Escape into Exile: An Excerpt from the Dalai Lama's Memoir
A perilous journey, a nation’s heartbreak—the Dalai Lama’s escape from Tibet unfolds in his own unforgettable words
Born in the village of Takster in eastern Tibet in 1935, a little boy named Tenzin Gyatso, was identified by a team of monks as the 14th incarnation of the Dalai Lama of Tibet in 1937. Before long, he was on his way to the Potala palace in distant Lhasa, 100 days away on foot and horseback, in the course of which he was briefly held for ransom by a Chinese warlord. This was the first of several gruelling, dramatic and arguably miraculous journeys that would mark his life and its entanglement with the fate of his country.
The early adventure would also prove to be an ominous portent. Thirteen years later, in 1950, the 15-year-old, still a priest-king-in-training, was formally consecrated and hurriedly installed on the ruler’s throne in response to the first incursions of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA)—the army of the new communist government of China, which sought to reclaim Beijing’s ‘suzrerainty’ over Tibet, lost when the 13th Dalai Lama expelled Chinese forces from Lhasa in 1912. The continuing advance of the PLA would push the young ruler to flee the Tibetan capital for the first time, seeking shelter in the town of Yatung in the Chumbi valley, near the Indian border.
There was no stopping the Chinese advance and the Dalai Lama was persuaded to return to Lhasa the next year following a meeting with the PLA’s General Zhang Jingwu, in which the Tibetans were promised significant autonomy and liberties. Inevitably, however, the massive presence of Chinese troops, and their increasingly heavy-handed administration, provoked resistance from a people accustomed to pastoral liberty, freedom of movement and a deeply religious way of life that was anathema to the increasingly totalitarian Maoist state.
Born in the village of Takster in eastern Tibet in 1935, a little boy named Tenzin Gyatso, was identified by a team of monks as the 14th incarnation of the Dalai Lama of Tibet in 1937. Before long, he was on his way to the Potala palace in distant Lhasa, 100 days away on foot and horseback, in the course of which he was briefly held for ransom by a Chinese warlord. This was the first of several gruelling, dramatic and arguably miraculous journeys that would mark his life and its entanglement with the fate of his country.
The early adventure would also prove to be an ominous portent. Thirteen years later, in 1950, the 15-year-old, still a priest-king-in-training, was formally consecrated and hurriedly installed on the ruler’s throne in response to the first incursions of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA)—the army of the new communist government of China, which sought to reclaim Beijing’s ‘suzrerainty’ over Tibet, lost when the 13th Dalai Lama expelled Chinese forces from Lhasa in 1912. The continuing advance of the PLA would push the young ruler to flee the Tibetan capital for the first time, seeking shelter in the town of Yatung in the Chumbi valley, near the Indian border.
There was no stopping the Chinese advance and the Dalai Lama was persuaded to return to Lhasa the next year following a meeting with the PLA’s General Zhang Jingwu, in which the Tibetans were promised significant autonomy and liberties. Inevitably, however, the massive presence of Chinese troops, and their increasingly heavy-handed administration, provoked resistance from a people accustomed to pastoral liberty, freedom of movement and a deeply religious way of life that was anathema to the increasingly totalitarian Maoist state.
It was amidst these rising tensions that the Dalai Lama would make another long journey, back through the Chumbi Valley, into India in 1956. This was officially a pilgrimage—to attend celebrations of the 2,500th anniversary of the birth of the Buddha. As something of a state visit, the journey had been sanctioned by the Chinese authorities, and the Dalai Lama would even meet the Chinese Premier Zhou Enlai in New Delhi. He also met a number of his compatriots, including his own brothers, who had themselves fled Tibet to live as refugees. And many of them advised him not to return to Lhasa. Zhou Enlai, for his part, had warned the Dalai Lama that the Chinese were prepared to meet any continuing Tibetan resistance with brutal force.
