surveys of monasteries in Amdo, including factual summaries of their
histories, reconstruction, and repopulation. See Pelzang (2007) for a survey of
Repgong’s monasteries. See also Kolås and Thowsen (2005), who provide data on
monastic reconstruction in Amdo as part of a survey of the state of Tibetan cul-
ture. On Tibetan Buddhist revival in Inner Mongolia and northeastern China, see
Erhimbayar (2006) and Mair (2008); on Riwo Tsenga, see Tuttle (2006).
25 In the case of female monasticism, the available evidence suggests that, in at
least some places, numbers of nuns might exceed those prior to the 1950s.
According to Makley (2005a, 265), the roughly two hundred nuns affiliated to
the three nunneries in Labrang represented twice the number of nuns prior to
1958; by 2007, their numbers had increased still further (Härkönen 2017, 103).
The Nyingma nunnery in Kham that Schneider (2013) studies, housing roughly
two hundred nuns, was newly established in the 1980s.
26 I include here the population officially classified as Monguor, since the Geluk
monasteries in Repgong’s Monguor villages account for a significant proportion
of the county’s monks (between the five monasteries I collected data on, there
were approximately five hundred monks in 2009–2010; see table 5.1). Offi-
cial statistics on both total and monastic populations are problematic and may
reflect underreporting as a result of unregistered births and unregistered monks,
but they nevertheless give some indication of the extent of repopulation.
27 This figure is based on the proportion of Geluk to non-Geluk monks in the late
1980s, early 1990s, and 2000s, calculated from data in Pu Wencheng (1990),
Nian and Bai (1993), and Pelzang (2007).
28 The reasons for boys and young men entering monastic life are explored in more
detail in chapter 5.
29 The Tenth Panchen Lama, born in Amdo in 1938, was the most senior Tibetan
politico-religious leader in the PRC following the Fourteenth Dalai Lama’s flight
into exile. In 1964 he came under attack for a lengthy petition he had written
176 Notes to Pages 26–30
for the top party leadership, criticizing the situation in Tibet, and was impris-
oned. He was released in 1977 and appeared in public for the first time in 1978
(Shakya 1999, 372). He died in 1989. For background on his life and work, see
TIN (1997), Norbu (1997, 297–321), Hilton (1999), and Arjia Rinpoché (2010).
30 In Central Tibet the visit of party secretary Hu Yaobang in May 1980 also marked
a significant sea change. For further details of the shifting policy context in this
period, see Goldstein (1997, 61–73), Shakya (1999, 371–393), Kapstein (2004,
239–240), and Makley (2007, 135–136).
31 According to Shakya (1999, 404), this limitation was partly because the CCP,
while tolerating individual practice, did not wish to see the emergence of inde-
pendent social institutions.
32 Drelrim jor mé [gral rim ‘byor med] (literally, the class without wealth). Monks
also continued to live at Kumbum but were engaged in productive labor and
unable to live and practice openly as monks (Arjia Rinpoché 2010, 74–87).
33 For the stories of three monks who studied and practiced secretly with elders in
the 1970s, see Caple (2013, 29–31).
34 It remains the case today that minors are not officially permitted to enter monas-
tic assemblies. However, in practice there are many young monks in evidence.
The tentativeness with which young monks donned robes during the early
reforms years was probably linked to uncertainty about whether there would be
another abrupt turnaround in state policy.
35 A genpa is an elder in terms of age or seniority, and the term can be used to refer
to both monks and laypeople. The term was also used more specifically by my
interlocutors as shorthand for monks who were ordained prior to 1958. These
men were not necessarily that old when they returned to their monasteries in
1980. At Rongwo the youngest “elder” was only thirty-five when the monastery
reopened.
36 According to Dreyfus (2003, 320), there are three important rituals of monastic
discipline without which monastic practice is not possible: the bimonthly resto-
ration and purification of the vows, the summer retreat (yerné [dbyar gnas]),
and the end of this retreat ( gakyé [dgag dbye]). The summer retreat is optional
for individual monks at all the monasteries I visited in Amdo. If monks opt in,
they must not leave the monastery, but many opt out and spend this period trav-
elling to perform religious services in the lay community.
37 Reconstructing the time line at Ditsa was not easy. There was discrepancy in the
sources as to whether it was officially reopened in 1980 (Pu Wencheng 1990,
93) or 1981, the date given by senior monks and stated in the monastery’s own
leaflets and website (Zhizha Da Si n.d., 2004). I suspect that some of the confu-
sion was caused by the marrying up of lunar and Gregorian calendars. Having
rechecked with my sources, I am fairly confident that the dates I give here (which
refer to the Gregorian calendar) are correct.
38 These accounts include oral histories but also those written by Pelzang (2007) in
Repgong yülkor zinto (Repgong Travel Notes). This 615-page volume contains
histories of all of Repgong’s monasteries, each following a similar chronology
of significant events in their revival. This is an interesting text, researched and
written by a senior monk who entered Rongwo Monastery in 1980 at the age of
fifteen. Marking a departure in structure, style, content, and method from tradi-
tional Tibetan monastic histories and pilgrimage guides, it is nevertheless firmly
grounded in a Tibetan monastic worldview. For further discussion of the text
and its author, and a translation of an extract relating to the destruction and
reopening of one of Rongwo’s affiliate monasteries, see Caple (2013, 37–40).
39 Teacher-student relationships between lamas and monks in exile and between
those in the PRC have also been an important element in the reestablishment of
monastic traditions.
Notes to Pages 32–40 177
40 Tsering Thar (2002, 165) offers a succinct definition of lhadé as “tribes or vil-
lages which, to a certain extent, are disciples of and belong to a monastery.”
