Gendered Tibet

thoughts on the intersection of Gender and Tibetan Culture

On Unethical Silence and Interceding in Violent Conflicts

Content Warning: description of gendered violence

I knew something was wrong. Dekyi and I always danced in the town square every day at six o’clock. She even prepared her dinner early in order to be on time for circle dancing. She was naturally graceful, her fingers completing the curve of her arms as she danced, every move perfect, smiling, joyful. She was considered a leader in the local dance circle and someone to watch if you didn’t know the steps. Everyone knew and respected her for being a successful local businesswoman, as well as for her Buddhist piety.

She cared for me like a sister, worrying when I left my ‘home base’ (her hotel) to travel in Kham alone. She gave me protection strings and amulets, and a paper with mantras and spells on it, which she exhorted me to keep on my person at all times while I traveled. I did stop having car accidents after that.

We had often made dinner together, going to the market and sautéing vegetarian dishes in the small private room where the hotel security guard slept at night. She liked to put on her favorite Tibetan music videos; mostly the ones that praised the lamas of Serta Larung Gar, where she worshipped every summer, living with the nuns.

It was in that room that I would find her, curled up and crying on the ground, while her husband beat her in a drunken rage. From that room we would run, holding hands as we climbed up the mountain, away from him. Her friends almost convinced me that everything was fine, although they clearly knew it was not. They had known her for much longer and were aware of her husband’s drinking and womanizing habits.

Although I met her every day like clockwork, I almost missed it, almost didn’t walk the two hundred feet to her hotel to see if something was wrong. It wasn’t the first time that this had happened. Everyone in that town knew each other’s business.

When I reached the hotel, I could hear her crying as her little sister tried to plead with him to stop. Ran inside to see her being hit by her husband, son of the most powerful local businessman in town. Saw him kick her, and stagger drunkenly to fall on the bed. The bed that we usually sat on, laughing and talking.
I had never seen him or heard of him before, three months into living in this town, into being accepted into the daily fabric of these people’s lives. I didn’t even know that she was married. She lived like a nun, and none of our friends had ever mentioned him. Silences are meaningful, too. But everyone knew who he was, including the local police, who were used to talking him down.

First I called his father.

He wasn’t willing to come collect his son, citing the privilege of marital privacy. Nobody would shame him by actually witnessing his actions. What about her, I said…why should she suffer in silence, without even the help of her friends, who were a mere two hundred feet away, pretending ignorance for the sake of his pride. There’s something about the acknowledgement that has power. Violence witnessed by others cannot be obscured in the same way. Without the inertia that concretizes around these silences, we can move forward to intervene, breaking the stigmatization that leaves victims to fend for themselves.

Then I called the police. It’s almost never a good idea in any country, but I did it.

Dekyi was pleading with him, begging him to calm down. As he staggered up from the bed again, I placed my body in front of hers, gathered up every ounce of my imagined privileged status as a foreigner, and stood my ground between them, glaring at him. I was scared, but I felt nearly protected in that instant by my positionality, by the fact that if he hurt a foreigner he just might face real consequences. That’s what I believed at the time. In truth, there’s nothing that truly protects a woman in these circumstances no matter where she lives in this world. I could see in his eyes the calculation taking place – of whether or not he could cross that line, whether or not he could use violence on me, too.

The police arrived. They tried to soothe him.

They were taken aback when they realized who called them, and whom they had been called to police. “Silly foreigner,” they said, “that’s between a husband and wife. Who are we to interfere?”

It’s not a bad question. Who are we to insert ourselves into others’ lives? But more importantly, who are we if we stay away?

Of course, I yelled back at the police. Told them angrily in my taxi-driver Sichuanese that they were the ones who misunderstood, and that he was not legally allowed to beat her. She’s a person, I yelled, jabbing my finger in the officer’s face in my own small fit of impotent rage. But law can be an empty signifier in a frontier town.