Feeling he could not abandon his people at a time of such tension and threat, he returned, crossing the Nathu La pass into Tibet in 1957. He could not have known how soon he would be forced to retrace his steps and leave his homeland forever.
The following excerpt from his memoir published in March this year, recounts, in the spiritual leader’s own words, the circumstances that cemen-vted his decision to make this final, perilous journey into exile.
—By Kai Friese
I arrived in the capital on 1 April 1957, knowing that the situation was slipping out of control—due to the Chinese government’s actions and from my own inability to have any meaningful influence. By midsummer, it had become clear that virtually everything I had been told by Zhou [Enlai] himself and by him on behalf of Mao [Zedong] had been falsehoods and dissimulations. There continued to be open conflict in Kham and Amdo (eastern and northeastern Tibet). The People’s Liberation Army showed no restraint—bombing more towns and committing such atrocities that I found difficult to believe for their levels of depravity, but were later confirmed by the International Commission of Jurists in 1959. Thousands more refugees from Kham and Amdo fled to Lhasa and camped outside the city.
Through 1958 and early 1959, the situation worsened further, with growing numbers joining an active Tibetan resistance that came to be based in southern Tibet, called the Volunteer Force for the Protection of the Faith (tensung danglang magmi). To defuse tensions, I had several meetings with the PLA's senior-most generals in Lhasa, including especially General Tan Guansan, the head of the Chinese military in Tibet, known for his bad temper. Through these generals, the Chinese government insisted that the Tibetan government use our own Tibetan soldiers against the Tibetan guerrillas.
It was unthinkable to send Tibetan troops against our own people, especially when they were fighting to safeguard our land and culture. At the same time, I received an intimation from the Americans that if I solicited assistance for the resistance movement, they would provide it. Of course, as a student of the Buddha and a deep admirer of Mahatma Gandhi’s non-violence philosophy, I could not imagine myself making such a request. Part of me at the time, I must admit, admired the guerrilla fighters. They were brave Tibetans who were putting their lives at risk for the sake of our nation and Buddhist faith. I also knew that many of them saw themselves as fighting out of loyalty to me as the Dalai Lama.
I wondered what advice Mahatma Gandhi would have given me in this charged situation. Would he have condoned violence here? I could not believe that he would. Practically speaking too, I was convinced that using force against the Chinese would be not only useless but actually suicidal. It would give the Chinese army the perfect excuse to crush Tibetans with maximum force.
Following my final Geshe exams in Lhasa, over the next two weeks the crisis in the country reached a boiling point. The people’s anxiety about my own safety and the presence of Chinese troops in Lhasa led to an explosive situation in the capital. On 10 March, I was supposed to attend a cultural show at the Chinese garrison in Lhasa, with the worrisome suggestion that my bodyguards should not accompany me. Word had gotten out, and thousands of people crowded the city to prevent me from leaving my residence at Norbu-lingka. It was soon out of control and became a massive popular uprising.
On the 12th, thousands of Tibetan women took to the streets and assembled in front of the Potala Palace. They burned the Chinese flag, as well as photos and effigies of Mao, Zhou Enlai, and Zhu De, and shouted, “Tibet has always been free! Tibet for the Tibetans! Long live the Dalai Lama! Long live Gaden Phodrang,” the last being the name of the Tibetan government under the Dalai Lamas. On 14 March, I met with approximately 70 representatives chosen by the people in the hope that I could help defuse the situation. However, tension kept building, with the Tibetan crowds growing day by day.
The Chinese army remained in its barracks while I exchanged messages with the short-tempered General Tan Guansan, which may have helped to buy time. It might also have been the case that the Chinese army was awaiting instructions from Beijing. We had information that they were planning to attack the crowd and shell the Norbulingka Palace. Within my own circle, many were urging me to seriously consider leaving Lhasa for the time being.