He adds, “They offer labor, money, material and monks to a monastery and
the monastery also performs rituals for the health, deaths, crops, riddance of
calamities and blessings for the people in the lhadé.” In his discussion of the
social and political structure of the greater community supporting Labrang
Monastery prior to CCP control, Nietupski (2011, 53–96) distinguishes
between “communities in service of the gods” (lhadé), which were under the
political jurisdiction of Labrang Monastery, and “secular communities” (midé
[mi sde]), “in the service of men,” which also had patronage relationships with
the monastery but were not under its direct political jurisdiction. In Repgong,
however, the term “lhadé” seems to be used more generally to refer both to
those communities that came directly under the political jurisdiction of the
Shartsang reincarnation lineage and to Rongwo’s other, more distant support-
ing communities. It is also the general term used to refer to the patron commu-
nities of Rongwo’s affiliate monasteries and the Nyingma monasteries in the
area (see, e.g., Pelzang 2007).
41 On the history of Repgong, the Rongwo Nangso, and the Shartsang lineage, see
Weiner (2012, 74–104), Dhondup (2011), and Sonam Tsering (2011).
42 In practice, religious authorities continue to exercise a degree of political author-
ity that coexists with new state structures rather than being replaced by them.
I came across several instances in which reincarnate lamas have influenced
the administrative decisions of local government and CCP leaders. Lamas and
monks are also involved in both intra- and intercommunity conflict mediation
(see also Pirie 2006). For discussion of the blurred lines between religious and
secular roles, see Diemberger (2007a, 2008, 2010).
43 Rongwo Monastery now attracts students from areas beyond its patron com-
munities, such as Golok and Yülshül [yul shul] (Ch. Yushu), a point to which I
return in chapter 5.
44 Tsongönpo [tsho sngon po] is in Chabcha [chab cha] (Ch. Gonghe), Jamdo [bya
mdo] and Zhinté [zhin te] are in Mangra [mang ra] (Ch. Guinan), and Bongtak
Chandzom [bong stag cha ‘dzoms] is in Tsigortang [rtsi gor thang] (Ch. Xinghai).
45 See Nietupski (2011, 70–79) for a history of Labrang’s expansion into what
became its “eight inner territories.”
46 See also Makley (2007, 26), who states that “lay donations to rural monasteries
declined a few years after the reforms.”
47 The estates of reincarnate lamas are often termed nangchen in Amdo, corre-
sponding to the Central Tibetan labrang [bla brang], a term used less frequently
in Amdo. See chapter 2 for further discussion of these estates.
48 On monastic organization in premodern Tibet, see Jansen (2014, 70–160).
49 This responsibility was usually held by one or more nyerwa [gnyer ba], but
chipa or chiwa [spyi pa or spyi ba] is another title given to the post in some
monasteries. As Silk (2008, vi) notes in his study of the administrative offices of
early Indian monastic Buddhism, “administrative terms are local and particular”
to both time and place, and the same terms can be used in different ways. This is
the case even in the relatively small and interconnected group of Geluk monas-
teries in Repgong. Moreover, the functions of particular roles can change.
Committee and senior state officials handed down an order to the TAR authori-
ties in 2011, stipulating that party and government officials were to be stationed
in “the main monasteries” in the TAR. This was followed by an announcement in
January 2012 by the TAR party secretary, indicating that the policy would apply
to almost all monasteries (ibid.). In 2018, party and government officials were
reported to have been brought in to take over the administration of the monastic
institute of Larung Gar in Kham (HRW 2018). As of 2015, party and government
officials were not stationed within monasteries in Repgong and western Bayen.
I have not heard that the situation has since changed, but further fieldwork is
required to assess whether similar policies are now being extended to these
and other areas in Amdo. Police were stationed inside at least one monastery in
northern Amdo as of 2014.
3 I follow convention in translating dratsang as “college” while noting Dreyfus’
(2003, 46) point that, in the context of the great Lhasa monasteries, the use of
the term “college” leads to the misconception that colleges “are merely subdi-
visions of a larger unit,” whereas they are essentially separate monasteries. At
Rongwo, although the revived dratsang still function as separate assemblies,
they no longer have their own abbots. Contemporary administrative structures
officially place all monks under the administration of Rongwo Monastery’s man-
agement committee, headed by the Eighth Shartsang. For the sake of clarity I
have decided to refer to Rongwo as a collective entity as “Rongwo Monastery”
and the dratsang as “colleges.”
4 The largest of the colleges, the College of Dialectics (full name: Rongwo Dratsang
Tösam Nampar Gyelwé Ling [rong bo grwa tshang thos bsam rnam par rgyal ba’i
gling]) is often referred to among the monks as “Rongwo Dratsang” or simply
“Dratsang.” For the sake of clarity, I have opted to refer to it as the “College of
Dialectics” (Tsennyi Dratsang [mtshan nyid grwa tshang]) in accordance with its
function. Its monks study the Geluk scholastic curriculum and practice debate.
It was formally reestablished in 1985 with the inauguration of its assembly hall
(Pelzang 2007, 61–62).
5 The Tantric College focuses on tantric ritual and resumed its full activities in
1988 (Pelzang 2007, 102).
6 The Kālacakra College focuses on tantric ritual and practice and astrology and
was reopened in 1989 (Pelzang 2007, 118).
7 In addition, construction of a large medical clinic adjacent to the monastery was
nearly finished as of summer 2015. As noted in Caple (2010), the College of Dia-
lectics previously had buses that were used to generate income from pilgrimage
tours. However, by 2012 the buses were no longer roadworthy, and this activity
had ceased.
8 In 2009, tourist tickets were sold in the College of Dialectics shop located inside
the monastery, near the main entrance. At that time, the income was split
between the monastery and the local government. However, a new gate was sub-
sequently completed that contains a ticket office, manned by employees of the
Tourism Bureau, which now takes all proceeds from ticket sales. The Tourism
Bureau pays a fixed annual sum to the monastery (one hundred thousand yuan
in 2012, according to a senior monk).