When I realized that the police weren’t going to detain the son of a locally important personage, I realized the boundary of my privilege and how stupid I had been to expect anyone to defend her.

I grabbed Dekyi’s hand and we ran up the mountain to the only place I could think of where he wouldn’t follow us to claim his wife; the foreign missionary hostel, something of a liminal space in the complex layers of local political geography. We spent that night in a place neither of us had slept before. Her hotel no longer represented home, a place where we had found wholeness and comfort.

Nobody wanted to shame her, that’s what they said afterwards. They had mostly good intentions. But she and her sister had to deal with that violent man alone, without the support of anyone in their community, without recourse to the systems of law and governance that were supposed to endow them with rights. We become imbricated in systems of gendered violence, turning a blind eye. All of us, regardless of where we live.

So why did I intercede, when everything and everyone told me not to? Partly because I knew I could use my position to protect her if only for that moment; partly out of guilt for every time I’d been afraid to speak up or help another woman in need. And because I know exactly how it feels to be the target of a man’s anger.

I could feel our friends’ disapproval of my active interference in what they considered a private matter. As for myself, I have considered this carefully over the years since this incident, still wondering if I did the right thing. Wondering if crossing that line was a violation of cultural rules around taboo silences that I, an outsider, should have respected. But it is the recollection of the look of pained relief on her face when I grabbed her hand and we ran together that reassures me.

Ultimately, I have to do what I feel is right for the person I am truly responsible to – my friend, my fellow woman. Cultural relativism can leave us believing we are doing justice to some vague ideal of so-called respect even as we betray ourselves, letting silence replace the necessary ethical considerations. In my opinion, I would be failing my friend if I let such relativistic tendencies silence me, just because we are from different cultures. Ethically, I consider male violence an international problem, a common thread that runs through women’s experience of the world, and wherever I see it I will fight back to the full extent of my ability. If I were to suspend this ethical imperative merely because I am in someone else’s cultural world, I would be betraying my commitment to respect the agency of all women.

After that day, he couldn’t hide anymore. Her uncle, a lama, negotiated a separation between them. Now she is a nun, and I will see her when I return to Serta Larung Gar.

Reflections on a Heart Healing Ritual: Quest for Wisdom

I had ‘heart heat.’ My heart was small, hot, and closed. As the woman, a khandroma (dakini), scratched the flesh of my back, digging, creating red grooves of raised pain and relief, she said, “You need to expand your heart.” My first thought – fear. Will it hurt? Second, how to expand a heart? The scratching, the heat, her touch. A ritual in a small stuffy room, women only, that gestated a bodily transformation. Breaking raised blood vessels, leaving welts on my back the rich maroon color of a monastery freshly painted, she scratched, crooning sweet comforting words. Blood moved and changed under my unbroken skin. The old vessels my blood moved along were destroyed and new pain erupted. My old heart, rent asunder – that was a year ago.

Later that day, as I sat fidgeting, receiving the tantric empowerment from my female lama, I pondered their seemingly different modes of attaining wisdom. The khandroma is a ritual healer and tantric consort, and the female lama is a celibate nun who teaches religion to thousands of women and writes texts on monastic vows, among many other subjects. Two Tibetan women living Buddhist wisdom through very different, and yet uniquely Tibetan, modes of religious life. They are complementary members of this local world created by the Buddhist community that gathers at Serta Larung Gar, Eastern Tibet. Doing ethnography in what is now the largest nunnery and dharma encampment in the world, I encountered these two respected figures, who each tried their best to instill some wisdom in me.

If we allow ourselves to be disrupted by suffering in the world to the extent that our variously-sized hearts allow, scholarly wisdom must be constantly interrogated and re-contextualized in order to be of any use to us. In that light, I have tried to unpack this experience I had with healing. Seeking to understand how wisdom is practiced in a living Tibetan Buddhist community, I found myself giving up my ethnographical intentions, willingly becoming an inhabited body initiated into the ritual community, ripped open, healed, and instilled with a tantric god. I asked the khandroma to heal me, and she spoke gentle wise words that cut my heart like a knife through butter. Those few words shine like the famed Buddhist wish-fulfilling jewel, always offering the eye new facets, new meanings and interpretive possibilities. I let the khandroma lacerate my back with her caring fingertips. I accepted the pain. Moving forward, letting these experiences inform a new sense of self and context, I am still integrating them into my new heart.