On the 17th, around 4 p.m., two heavy mortars landed just outside the north side of the Norbulingka, which, fortunately, did not cause any harm. Everyone thought that an attack was imminent. Earlier on that day, the State Oracle Nechung, in a trance, had in fact urged me to leave, saying, “Leave! Leave! Go tonight!” This instruction was consistent with the outcome of a few divinations I had performed myself on the question of whether to stay or leave. So the landing of those two mortars came as a reinforcement of what the State Oracle had instructed me to do—namely, to leave immediately. Not only was my own life in danger, but the lives of thousands of my people now seemed certain to be lost as well. With everyone around me urging the path of escape as well, I took the decision to flee Lhasa.
I went to the chapel of Mahakala, an important protector in Tibetan Buddhism, a chapel where I had always gone to say good-bye before embarking on a long journey. Then, having changed my monastic robe into layman’s clothing, I went to my prayer room to sit down for a quiet moment. I opened the text that was lying on the small table in front of the throne, which turned out to be the Eight Thousand Lines on the Perfection of Wisdom, a scripture sacred to Mahayana Buddhism. I randomly picked up a page and read from the top, ending at the sentence “Have courage and confidence.” Energized, I closed the book, blessed the room, and turned off the lights. One precious item I took with me was an old thangka (a traditional Tibetan painting on canvas framed with silk brocades that could be rolled into a scroll) that had belonged to the Second Dalai Lama.
As I walked out of my room, a blanket of silence enveloped me, where I could feel every step I took and the ticking of the clock on the wall. I took the rifle of one of the bodyguards who was standing outside my room. And so, at 10 p.m. on 17 March, I put my glasses into my pocket and stepped out of the Norbulingka Palace disguised as a layman with a rifle over my shoulder. This was a truly eerie experience. I was afraid, but also had a more immediate practical thing to worry about: how not to trip as I walked without my glasses. As I stepped out of the gate, I felt the presence of a great mass of people gathered outside the Norbulingka. Thinking of them, I prayed—worrying what fate lay in store for these thousands of innocent Tibetans.
Once we were away from the immediate threat of being captured by the PLA, personally, the most powerful thing I felt was a sense of relief. Alongside this was the acute awareness that I was now free to speak my mind and openly criticize the policies of the Communist Chinese government. The nine years of working with the Communist Chinese in Tibet and Beijing, during which I had to carefully consider every phrase I uttered, had placed a heavy weight in my heart. And I was now able to breathe the air of freedom.
Early the next morning, as we were crossing the Chela Pass, one of the guides leading my horse told me that this was the last point from where we could still see the Potala Palace, with its striking white-and-red fortress-like structures covering the entire face of a rocky mountain overlooking Lhasa. He then helped turn my horse around so I could take a last glimpse.
With a heavy heart, I said goodbye to Lhasa, Tibet’s capital city, where I had grown up since age four. I prayed that I would be able to return there one day.
Note:
A Beacon of hopeSince his escape in 1959, the Dalai Lama has lived in exile in Dharamshala. Granted asylum by India, he established the Tibetan government-in-exile and became the global face of the Tibetan cause. Despite his international recognition—including the Nobel Peace Prize—China continues to view him as a separatist threat and his return has been blocked by its government, which has tightened control over Tibet, suppressing cultural and religious freedoms. As a result, the Dalai Lama remains in exile, far from the land of his birth, symbolizing both the enduring Tibetan struggle and the deep political tensions surrounding China’s rule in Tibet. As he approaches his 90th birthday on 6 July, the 14th Dalai Lama remains revered across the world as a beacon of peace, compassion and resilience and continues to inspire millions with his commitment to non-violence and spiritual wisdom.
—The Editors
Edited excerpt from Voice for the Voiceless: Over Seven Decades Of Struggle With China For My Land And My People, by His Holiness the Dalai Lama, Published by Thorsons, HarperCollins Publisher, © Gaden Phodrang Foundation of the Dalai Lama 2025. Reproduced with permissions