9 Technically speaking, one of these, Trashi Khyil, is not a branch of Rongwo. It is
considered the mother monastery of Repgong. One of its monks told me that his
fellow monks are therefore entitled to collect alms from all places in Repgong.
Originally founded as a hermitage and the retreat of the First Shartsang, Trashi
Khyil later became a practice center where elders and young monks gathered
together. Housing around three hundred monks at its peak, today it has around
thirty.
10 According to Pelzang (2007), four of Rongwo’s other branch monasteries (one
Notes to Pages 48–53 179
shop, a restaurant, and a hotel, the profits of which are used to fund religious
events and construction works.
23 See also Arjia Rinpoché (2010, 150–151), who discusses the Tenth Panchen
Lama’s plan during the 1980s to set up an organization, which he would run, to
oversee all Tibetan monasteries and institutions and to eventually be funded by
self-sufficient businesses.
24 It should be noted that Schrempf makes these comments in a discussion about
tourism, which, as we will see in chapter 3, I found to be perceived differently
from other forms of monastic business.
25 See also Kolås and Thowsen (2005, 52), who note that “the redistribution of land
has been a complicated issue for a number of monasteries,” citing the case of
Ragya [rwa rgya] Monastery in Golok, the original lands of which now straddle
county and prefectural boundaries. In 1988, Zhao Puchu (head of the China Bud-
dhist Association at that time) stated that one of the problems in implementing
the policy of religious belief was that mountains and forest had yet to be returned
to some monasteries (trans. in MacInnis 1989, 74).
26 I found echoes of Lungtok’s comments in Radio Free Asia’s reporting of Rongwo
Monastery’s dispute with the government over land occupied by the (now closed)
middle school (discussed in chapter 1). According to RFA’s source, “the monks
are arguing that since Rongwo has so few resources of its own, the authorities
should at least return the confiscated land if they can’t offer any other help”
(RFA 2017).
27 When I interviewed Lhamo in 2014, she stated that the donation had been made
“seven or eight years ago” and that “[the amount was] maybe five thousand yuan,
but I forget.”
28 Chinese Buddhist monasteries also engaged in moneylending (Ornatowski 1996).
29 This increase in prices was one of the reasons Ditsa’s senior monks gave for their
decision to prohibit the serving of meat during assembly teas, the others being
health and the ethics of killing animals. The prohibition on serving meat was a
change I found common in all the monasteries I visited, but it was explained
at most of them in ethical rather than economic terms. Similar dynamics have
also been affecting other religious communities in Repgong, if in different ways.
According to Sihlé (2013, 181), a “stagnation” in donations “in a general context
of increasing cost of living” was the main explanation offered for the decreasing
numbers of nonmonastic Nyingma Tantrists attending collective gatherings in
Repgong (some would not even be able to cover their costs); another was the
decision to abstain from or reduce meat consumption at these gatherings.
30 These concerns were principally over the development of commercial enter-
prises such as shops, rather than over moneylending. This point is addressed
further in chapter 4.
31 Lopez (1998, 187) calls the Fourteenth Dalai Lama “the chief spokesman for
Buddhist modernism,” although as other scholars have noted (Mills 2003; Drey-
fus 2005; Huber 2008), his views and practices do not fit certain characteristics
of “modern Buddhism” as defined by scholars, notably a de-emphasis and mis-
trust of ritual. Dreyfus (2005, 7–10) presents the Dalai Lama’s ideas as a hybrid
product of his traditional Buddhist education and his encounters with figures
such as Mao Zedong, Jawaharlal Nehru, Rajendra Prasad, and Thomas Merton,
whose ideas are themselves the product of complex interactions between differ-
ent cultures and worldviews.
32 See Smyer Yü (2012, 99–125) for discussion of the commodification of Bud-
dhism under China’s market reforms and its critics among both lay practitioners
concerned with the corruption of Chinese Buddhism and Tibetan monastics con-
cerned about the proliferation of fake or unqualified Tibetan lamas operating
in inner China. See also Makley (2007, 266) on the distinction drawn between
Notes to Pages 62–68 181
real and fake monks in 1990s Labrang; and Borchert (2005, 103) and Svensson
(2010, 226) for complaints about fake monks at Theravāda Buddhist and Daoist
temples in China.
33 Smyer Yü (2012, 113–114) cites Tibetan monastic teachers in Kham and Golok
making similar criticisms of fake or unqualified “Living Buddhas” and “Dharma
Minstrels” operating among Chinese Buddhists. They are concerned that many
lamas are attracted by the material benefits they can access in China, thus alter-
ing “the traditional monastic rules and soteriological goals” (ibid., 114). He also
points to the impact on younger monks, for whom “the flow of cash . . . is titillat-
ing,” claiming to have seen some of them attempting to embezzle funds and oth-
ers performing rituals for which they are not qualified (ibid., 113–114).
34 See also Makley (2007), whose work on Labrang suggests a similar pattern, with
support in the valley becoming concentrated on the regional monastic center,
which enjoyed a high reputation for scholarship, and on charismatic reincarnate
lamas such as Gungtang Rinpoché.
35 My thanks to Lama Jabb for making this point. See also Gendün Chömpel’s
alphabetical poem on the household priest (trans. in Lopez 2009, 96–99).
36 For an intellectual biography of Taixu, see Pittman (2001).
37 Sangdhor [seng rdor] is a former monk who was recognized as a reincarnate
lama but subsequently disrobed and went on to publish highly provocative
essays and poetry critical of institutionalized monastic Buddhism and monks.