The thousands of nuns who form the community at Larung Gar sacrificed everything else in “worldly life;” gave up everything extraneous to the quest for wisdom. These brave women severed family ties, left friends and lovers behind, and cut off the possibility of seeking any support other than refuge in the quest for wisdom itself. They have created an environment harmonious with Tibetan Buddhist ontology, a world where noise, speech, bodily actions, thoughts, and bodies themselves are transformed into karmic potentialities conducive to enlightenment. I went from having questions for them, to having my heart and life changed by them.

My female lama initiated me into the meditation which installs the tantric deity in your heart. There’s a space there now, created from releasing the clenched pain of shutting suffering out, a strength that I didn’t have before expanding my heart. When a tantric god lives in your heart, you are supposed to be transformed, becoming unafraid of how deeply the world can affect you. It’s a form of self-confidence that radically de-centers the self, connects you with the ritual community, and keeps you aware of the larger welfare of humanity. It breaks your heart open. I chose to let it.

So, I started over. I let myself be transformed by their expectations and their concerns for my heart. I felt the pleasing lilt of her sweet voice flow over me like liquid, as she hurt me in order to make my heart better. My identity changed through this bodily healing encounter with the khandroma. Honestly, she could have just as easily been referring to my mind rather than my heart. Ask a Tibetan to point to their ‘mind’ and they will touch their heart. For her, it was a deficiency of heart-mind capacity which I could solve by re-envisioning my entire life with the braveness to accept what truly living out the quest for wisdom does to our hearts and minds: it changes them. It expands them, painfully, accompanied by the dull ache of lack – cracking open the familiar walls we once depended on to keep us safe from fear, separate from the world’s suffering.

Wisdom should destroy our plans and our preconceptions, leading us to engage authentically with the world because of, and not in spite of, suffering. My present understanding requires that I remain uncomfortable in my position, re-framing my own capacity. I expand the walls of my new heart, breathing and experiencing the world’s suffering, listening, caring, hoping to do justice to my commitments to the community who showed me lived wisdom.

Three Accidents Later: A Short Account of Traveling as an American Woman in Kham

I’ll probably never forget the look on her face as she raised the tent flap. I must have been quite a sight to behold. The young nomad ushered me in, gesturing towards some cushions next to the stove, telling me to sit down with an exclamation of pity, “A-ka!” I have a picture from the moment after I sat down. Not a mental image, but an actual picture that my friend snapped – though she herself had dislocated her shoulder in the accident. In this picture, I was wearing a light blue long-sleeved shirt covered with a waterfall of blood, and jeans that likewise sported gore that had fallen from my nose. I doubt she will forget the look on my face, nor the day that a van filled with four Americans, a Chinese man, and a White Lama crashed outside her summer tent.

That was the third accident I had in Tibet. The first was a minor rear-end on a bus traveling the winding Tea-Horse road between Chengdu and Dartsemdo. The second accident happened between Dartsemdo and Garndze. I was on the bus during a particularly bad monsoon season in 2010. As the driver pushed the bus through a thick mud puddle, I yelled in my best Sichuan dialect, trying to warn the bus driver that my window was about to collide with an errant winch, attached to the marooned truck we were inching past. That window exploded with a pop in my face, spraying glass shards everywhere. Some landed on a woman with a swaddled baby sitting in the seat in front of me.

