Dhamma and the Dragon

The Chinese hope that their Tibet problem will be resolved with the passing of the 14th Dalai Lama who is loved and revered around the world. They have done everything to undermine him. Yet, ironically, there has never been more interest in, and reverence for, the Dalai Lama inside China.

Sikyong (political leader) Penpa Tsering of the Central Tibetan Administration (CTA) greeting the His Holiness Dalai Lama in Dharamshala, India on July 5, 2025. (source: the official website of the Dalai Lama.)

For over six decades, the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) has waged a relentless and multifaceted campaign against the spiritual and political identity of Tibet. Central to this campaign has been the systematic vilification of the 14th Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, a figure demonized in state-controlled media as a "wolf in monk's robes," a dangerous "splittist" seeking to dismember the motherland. The Tibetan government-in-exile is branded a separatist clique, and within Tibet itself, the practice of traditional Buddhism is heavily monitored, with portraits of the Dalai Lama forbidden and monastic life suffocated by patriotic education campaigns. Yet, in one of the most profound paradoxes of modern China, this state-sponsored war of eradication has coincided with an unprecedented and burgeoning interest in Tibetan Buddhism—and a quiet reverence for the Dalai Lama himself—among China's Han majority. This unlikely spiritual migration has created a deep and vexing conundrum for Beijing, exposing the limits of its authoritarian control and revealing a spiritual vacuum at the heart of the Chinese national project. The more the Party tightens its political grip, the more it seems to lose its hold on the soul of its people, who are increasingly looking for answers in the very faith Beijing seeks to crush.

The roots of this conundrum lie in the CCP's foundational conflict with Tibet. Following the "peaceful liberation" (or, from the Tibetan perspective, the invasion) of 1950, the relationship between Beijing and Lhasa was fraught with tension. This culminated in the failed 1959 uprising, which forced the Dalai Lama and tens of thousands of his followers to flee into exile in India. From that moment, the CCP’s policy toward Tibet hardened into a dual strategy: forced modernization and assimilation on the one hand, and the complete delegitimization of the Dalai Lama and the government-in-exile on the other. For the Party, Tibetan identity, intrinsically woven with its unique form of Buddhism, was a feudal, backward remnant that stood in the way of socialist progress. The Dalai Lama was not a spiritual leader but a political agitator, the head of a reactionary theocracy. Consequently, every tool in the state's arsenal was deployed to sever the sacred bond between the Tibetan people and their exiled leader. Monasteries were destroyed during the Cultural Revolution, religious practices were suppressed, and a relentless propaganda campaign was launched to re-educate generations of Tibetans and convince the wider Han population of the Dalai Lama's malevolence. This effort continues to this day, with advanced surveillance technology, strict controls over religious appointments (most notably the abduction of the CCP's chosen Panchen Lama), and a ceaseless barrage of hostile rhetoric.

However, while the CCP was busy constructing this narrative of political subversion, seismic shifts were occurring within Han Chinese society itself. The death of Mao Zedong and the subsequent "Reform and Opening Up" under Deng Xiaoping unleashed an economic revolution. Decades of Maoist austerity gave way to a frenetic pursuit of wealth and modernity. Yet, this materialist gold rush came at a profound spiritual cost. The Cultural Revolution had not only destroyed temples, churches, and mosques; it had also systematically dismantled traditional Chinese value systems—Confucianism, Taoism, and Chinese Buddhism—leaving a moral and existential void. The communist ideology that was meant to fill this void had itself become hollowed out, reduced to a set of political slogans that few genuinely believed in. As China grew richer, its people, particularly the new urban middle and upper classes, began to experience a deep sense of anomie. The relentless pursuit of consumer goods and financial success left many feeling spiritually adrift, searching for meaning, purpose, and a coherent ethical framework that neither Maoism nor materialism could provide.

It was into this spiritual vacuum that Tibetan Buddhism began to flow. While precise figures are difficult to obtain in China's restrictive environment, credible estimates from organizations like Freedom House suggest there may be as many as 300 million Buddhists in China, with Tibetan Buddhism being one of the most dynamic and fastest-growing traditions. Initially a trickle, it soon became a significant current, driven by a perception of authenticity and profundity that stood in stark contrast to the state-sanctioned and often commercialized religious institutions in the rest of China. Unlike the "patriotic" Buddhism overseen by the CCP, Tibetan Buddhism presented an unbroken, esoteric lineage stretching back centuries. It offered a complex philosophical system, sophisticated meditation techniques, and a deeply personal teacher-student relationship that promised genuine transformation. Tibetan lamas, or Rinpoches, began to travel to mainland China, at first discreetly and later more openly, finding a surprisingly receptive audience in cities like Beijing, Shanghai, and Chengdu. They offered teachings that were seen as both intellectually rigorous and spiritually potent, attracting a diverse following of academics, artists, entrepreneurs, and disaffected youth.