He belongs to the New School of Thought, a group of writers Hartley (2002, 13)
refers to as “radical modernists.” Sangdhor’s website, at http://www.sangdhor
.com, on which he posted writings by himself and other intellectuals, has been
closed down.
38 Taixu advocated a revolution in teaching and doctrine, focusing on the prob-
lems of the living world; a revolution in institutions, including the teaching of
a secular curriculum alongside the Buddhist curriculum, the rationalization of
temple management, and self-sufficiency; and a revolution in religious prop-
erty, with temple property collectively shared by the monastic community rather
than privately owned by abbots (Ashiwa 2009, 55). According to Pittman (2001,
80, 154–155), Taixu called for an organizational revolution (Ch. zuzhi geming);
an economic revolution (Ch. caichan geming), advocating productive work by
monks and closer ties to educated lay Buddhists; and an intellectual revolu-
tion (Ch. xueli geming), through which “Buddhists could learn to express the
Dharma in ways that were inspired by scripture, faithful to the original spirit of
Śākyamuni, and appropriate for the time.”
39 Goyön’s (2009) other proposed revolutions are in monastic leadership and
education. He argues that there is a need to move from a system of leadership
through reincarnation to one based on democratic and meritocratic appoint-
ment, taking into account an individual’s ability, public-spiritedness, and
knowledge of both traditional and modern sciences. The behavior and think-
ing of monks and nuns, he says, are dependent on the monastery head ( göndak
[dgon bdag]), who is like a parent; there is a need to recognize that all the his-
torical shortcomings of monastic institutions in fact result from the “unfitness”
(madrikpar [ma ’grig par) of monastery heads. He also writes that the monastic
education system should be revolutionized by embracing modern Western scien-
tific, philosophical, literary, educational, and electronic knowledge alongside the
traditional syllabus.
1 See, for example, Liu (2012), who champions the idea of tourism development at
Dechen, Dzongkar, and Dzongngön monasteries in Repgong. See also Dongga-
182 Notes to Pages 68–73
cang and Cairangjia (1995, 27–28), Mei 2001 (43–44, 156–158), and Pu Riwa et
al. (2006, 204).
2 Much of this literature is situated within a wider body of literature on the cul-
tural politics of ethnic tourism in China. The latter has explored the role that
ethnic minorities play as cultural producers and agents in shaping their own
identities in the contemporary world and their reappropriation of tourism as a
route to modernity. See, e.g., Oakes (1998, 2006), Schein (2000), Kolås (2008),
Hillman (2009, 2010), and Su and Teo (2009). Makley (2007, 7–8) and Kolås
(2008, 122–123) point to the role of tourism in the affirmation and accentua-
tion of the “Tibetanness” of Labrang and Shangrila (formerly Gyeltang). On the
interplay between tourism, states, and the ongoing processes of ethnic/cultural
construction elsewhere in the Asia-Pacific region, see Picard (1993), Picard and
Wood (1997), Yamashita et al. (1997), and Yamashita (2003).
3 On the role of tourism in revitalizing Tibetan monastic Buddhism, see Makley
(2007, 2010), Hillman (2005, 2009), and Kolås (2008). On its financial benefits,
see also McCarthy (2010, 178), Cingcade (1998, 20–21), Goldstein (1998, 35),
and Kolås and Thowsen (2005, 76). On tourism in a Theravāda monastic con-
text, see Borchert (2005); for Chinese Buddhism, see Ji (2004), Fenggang Yang
and Wei (2005), and Yin (2006).
4 This chapter is concerned with monastic attitudes rather than the broader
issues of tourism within local socioeconomic development and cultural produc-
tion. I recognize that there are many actors with different interests involved in
tourism development at the local level and that individuals (e.g., government
officials) operate from multiple positions. However, the purpose of the present
study is to gain insight into the logics of what is good and desirable from monas-
tic perspectives.
5 A similar argument can probably be made for Chinese and Theravāda monas-
teries. Government support is most pronounced at large and famous Chinese
Buddhist monasteries that are tourist attractions (Birnbaum 2003, 443–444).
Borchert (2005, 100) estimates that probably only ten of more than five hundred
Dai (Theravāda) temples in Xishuangbanna are regularly seen by tourists. How-
ever, these major monasteries tend to be the sites that have been the subject of
detailed academic study (e.g., Borchert 2005; Ashiwa 2009; Wank 2009).
6 See also Huber (2002b, 2006) and Peng (1998) on Bön monasteries and tour-
ism development in Amdo Sharkhok (the Jiuzhaigou/Songpan area of Sichuan),
another key tourist area.
7 The sources of support for rebuilding are examined in chapter 1. Kolås and
Thowsen (2005, 52–56) also found that claims of state funding were disputed
locally and that it accounted for a very small percentage of total costs.
8 Arjia Rinpoché (2010, 183–185) states that he secured the grant for Kumbum
following a major earthquake in 1990. He filed a petition for disaster relief and
then made monthly trips to Beijing to plead his case, relying on his positions in
various religious and political organizations and the connections these positions
gave him. The original allotment of 36 million yuan was later reduced to 20 mil-
lion yuan after flooding in southern China (ibid., 191).
9 See Pelzang (2007, 33–45, 71–81, 106–107, 121–123) for information on con-
struction projects at Rongwo Monastery and its three colleges (including spon-
sorship) in 1980–2005. Since then, a new debate courtyard and two new temples
have been built, as well as an office/guesthouse.
10 See also Kolås and Thowsen (2005, 56), who stated that only “a handful” of mon-
asteries they heard about charged entrance fees.
11 This is also the system in other Tibetan areas (Kolås 2008, 14) and more gener-
ally in the PRC (Yin 2006, 91).