I remember climbing down the aisle dodging suitcases, glass fragments falling from my pants and underpants as I shook them out, treading on glass and discarded chicken feet bones, yelling a steady stream of questions at the Chinese driver who had misjudged his right rear flank so badly. He was unimpressed, although I continued to curse and gesture at the woman and baby covered in glass to illustrate the seriousness of the situation. Clearly hungover, he shrugged and gestured at his right eye, telling me he had an infection that was impairing his vision. He didn’t give a shit about the woman or her baby getting covered in glass. The Tibetan man acting as backup driver patiently explained to the crazy foreigner that you can’t just yell at men. Foreigners just don’t understand. I responded by asking him why he didn’t care that the man’s carelessness resulted in a glass-covered mother and child, then I sat down in glass-free spot in the aisle. I got off at the next town even though I was 8 hours from my destination. I wasn’t getting back on that bus.

After I gave up taking buses, I stayed in Garndze for a while. At that time, it was a small town, which has since expanded past the one main street, old streets broken into rubble to make way for the new. I made friends among the nuns. I spent most days studying Tibetan books at the restaurant owned by the nunnery, which has since closed due to the relocation of the main road.

At the local bookstore, I found many texts of interest, including Gendun Chöphel’s translation of the Ramayana. Reading that small red book at the restaurant got me more than a few quizzical looks and comments from monks who didn’t know I could also understand spoken Tibetan. I didn’t mind.

One older nun managed the cash box at the restaurant. She was very fond of my copy of Khenpo Tsultrim Lodru’s Tibetan-Chinese dictionary, joining me in my studies every day to improve her Tibetan. As a child, she had only been educated in the local Chinese-language school. Several young girls and one former nun served the customers and two worked in the kitchen, sleeping on the wide Tibetan wooden couches at night, covered with carpets, after they had cleaned up. They were kind and shy at first, but soon delighted in bringing me pot after pot of black tea. I learned their dialect, eating lunch and dinner with them: usually fried vegetable dishes from the greenhouse, and plates of the local pö-tro momo, a Tibetan whole-wheat dumpling filled with butter and potato. We bought guazi, or sunflower seeds from the market downstairs and shared them. They taught me how to crack guazi like a professional using only my teeth, spitting out the spiced shell fragments on the floor to be swept up later.

I lived in Garnzde for a few months, finally mastering each girl’s separate regional dialect enough to have small conversations and to understand their repeated admonitions that I needed to wear long underwear even in the summer. I told them about my hometown in Florida, where it’s so hot all-year round that I never even owned a pair of long underwear growing up. They asked about my parents and friends, curious about the knowledge travelers passing through their restaurant could share with them. I showed them as many pictures as I had. They showed concern and care for me, admonishing me not to walk alone at night, to carry a rock for the stray dogs, and to watch out for the local kuma, or bandits.

One girl in particular, the former nun, had a very different way of pronouncing important words. It took me over a month to figure out that “hö” was “cho”- the equivalent of the English word “you” and a fundamental subject of conversation. Finally, one day, she tentatively pointed to me, repeating gently, “hö.” Tibetans are taught not to point, generally speaking, otherwise that misunderstanding might have been solved a lot sooner. We laughed and she grabbed my hand, holding it in the way that Tibetan friends do.

As I neared the end of my three-month tourist visa, I had to face the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to get a work visa from any of the local schools in order to live in Tibetan areas full-time. There just weren’t any businesses in Tibet allowed to hire foreigners. If I wanted to stay, I had to get a job in a Chinese city, most likely teaching English. So, I planned one last pilgrimage around Kham before settling in one of the largest cities in the world. Some friends were headed up my way from Chengdu, so I agreed to take them on a tour of the roads I had gotten to know so well.

That’s when I met the White Lama.

The first time I saw him, I tried to avoid him, thinking, perhaps disrespectfully, “Pass.” I don’t generally make a habit of befriending strange foreigners in Tibet. Perhaps it was karma, then, that inspired one of my friends whom I was shepherding along the wild roads of Kham to invite him to ride in the van we had arranged for the return trip to Chengdu. Needless to say, I had mixed feelings from the moment I saw that it was him, the White Lama whom I had observed sitting in the central market the day before. With a flowing white mane, dressed in a maroon upper robe, and a white lower robe in the style of Nyingmapa yogis, he assented easily to, and in fact was quite used to, the typical Tibetan deference to a man in robes. That was to play a major factor in the third accident.

