Julien Chatelin

A three-day drive separates Lhasa, the capital city of Tibet, from the Nepali border. Three days during which one is confronted by staggering landscapes: 17,000-foot high passes, mountain lakes, Mount Everest. In the villages and Buddhist temples, it seems nothing has changed since China invaded Tibet in 1950. The nomads, shepherds, and peasants appear untouched by both globalization and the Chinese occupation.

Then comes the asphalt, Land Cruisers, checkpoints, men in business suits, women in platform shoes, the endless avenues of steel and glass and neon—Lhasa. The exotic images in the guidebook look nothing like this Tibet. Sitting high up on a hill overlooking the city is the Potala Palace, the official residence of the exiled Dalaï Lama. But in the deserted square below a Chinese flag flies over a monument dedicated to liberation of Tibet by Chinese forces. Surrounding the square are gleaming new department stores, military barracks, and cell phone shops.

This city of 300,000 is 10 times larger than it was 50 years ago. Today, over half its residents are Chinese. Signs of Tibetan culture in Lhasa are inconspicuous—a traditional prayer flag strung across a rooftop—or else exploited for tourism value. In the ancient Barkhor quarter, along the way to the holy Jokhang Temple, pilgrims walk past souvenir shops, sharing the streets with tourists and a handful of Chinese policemen.

There is hardly any talk of politics here. Breaking the silence is treated with fear and suspicion by most Tibetans, who have adjusted to living under Chinese rule. A billboard on the outskirts of Lhasa shows Deng Xiaoping, Mao Zedong, and Jiang Zemin in front of Potala palace, wearing beatific smiles—a cynical reminder that, with China’s dominance, the people of Tibet have new leaders that they must worship and obey.

—Julien Chatelin, December 2005