12 See Su and Teo (2009, 30–36) for a review of the literature on tourism and
Notes to Pages 73–79 183
ighest-profile Tibetan defections in the reform period, alongside that of the Sev-
h
enteenth Karmapa. He says he believed that his political life was “betraying my
religious and moral principles” after he was appointed tutor to the boy selected by
the Chinese government as the Eleventh Panchen Lama and following a socialist
education campaign at Kumbum in 1997 (Arjia Rinpoché 2010, 212).
24 Hillman (2005) discusses a similar case at a Tibetan monastery in Yunnan. The
“younger generation” of monks were disgruntled by government appropriation
of funds from entrance tickets. The county government subsequently gave full
control over entrance fees to monks as part of efforts to resolve a conflict involv-
ing intra-monastery factions and state agencies.
25 Birnbaum (2003, 443–444) points to similar tensions arising from state support
of Chinese Buddhist monasteries that have become tourist attractions, arguing
that monastic autonomy and self-direction are difficult at monasteries that have
become “living history exhibits.”
26 See also Makley (2018, 153–195), who shows how temple building can also be
central to the place-making efforts of precarious communities. She analyzes
the relationship between temple building and village history making in one of
Repgong’s villages, displaced after relocating from its original hilltop location
to the roadside and struggling to secure its continuity and fortune “in the con-
text of increasing state-led pressures on rural land use” (153). She conceptual-
izes the construction of a new Buddhist temple in this village in 2005–2006 as
“Buddhist counterdevelopment,” showing that the project and the narratives
accompanying it were grounded in and historicized “claims to past and present
lama-lay leader alliances” (162) that worked to assert village-level sovereignty
and counter the community’s “potential erasure” (160) in the context of state-led
development and competing territorial claims at the local level.
27 Both also said that it was getting difficult for monasteries to find good artists to
undertake artworks because the monasteries or sponsoring lamas paid so much
less than commercial buyers. Making money, they claimed, had become more
important than religion for many artists (echoing the more general popular dis-
course on a societal shift in values).
28 There is also ongoing international NGO involvement in art conservation proj-
ects at Gomar and other monasteries.
29 It should be noted that responses to my questions about tourism were inevi-
tably influenced by my positioning in these encounters. As a visiting foreign
researcher, I was often perceived as a kind of tourist. In some cases, I felt that an
initial positive response to the idea of tourism was at least partly related to this.
30 Yülkor troncham is usually contracted in speech to yülkor. Another term for
tourism is jonggyu [ljongs rgyu] (to roam/wander throughout a region/land),
but my interlocutors most commonly used yülkor or takor.
31 On the history of Tibetan pilgrimage practices, see Huber (1999, 2003, 2008)
and McKay (1998). On the revival of pilgrimage practices, including interactions
between pilgrims and tourism, see Kapstein (1998b), Peng (1998), Buffetrille
(2003), and Huber (2002b, 2006).
32 A discussion of the relationship between religion and tourism and the pilgrim-
tourist dichotomy is beyond the scope of this study. See Timothy and Olsen
(2006, 13–16) for a review of the literature. On the category of faith as an import-
ant marker of distinction between insiders and outsiders in the Tibetan context,
see Caple (2015).
33 See also Kolås and Thowsen (2005, 49), who state that funds were set aside for
repairing key sites, including Drepung Monastery, as early as 1972.
34 This is in addition to the usual prerequisites for being a model organization or
individual: being patriotic, accepting party and government management, and
abiding by state laws and policies (Pu Riwa et al. 2006, 203).
Notes to Pages 89–108 185
1 When people talk of the mind, they will often gesture toward their physical heart;
to say that someone has a good “mind” (sem zang [sems bzang]) in Tibetan con-
veys the same sense as the English term “good-hearted.”
2 This is not a discourse unique to Amdo or Tibetan societies. Many of the social
dynamics discussed in this and the next chapter could be viewed as characteristic
of the “individualization” thesis (see, e.g., Giddens 1991; Bauman 2001; Beck and
Beck-Gernsheim 2001), such as the disembedment of the individual from exter-
nal social constraints (including, e.g., family) through factors such as increased
mobility, increased reflexivity (an indicator of “obligatory self-determination”),
and a belief in equality of relationships (an indicator of “cultural democratiza-
tion”) (Yan 2009, 4–5). On the application and extension of the individualization
thesis to the Chinese case, see Yan (2009) and Hansen and Svarverud (2010). The
former highlights “moral challenges”—such as the rise of the “uncivil individual”
(Yan 2009, xxxii)—that have echoes in Tibetan narratives of decline; however, the
historical, social, and political contexts are sufficiently different to advise caution
in interpreting work grounded in empirical data gathered in a Han Chinese com-
munity as being representative of the PRC as a whole.
3 In the Tibetan tradition, the period of duration of the Buddhist teachings is gen-
erally considered to be five thousand years, although there are alternative sys-
tems, including that of the Kālacakra Tantra, which calculates the life span of
the Dharma as 5,104 years (Nattier 1991, 59–61).
4 Tantric methods can also be used to effect the transformation of mind—
ultimately into a mind of enlightenment (jangchupkyi sem [byang chub kyi
sems]; Skt. Bodhicitta)—but the Geluk tradition emphasizes the need for lengthy
philosophical preparation (Samuel 1993, 506–515).
5 Makley (2007, 277) also noted that her lay interlocutors, though critical of
monks who did not study, would still employ them for ritual services.
6 For a more detailed discussion of the ethics of donations and remuneration for
ritual services, see Caple (2015). See also Jansen (2014, 165–166), who notes
that the Seventh Dalai Lama recommended fixing prices for communal teas to
avoid irritating sponsors.