We made good time for about an hour before the driver announced we would be switching cars. The hairs on the back of my neck immediately bristled. The White Lama, seated in the place of honor in the front of the van, dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand. The driver had little reason to address the concerns of a young woman. That was the end of my limited influence, acquired through the novel act of speaking their dialect. A hard-won talent that was easily one-upped by his performance. He had donned the red and white robes that signal claim to religious achievements, titles, and education. What cause did he have to dissect his privilege in that situation? So, the original driver that we had negotiated with passed us off to another driver friend whose “car didn’t need repair.” Typical bait-and-switch. How does anybody fall for this? These are the type of thoughts I had later that day, as that second car skidded into the mountain, flipping over and tossing its passengers about like rag dolls.

When we stopped for lunch at Bamé, right before the construction roadblock, the driver expressed his exhaustion, yawning and stretching through lunch. We piled back in the van after a lunch of chili-oil with boiled hot dogs, which I didn’t touch, and vegetable soup, which I gratefully drank. We piled back into the van. I had traded my middle-row seat with the person who had been traveling in the back for the first half of the journey. There was a metal pipe acting as a brace for the row of seats in front of me which would later collide with the bridge of my nose.

Suddenly, I realized we had switched drivers. Things weren’t looking good. Our Chinese traveling companion, who had not spoken for the whole trip, was in the driver’s seat. The Tibetan driver stretched out in the middle row, planning to take a nap for the next two-hour stint of the journey. After all, he had an eight-hour drive back to Chengdu if he wanted to pick up more passengers the next day. Feeling rather responsible for my three friends who spoke nothing but English, as the new driver fumbled with the gears, I asked the driver if the new guy even knew how to drive.

“Of course, he’s Chinese, it’s fine. People like that know how to drive. I’m tired, I need to sleep,” the driver complained as he checked his text messages and reclined his seat.

I appealed to the White Lama.

My request for intercession wasn’t granted. My concerns, though becoming louder and more vocal, continued to go unheeded by the sleepy driver. The White Lama sat in the passenger seat, seemingly unconcerned as the new driver ground the gears of the van. I realized he didn’t even know how to drive a stick-shift.

It began to rain.

I began to beg.

“Please, help me convince him this is not okay,” I supplicated the White Lama. A burgeoning sense of dread came upon me as we rounded a corner, oily tires skittering in the gentle summer rain. He ignored me. All the men did – the lama, the new driver, and the old driver trying to nap.

The slick concrete split the narrowly paved path between river to the left and mountain to the right. As we curved to the right, I could see a steep descent ahead which buckled inwards, inclined towards the mountain. The rain had fallen just enough to make the poor-quality concrete slippery.

Screaming this time, in Tibetan, I begged the driver. I begged the White Lama to use his influence on the driver as a monastic to convince him to let us out of the car “Please stop, I want to get out, this is not safe, that man doesn’t know how to drive!”

I tried.

At least we didn’t end up in the river. Could have been worse.

As it was, I still wasn’t happy about the outcome.

I remember the impact. The bridge of my nose smashed by the bridge of my glasses against that metal pipe scaffolding the seat back in front me. The world spinning as the van skidded and flipped.

I remember my friend tumbling sideways as the mountaineer crushed and dislocated her shoulder, as they both fell on me. I remember the car flipping over, coming to rest next to a mountain outcropping. I was convinced to the last millisecond that we would tumble down the embankment into the river but luckily, we hit the mountain.

As the van came to rest in front of a small summer tent after crashing against that outcropping, I reached for my surprisingly bloody nose. Both drivers climbed out through the shattered side window that had unexpectedly become the top exit. The White Lama climbed out of the passenger door that was now top-side. My friends climbed out next. Me next, please. As I went to grab a friendly hand and hoist myself out of the wreckage, holding my bloody nose with the other, I was halted.

