TIME magazine - July 7, 1997 vol.150 no.1

By Jaime A. Florcruz/Lhasa

"Hullo, mister," whispers a willowy woman with a thick Sichuan accent. "Come in and play." Inside the Red Dancing Shoes karaoke bar, scruffy men ogle two mini-skirted girls dancing listlessly to the tinny fervor of Michael Jackson's "Bad." You can forget, for a moment, that you're in Lhasa, Tibet's capital and spiritual center. Outside, three saffron-clad monks saunter past along the dusty road. Attracted by the alien tune blaring from the dimly lit room, they poke their heads in, watch passively for a few minutes and walk quietly away.

A struggle is under way for Tibet's soul. In Lhasa, the warring sides divide neatly along geographic lines. In western new Lhasa, enterprising Chinese from far-flung provinces hustle for customers in shops, restaurants and beauty salons. In eastern old Lhasa, devout Tibetan Buddhists plod around the octagonal Barkhor Street, twirling prayer wheels and chanting Om Mani Padme Hum (Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus). Nomadic pilgrims prostrate themselves in front of the sacred Jokhang Palace, one of Tibet's most important monasteries, under the watchful eye of Chinese security cameras. At night, as house lights switch off in the east, the neon lights begin burning in the west.

Coping with modernization is just one challenge facing the Tibetans. Another is politics. While Tibet's unique situation offers few lessons for Hong Kong, its status presents a sobering reminder of how little autonomy an "autonomous region" can have in China. The 2.4 million Tibetans who live in what is now called the Tibet Autonomous Region theoretically enjoy self-rule. The local constitution stipulates that all top government posts must be held by Tibetans. "If any central government policy does not suit Tibet, we can change it," says Lhasa vice mayor Pingcuo (like many Tibetans, he uses only one name). The local government, for example, does not exact income taxes: Tibet is considered too poor. On important issues, however, paramount power is wielded by the local party boss, Chen Kuiyuan, an ethnic Chinese, and by central leaders in Beijing.

When the exiled Dalai Lama, Tibet's dethroned god-king, pleads for greater independence for Tibet, he seems to be asking for no more than what Hong Kong has already won. "Genuine self-rule is worth exploring in the light of the 'one country, two systems' concept in Hong Kong," says a Tibetan intellectual in Lhasa. "It's worth asking, 'Why can't Tibetans enjoy that too?'" But the vehemence of Beijing's response furiously denouncing the Dalai Lama as a "splittist," the same label applied to violent separatists in western Xinjiang province betrays how firmly the center intends to keep the region under its thumb.

Beijing's grip on Tibet is evident from the 60,000 Chinese military and police forces stationed in Lhasa alone. And it's clear from the 80,000 ethnic Chinese who have moved into the region in recent years. But there are other, more subtle pressures as well. At the Snow Primary School in central Lhasa, for example, most courses are taught in Mandarin and, alternatively, in Tibetan. Many locals would prefer to learn math in their native tongue, to grasp the concepts more quickly. But that carries a price. "If they wish to get into good high schools and college," says instructor Tzirendrolma, "they must take a one-year makeup course and re-learn things in Mandarin." Another example: the computer department at Tibet University recently put a homepage on the Internet. But until Tibetan-language software is available, only the Mandarin-proficient can get cyberexperience.

Ultimately, however, the biggest threat to traditional Tibetan culture is not China's heavy hand but creeping westernization. At the Tibet Stocks Business Center, which opened three years ago, ethnic Tibetans and Han Chinese gather to watch computerized trading boards flash real-time price quotes for Chinese shares. One of the center's registered shareholders is Nima, 50, a retired transport worker who describes herself as a xin gumin, or new stock-player. She has invested more than 50,000 yuan ($6,000), a hefty sum in a region where annual per capita income is only 975 yuan, to buy stocks of three Shenzhen-listed companies. "The market has been down lately," she says in fluent Mandarin, "so I'm holding on. It's bound to bounce back, especially after Hong Kong's return to the motherland." Even though communications have improved, information comes to Lhasa slowly. She complains: "The books and newspapers that stock-players in other provinces get on Fridays arrive here on Mondays. That's our biggest handicap.

" Still, boasts Tibetan regional government chairman Gyaincain Norbu, the territory has averaged an annual 10% growth rate over the past few years.

That kind of enthusiasm should give Hong Kong cause for hope: the territory could well suffer only limited interference at the hands of Beijing simply because, as a thriving capitalist outpost, it already is what much of China wants to become. On Lhasa's Barkhor Street, a trio of local lasses window-shop casually, wearing identical T-shirts emblazoned with the visage of a Hong Kong pop star and baseball caps embroidered with a Chicago Bulls logo. An advertising billboard for Mobil oil sits smack in front of the Potala Palace, former seat of the Dalai Lama. Across the street, photo shops advertise Kodak and Fuji film. The Lhasa Holiday Inn serves a yak-meat burger in its Hard Yak Cafe.

The tentacles of global pop culture don't yet reach too far beyond the capital. Many areas just outside Lhasa remain as pristine, bucolic and backward as before. Maiga Village, a hamlet of nearly 100 people 40 km northwest of Lhasa, is the home of 70-year-old Dorje, her three children and four grandchildren. They have a decent three-room house furnished with all the essentials: carpeted beds, traditional furniture, a radio. They own 4.5 hectares of land planted with barley and potatoes, but their labor netted only $360 last year. "We have enough for food and clothing, but we don't have much cash," Dorje says.

What would they buy if they had more cash? A television perhaps? "Food and clothing," she replies. Itinerant antique dealers offered the family the equivalent of $2,000 apiece for their three small bronze Buddhist statues. They turned them down. "We're not selling them because they're holy," says Dorje.

As Tibet copes with changing values, Beijing continues overtly to suppress religious freedom. The Tsurphu Monastery, 70 km from Lhasa and made even more remote by poor roads, is home to the 17th Karmapa, a 13-year-old living Buddha. Every day, scores of pilgrims from various places line up with offerings to seek blessing from the youth. But the 370 monks practice their faith surrounded by a "work team" of provincial cadres, there "to manage public order." "They don't interfere with our religious practices," Danzin, a 27-year-old lama, says, choosing his words carefully. "But we hope they'll finish their work soon."

On the roof of the recently renovated Jokhang Palace, police watch closely as several Tibetan workers make repairs and tourists snap souvenir pictures. About 40 km away at Ganden Monastery, one of the largest in Tibet, monks loyal to the Dalai Lama speak of him in whispers for fear of being heard by the "work team" members, who seem to have settled in. It was at Ganden last May that militant monks protested against the government ban on public display of Dalai Lama portraits. Ten monks were recently given prison sentences for allegedly beating up security officers. "It's not religious persecution," says regional government chairman Norbu. "They violated our criminal law."

His logic extends to the influx of ethnic Chinese that has transformed Lhasa. "The majority of these migrants respect local laws and customs," he says. "They have made positive contributions to our social and economic development. The only thing that worries me is the idea that we will close up again." That fear seems remote. As Lhasa evolves into a melting pot of cultures, Tibet is likely to split into two worlds: a hinterland locked in by poor roads and limited communications, and a capital slowly reaching out to become just like any other city in the People's Republic.