7 Drepung’s reforms of the 1950s also seem to have had precedent. Gönlung Mon-
astery’s 1737 constitution suggests that payment of disbursements and allow-
ances at this “mega monastery” were linked to attendance at Dharma classes
(Sullivan 2013, 285). This constitution was written during the monastery’s
revival after being destroyed by Qing forces in the wake of the Lobsang Danjin
rebellion.
186 Notes to Pages 109–113
8 Full name of Ragya Monastery: Ragya Gön Ganden Trashi Jungné [rwa rgya
dgon dga’ ldan bkra shis ‘byung gnas] (Ch. Lajia Si). Lutsang Monastery [klu
tshang dgon] (Ch. Lucang Si) in Qinghai was also sometimes mentioned. The
other monastic site enjoying a high reputation, even within Geluk circles, is the
enormous Nyingma monastic encampment of Larung Gar in Sichuan.
9 Labrang, highly regarded for its scholastics, is also a major tourist site and was
perceived by some monks as having become “too developed.” Some people felt
that standards at Rongwo, swallowed up in the urban sprawl extending from
the prefectural capital, had also been influenced by the monastery’s proximity to
urban life, and they compared it unfavorably to monasteries such as Ditsa that
are relatively remote from urban centers.
10 On monastic debate and Geluk scholastic education in general, see Dreyfus
(2003) and Lempert (2012).
11 The major Geluk centers in Lhasa maintain a distinction between scholar-monks
who study the formal curriculum and others who engage in work for the monas-
tery. On this system at Drepung, see Goldstein (1998). At Ditsa a distinction is
also made when it comes to monastic appointments. Samten explained that the
stewards were selected from among the monks who are not very good at study
and philosophy but are “honest and good communicators.”
12 A perceived link between the continuity of a people’s culture and monastic Bud-
dhism is also found among the Dai Lue in Xishuangbanna (Borchert 2005).
13 I conducted bi-lingual (Tibetan-Chinese) questionnaire surveys with two groups
each of undergraduate and middle school students in 2009. I was assisted in
the formulation of the Tibetan questions by a Tibetan scholar who used to
be a monk. The Chinese was checked by a linguistics scholar whose mother
tongue is Chinese. All 149 middle school students surveyed were studying in a
Tibetan-medium school and nearly all responded in Tibetan. Of the 105 Univer-
sity students surveyed, fifty-two responded in Chinese, thirty-two in Tibetan and
fifteen used a mixture of both languages (the remaining six did not respond to
any of the open questions). The surveys were designed to test opinions emerging
from informal conversations with young lay Tibetans about monasteries, monks
and monastic economies. They contributed to the overall contextualization of
my research and were a useful exercise in trying to organize my thoughts and
test certain assumptions. The aim was to test and gather opinions to build local
knowledge, rather than to develop a generalizable scientific theory or hypothesis
testing tool such as the surveys used in correlational research. The design of the
question asking students what roles monasteries have in contemporary society
was different for the undergraduate and middle school groups. However, in nei-
ther case were students made to choose between categories and they were given
space to add their own. The roles suggested to them were: provide education;
protect Tibetan culture; develop Tibetan culture (bod kyi rig gnas gong ‘phel du
gtong ba; Ch. fazhan zangzu wenhua); provide a suitable environment for Bud-
dhist practice; provide religious services for lay people; attract tourists; develop
the local economy; provide social welfare services, such as poverty relief, educa-
tion, medicine; provide moral leadership in society; attract investors, therefore
helping local economic development; other.
14 “Rig pa’i gnas ‘field of knowledge/study’ [RB].” Rangjung Yeshe Dictionary,
accessed 15 November 2016, http://rywiki.tsadra.org/index.php/rig_gnas.
15 On the relationship between conceptions of faith and “being Tibetan,” see Caple
(2015).
16 Some monasteries established schools for “underage” monks. However, some
also established schools that teach both monks and lay children, usually during
the summer holidays (often operating without official authorization). There is
also an official school for both lay and monastic children attached to Ragya Mon-
Notes to Pages 114–123 187
1 The pattern in northeastern Amdo reflects more general trends at Tibetan mon-
asteries during the Maoist years and the 1980s (see, e.g., Pu Wencheng 1990;
Nian and Bai 1993; Kapstein 2004; Kolås and Thowsen 2005). Indicative num-
bers of monastics in 1958 (table 5.1) are useful as a yardstick against which to
compare monastic revitalization in the post-Mao period. It is beyond the scope
of the present study to delve into the earlier histories of these monasteries, but
it should be noted that individual institutions experienced growth and decline
prior to 1958. At least some of the Geluk mega monasteries in Amdo reached
their peak in terms of numbers of monastics well before the CCP came to power.
During the Qing dynasty, Jakhyung, for example, had housed 3,000 monks (Pu
Wencheng 1990, 89). By the end of the nineteenth century, the American diplo-
mat and explorer W. W. Rockhill reported its monk population as 1,500 (Grus-
chke 2001, 42); by 1958, it was less than 1,000 (table 5.1). Ditsa, founded in
1903, attracted around 3,000 monks in the first decade of its existence, but its
numbers also declined to under 1,000 after the death of its founder in 1912 and
during the turbulent decades that followed in Amdo (Tuttle 2010, 37–38), in
particular in its Sino-Tibetan-Muslim border regions.
188 Notes to Pages 123–126
15 Following the latest wave of expulsions, Larung Gar is reported to have been
placed under government administration (HRW 2018). Larung Gar is some-
times referred to as Sertar [gser thar] (Ch. Seda) after its location.
16 In some cases, young monks have been hidden from inspection teams. Some
monasteries have founded schools for young monks, although these have been
subject to periodic closure. For example, I was told that Rongwo’s school was
founded in 1997 for monks under the age of eighteen who were going to be
expelled from the monastery as part of a patriotic education campaign (see also
TIN 1999b, 18; Costello 2002, 225). It was closed following the 2008 protests
but subsequently reopened. Ditsa’s school was reported to have been shut down
in March 2010 (Phayul 2010) but was open again by 2012.