The White Lama pushed my friends away, and wanted to examine my nose before anyone helped hoist me out of the broken window. I wasn’t having it. I wanted out of that busted van.

To this day, I’m not quite sure why he waved everyone away and insisted on personally checking my bleeding nose before I was allowed to climb out. After all, there was a registered nurse and trained first aid specialist standing right next to him. What I remember clearly is being filled with rage at the prospect of someone preventing me from getting out of the car wreck that I had predicted.

But that’s karma, right?

I remember climbing out of the car as the blood gushed down my chest, wondering at the amount of blood a nose could produce. After we flagged down a passing bus an hour later, I got an x-ray which nobody at the hospital could read accurately anyways, so I never knew whether it was broken or not. The doctor had already gone home for the night.

I remember that nomad’s face as she lifted the flap of her tent, staring in wonderment at the blood-red stream covering my surprised pale face.

Three accidents later, I returned to Chengdu, hitching a ride on one of those buses, this time for free.

~chelsea

“Drolma Girl” and the Curious Controversy of the 6387 Sheep

Drolma with Lamb
This is Drolma Yangchen, born in Danma, Upper Kham. She writes under the pen name Danza Drolma, and on September 1st, she (with the backing of her NGO devoted to releasing animals) bought 6387 sheep headed for the slaughter*. That’s where the controversy started, at least this time around. And that’s when she became “Drolma Girl.”

This is certainly not the first time Tibetan social media has debated this ‘hot topic.’ Should the increasingly common practice of purchasing and ‘releasing’ animals continue, or is it a misguided, albeit Buddhist attempt to save animals that ultimately increases the cycle of death and suffering by contributing to economic demand?

This is, however, the first time (to my knowledge) that a female laywoman such as Danza Drolma has been the public face of such a monumental ‘releasing’ event. That led to my current exploration of how gender is shaping the discourse around this issue. How are people reacting to a laywoman’s large-scale release of animals, as opposed to the more common (male) lama-led releasing parties? Not that the latter are without their detractors. But why now, why her, and why is she suddenly Drolma Girl (sgrol ma bu mo, 卓玛姑娘)?

Let me sketch out a rough timeline of the events so far:
On Sept. 1st, 6387 sheep purchased by her NGO, Snowland Releasing, for over 5 million RMB.

Trucks full of sheep

Subsequently, pictures, including the above, were published on their WeChat platform by herself and the NGO. Initially she received a lot of praise for her act, with the traditional Tibetan feminine virtues of compassion, generosity, and beauty being consistently (and somewhat predictably) invoked.

Then the 6387 sheep were released. Accounts differ as to whether they were released ‘into the wilderness,’ as it were, likely allowing animal traders and butchers to re-capture and re-sell them, or whether the sheep were responsibly distributed to nomad families (who would be bound to care for them but not permitted to kill them). That’s when things really got heated, as Tibetans all over social media started taking this issue apart point by point.

Currently, the voting public agrees with Danza Drolma, with 44% preferring her to use the 5 million RMB for ‘releasing,’ 30% saying the money should go towards education, and 12% in favor of buying medicine with the funds (two of the major arguments made by the opposing camp).

Voting for Life

Why is this situation seemingly coming to head at this moment in time? This is certainly not the first time Tibetan social media has taken up the issue of releasing animals (see pretty much anything Prof Thubten Phuntsok has done on social media since 2011). However, this seems to be the first time that a ‘releasing’ has been performed by a woman on this grandly orchestrated scale, with such a public (female) face fronting it. Dare I suggest that denizens of social media may feel more comfortable criticizing a laywoman than a male monastic? Or is it, to some detractors, merely the most obvious abuse of this already dubious system of accumulating merit?

How is the lens of gender affecting the public’s perception of her performative ‘releasing’ act?

There is certainly a possibility in my mind that the female performance of what seems to some to be a rejection of a key element of traditional Tibetan pastoralist culture (the largely female-driven maintenance of the family livestock from birth to death) was received more critically by laypeople far more accustomed to listening to the Buddhist arguments of monks and lamas than the impassioned pleas of a pious laywoman. I get this impression from reading the tone and content of the arguments made, as well as the comments.

For those of you interested in what I am basing these thoughts on, below are some of the relevant social media posts.

The responders seem to fall into two camps. The pro-life camp is epitomized by leading public intellectual Khenpo Tsultrim Lodru, who advocates strict adherence to no-killing by using Buddhist religion as a justification, and who regularly leads large groups on ‘releasing’ trips. He has written much on the subject, and as I mentioned earlier, he was not without his detractors (see Prof. Thubten Phuntsok as mentioned above). The second camp can be generally described as pragmatists (although they themselves use the word “rational”). Their arguments follow economic, social, and occasionally cultural lines (i.e. the destruction of pastoralism as a viable way of life if all nomads adopt such practices).

For a good discussion of the pragmatist camp, see Twelve Rashomon’s page, the article “Discussing Rational Release: Drolma Girl’s Release,” by Tashi Dorjé. Translated here in a great blog post by Tricia Kehoe.

Here is a piece by Rongwo Rangtsol agreeing with Danza Drolma’s performance of release by arguing that she’s bringing the livestock back to the grassland and therefore supporting the continuation of nomadic life.

One of the more popular satirical representations of the controversy of Drolma Girl can be found here.

This creepily cheery cartoon depicts her as a well-meaning dupe, tricked (likely by the oft-maligned Serta-based anti-killing movement) into advocating enlightened values, while the duplicitous butchers take the opportunity to fleece the locals twice over. The image, while of her smiling happily attired in traditional robe, is a negative representation. While her motivation may be virtuous and compassionate (if a bit air-headed), her grasp of the situation is less than would be desired by, say, an economist. This is, unfortunately, not the place where I can delve deeper into the representation of the ‘muslim butchers’ on the right-hand side, but please note it is also clearly problematic. Nobody comes out of this cartoon unscathed; nomads, butchers, and female performers of social change all come out looking bad.

Many comments extol her beauty while mourning her supposed lack of wisdom (a recurrent theme), like this one left by commenter “Sonya.”
“桑娅 – 我认为,美女应该把这笔巨资投入到藏区教育,会有更多的福报,而且还能起到切实的作用。无奈!有钱也可以这么的仁心!
Sonya – I think this beautiful woman should invest heavily in education in Tibetan areas; there will be more merit, but [the money] can also be used more pragmatically. How frustrating! So many benevolent acts also [could be done] with money.”

I find it informative that many of the arguments against her ‘releasing’ of the 6387 sheep invoke the very same traditional Buddhist ideas of religious merit and virtue that Danza Drolma herself is hoping to promote, as she says, through words and images, with the support of her organization.

Leaving her the last word, as surely I should, here Drolma-la, in response to the controversy, says:
ཀུན་སློང་དགེ་བ་ཁོ་ན་ལས་གྲུབ་པའི་དགེ་བ་མེད་ན་སྡིག་པ་ལ་འགྱུར་བ་ནི་མི་སྲིད།
“Even if this doesn’t result in virtue, it’s impossible for it to become a sin.”

I see some very gendered language and cultural concepts in operation here, and will be keeping a close eye on how this controversy develops. There are those who are calling her a khandroma…

Drolma posing for pictures with sheep

*NOTES:
For those of you unfamiliar with modern Tibetan practices, the purchase and release of livestock is considered a very meritorious activity as it saves the lives of animals who are about to be killed. Many Chinese (Tibetan) Buddhists who are students of Khenpo Tsultrim Lodru of Serta Larungar also engage in this practice, sometimes purchasing and releasing thousands of fish into the lakes and rivers around Chengdu.

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