17 Kapstein (2004, 256) reports a similar phenomenon at a monastery in Kham.
18 On the fertility transition in Tibetan areas of China, see Childs et al. (2005),
Fischer (2008), and Childs (2008). These studies, which engage with broader
debates on demographic transitions, indicate that family planning policies have
been a significant factor, reinforcing ideational changes that may also have been
motivated by, for example, increased costs of living, rising health care and edu-
cation costs, unemployment, and diminished landholdings. Schrempf (2008)
discusses Tibetan attitudes toward state family planning policies in Qinghai and
tensions between these policies and Tibetan cultural values and practices.
19 For a study that recognizes the importance of social relationships in the Sri
Lankan context, see Samuels (2010), who emphasizes the significance of social
bonds between monastics, children, and families in monastic recruitment and
the aesthetic-affective dimensions of boys’ attraction to monastic life.
20 On reasons for parents sending their children to monasteries, see Mills (2003,
40), Kapstein (2004, 233–234), Kolås and Thowsen (2005, 69), Makley (2007,
249), and Childs (2008, 121).
21 On this point, my findings are very different from those of Schwartz (1994), who
conducted research in the politically volatile context of late 1980s Lhasa. He
draws a sharp distinction between pre-1959 Tibet, when monkhood was a “cus-
tomary career” for many, and post-Mao Tibet, when “the choice of a monastic
career is an exceptional decision” (ibid., 71).
22 The monks I interviewed who were older than fifty-two had entered monastic life
before 1958.
23 See also Makley (2007, 251), who argues that monks entering monasteries in
Labrang during the early reform years “invariably expressed a sense of prideful
agency at having participated so centrally [in Tibetan Buddhist revitalization] by
taking on monastic vows to become a field of merit for the laity.” However, the
two monks who she cites, although certainly emphasizing their personal agency,
appear to be making more modest claims about personal aspirations to accumu-
late merit (ibid., 251–253). Makley interviewed eighteen monks ordained in the
post-Mao period (ibid., 252) but does not state how many entered in the early
years.
24 Although studies of Tibetan nuns in the PRC have emphasized their religio-
nationalistic motivations in becoming nuns (e.g., Havnevik 1994; Härkönen
2017), recent studies have paid attention to a more complex mixture of factors,
including their interactions with other monastics, although this does not seem to
have emerged as strongly as a factor as it did in my conversations with monks.
Schneider (2013, 248–274) refers to the importance of socialization of female
monastics when they were children. Most grew up in an environment in which
they would accompany their parents on visits to monasteries, religious special-
ists were invited to their homes, and a member of their family was a religious
specialist. From the examples she cites, it seems that at least some mentioned
these influences in their accounts of their pathways into monastic life, even if
190 Notes to Pages 136–146
most of them framed their decision to become a nun in terms of improving their
karma to ensure a favorable rebirth or studying the Dharma more deeply. The
example of other monastics (nuns and monks), in some cases relatives, had also
influenced some of Härkönen’s (2017, 72–74) interlocutors in combination with
factors specific to the female condition (as emphasized in other studies of nuns—
e.g., Makley 2005a, 277). Such factors include a wish to avoid marriage and the
hard work of female domestic life, as well as a lack of professional opportunities
in the rural environment in which these women grew up (most nuns being from
rural rather than urban backgrounds).
25 To say if it would have been a considerably less imaginable possibility prior to
1958 would require further research. Sherab Gyatso (2004, 233) argues that
there is an increased emphasis on individualism and personal choice in con-
temporary Tibetan societies. Yet disrobing may not have been as uncommon in
the past as one might assume. Mills (2003, 315) cites an early twentieth-century
account contextualizing the founding of a temple at Labrang in the eighteenth
century in the moral decline of the time: “At that time . . . the moral vows were
observed very loosely, the cases when monks returned to mundane life were not
uncommon.” Samuel (1993, 128, 150) mentions the practice of monks returning
to lay life to preserve the household in the event of a brother dying in agricultural
communities in Central Tibet and in Nepal, a practice Nicolas Sihlé has encoun-
tered in southern Mustang (pers. comm.).
26 According to Sherab Gyatso (2004, 233), it is “increasingly the case that monk-
hood is viewed as something in the nature of a career (i.e. in which failure or
lack of suitability becomes possible and the prospect of a ‘career change’ may be
contemplated).”
27 Despite general improvement in livelihoods and changing family structures
since the 1990s, difficult family circumstances are still a reason boys enter
monastic life. In winter 2014, I was looking at a friend’s photos of one of Rong-
wo’s branch monasteries, where his relative is a monk. They included pictures
of a very young monk (eight years old, according to the Tibetan system) who
had been sent, along with his older brother, to the monastery after their mother
passed away.
28 See also Sherab Gyatso (2004, 234), who states that monks in exile who disrobe
couch their justifications in “the language of personal inadequacy” rather than in
terms that represent a rejection of traditional values or a challenge to the institu-
tion of monasticism.
29 A monk I spoke with at Dzongngön also said that access to Buddhist teachings
through DVDs and CDs had positively influenced the minds of the monks.
30 See Mills (2003, 314–317) for a discussion of the connection between reincar-
nate lamas and the constitution of monastic discipline.
ies.” It is therefore certainly plausible or even probable that there were at least
some alternatives about which we, as yet, know very little.
3 For a historical perspective, see also Sullivan (2013), who uses the case of Gön-
lung Monastery’s rise and fall as one of Amdo’s largest and most influential mon-
asteries to argue that standards of discipline were central to the making of “mega
monasteries”; when standards of discipline began to decline, so too did a mon-
astery (countering Goldstein 1998, who suggests standards of discipline at these
institutions were lax). The logic of Sullivan’s argument is remarkably similar to
that voiced by contemporary monks discussing monastic development.
1 There are exceptions. For example, monks at one monastery told me that they
had taken out a loan from the local township government (which they were
struggling to repay) in order to purchase buildings for lease.
2 Schwartz (1994, 69) also claims that Chinese policy proscribes “voluntary dona-
tions.” Like Goldstein (1998, 162n53) and Schrempf (2000, 343n30), I found no
evidence of this in policy or practice, although it can be problematic for monas-
teries to receive large donations from foreigners.
3 Some monks told me that the Dalai Lama had also given teachings on the nega-
tive aspects of some traditional monastic economic practices.
4 For further discussion of monks’ productive use of the past in their negotiation
of the (immoral) present and (moral) future, as well as the generational dynamic
within monasteries, see Caple (2013, 40–44), from which this paragraph is
drawn.
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Index
209
210 Index
lhadé (lha sde), 32, 34, 177n40. See also monkhood, 131, 134, 189n23;
patron communities pilgrimage, 83; sponsorship/
Lhamo (pseud.) (government official), donation, 34, 52, 55, 56, 77;
55, 57, 180n27 monastic reconstruction, 31,
Lhasa monasteries: Amdo monks 81–82; Tibetan medicine, 102;
expelled from, 125, 188n9; pop- tourism, 85
ulation, 21, 126, 150; structure, Mills, Martin, 22, 24, 29, 140
178n3, 186n11; tourism, 91–92. mind (sem), 95–96; corruption/pol-
See also Drepung Monastery lution of, 85, 90–91, 96–97,
Lhündrup (pseud.) (village elder): on 100, 106, 148; environment
Maoist period, 19–20, 25–26; and, 97–99, 118–119, 142, 148;
on revival, 25–27, 31; on spon- technology and, 118, 120, 136,
sorship, 63 190n29
Li Xuansheng, 73–74 mobility and connectivity: expanding
Lodrö (pseud.) (senior monk): on dis- possibilities of, 97–98, 130; dis-
robing, 141; entry to monkhood, robing and, 136
132–133 modernity and modernization: aspira-
Lungrik (pseud.) (senior Trashitsé tions for, 130, 134, 136; changes
monk): on medical clinics, 102; in monastic life and, 98;
on recruitment, 142–143 dilemmas of monastic develop-
Lungtok (pseud.) (senior monk): on ment and, 119–120, 142–144;
disrobing, 137; on Kumbum, perceptions of moral decline
90, 92; on monastic businesses, and, 95–99, 186n9; Sinicization
100, 103; on self-sufficiency, and, 112–113; Tibetan “back-
54, 60 wardness” and ideas about, 149,
187n18
Makley, Charlene: “Buddhist counter monasteries, Tibetan Buddhist, 21–22;
development,” 184n26; high- field sites, 10–14 (see also indi-
quality low-quantity ideal, vidual monastery names). See
149, 188n12; Labrang Monas- also economy, Tibetan monas-
tery, revival of, 7, 10, 53–54, tic; education/training, monas-
111, 177n46, 181n34, 188n12; tic; mass monasticism; monks;
monastic recruitment, 125, 130, population, monastic; revival,
189n23; monastic repopulation, Geluk monastic
24, 25; moral decline narratives, monastery schools, 113, 117–118,
99, 114; nuns/nunhood, 151, 186n16, 187n22; state closure of,
175n25; renunciation, 175n21; 81, 189n16
state patronage, 76–79 monastery shops, 100–102
management, monastic. See under busi- monastic constitutions (chayik), 173n40
ness; Democratic Management monastic-lay boundaries: development
Committees; monastic offices dilemmas and maintenance of,
Mao Zedong, 21, 173n7 100, 103–104, 118–120, 143–
Maoist period: protection of sacred 144, 162; eradication of (1958),
objects/buildings, 25, 31; secret 26; erosion of, 89–91, 98–99;
monks, 26–27; social rupture, moral, 98, 162; reaffirmation
19–21; tourism, 73, 86–87; use of, 162–164; reinscription of
of monastic sites, 27–28, 31, (1980s), 27–32; social, 24,
77, 87 29–30; spatial, 28; symbolic, 27
mass monasticism, 21–25, 32, 37, monastic offices: appointment to, 40,
145–154 43–49 passim, 101; reestablish-
medical clinics, monastic, 102 ment of (1980s), 36; scholar-
Mei Jincai, 59, 80, 88 monks versus workers, 109,
merit and merit-making: m onastics 186n11
as field of, 23, 29–30, 37; monastic polities, 23
214 Index
Trinlé (pseud.) (monk), 35, 36–37; Western Bayen, 10, 13. See also Ditsa
entry to monkhood, 131 Monastery; Trashitsé Monastery
Tsongkhapa, 111; as exemplar, 24, 148; women: access to monasteries, 15, 71,
prophecies of decline, 96 75; accessing knowledge and
Tupten (pseud.) (student), 86, 115–116 opinions of, 14. See also nuns/
nunhood
United Front: policy, 19–20, 30, 173n1;
Work Department, 59, 167 Xi Jinping, 127, 167
Urbanization, 9, 11, 97–98
Yershong Monastery, 12, 172n35; pop-
Vinaya (dulwa), 8, 56, 92, 105, 140 ulation, 124; reconstruction,
virtue, monastic: ability to attract 31. See also Rongwo, affiliate
patronage and, 63; in decline, monasteries
62–64, 95–99; reassertions of, Yeshé Gyatso (pseud.) (reincarnate
162–163. See also authority, lama), 117, 143
Geluk monastic; moral decline Yönten (pseud.) (senior monk), 135–136
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