This spiritual quest was amplified by a broader cultural phenomenon often dubbed the "Tibet fad" (藏传佛教热). This fascination is not merely an abstract interest; it has translated into concrete numbers. Scholarly research and journalistic accounts estimate that millions of Han Chinese now consider themselves lay practitioners of Tibetan Buddhism.

Hundreds of informal, and often technically illegal, Tibetan Buddhist study centers have sprung up in major cities, catering to white-collar professionals. The scale of this devotion is most visible during large-scale dharma assemblies held by charismatic lamas like Khenpo Sodargye at institutions like the Larung Gar Buddhist Academy. Before recent crackdowns, these events would draw tens of thousands of followers, the vast majority of whom were Han Chinese who had travelled thousands of miles at their own expense. Critically, the movement gained a fashionable, aspirational edge through its adoption by celebrities. Pop stars like Faye Wong and actors like Jet Li became prominent devotees, their spiritual journeys signalling to millions of fans that Tibetan Buddhism was not a relic of a feudal past, but a sophisticated path for the modern world. This celebrity endorsement helped to destigmatize the faith and insulate it, to a degree, from the Party's political attacks. Teachings and even banned texts from the Dalai Lama began to circulate prolifically through the burgeoning Chinese internet, with platforms like Weibo and WeChat creating virtual communities of faith that proved difficult for censors to completely eradicate.

Herein lies the central paradox for the CCP: the very figure at the apex of this flourishing spiritual ecosystem of millions is the state's Public Enemy Number One. Despite decades of relentless denigration, the Dalai Lama’s influence has not only endured but has grown in the most unexpected of places. Han followers have proven adept at a form of cognitive dissonance, cleaving the Dalai Lama in two. They accept the Party’s caricature of the "political Dalai Lama," the supposed separatist, while simultaneously venerating the "spiritual Dalai Lama"—the Nobel Peace Prize laureate, the global icon of compassion, and the ultimate source of the authentic Buddhist teachings they cherish. For them, his holiness is the wellspring of the dharma they receive from their own lamas. His books, though officially banned, are quietly translated and shared digitally. His image, possession of which can lead to imprisonment in Tibet, is sometimes discreetly kept in the homes of his Han followers in the mainland. This demonstrates a stunning failure of the CCP's propaganda machine. It reveals that the state, for all its power to control information and coerce behaviour, cannot fully command the hearts and minds of its people, who have found ways to seek truth from alternative sources.

This burgeoning faith movement presents a multifaceted and deeply troubling conundrum for the Party. First, it poses a direct ideological challenge. The CCP's legitimacy rests on its claim to be the sole arbiter of truth and morality, with Marxism-Leninism (with Chinese characteristics) as its official creed. The rise of a powerful religious movement, whose ultimate allegiance lies with a leader based abroad and reviled by the state, fundamentally undermines this claim. It suggests that the Party's ideology is failing to meet the spiritual needs of its citizens, who are voting with their feet—or, more accurately, their prayer beads.

Second, it represents a failure of the state's vast apparatus of social control. The United Front Work Department, the CCP's organ for managing and co-opting non-Party groups, has found it difficult to penetrate and control the often informal and decentralized networks of Han practitioners. While the state can easily monitor and shut down a monastery in Tibet, it is far more challenging to police quiet meditation groups in the apartments of Shanghai or clandestine teachings organized via encrypted messaging apps. This "market of faith" is a sphere where the state's official "product" is being outcompeted by a more compelling, albeit forbidden, brand.

Third, from the Party’s paranoid perspective, it raises a significant national security dilemma. Any large, organized group operating outside of direct CCP control is viewed as a potential threat to stability. The existence of a substantial and growing body of Han Chinese who feel a spiritual loyalty to the Dalai Lama creates the potential for a "fifth column." What if these followers begin to sympathize not just with the spiritual teachings, but with the political aspirations of the Tibetan people? What if this shared faith builds a bridge of solidarity between Han and Tibetans, undermining the state's efforts to portray the latter as ungrateful separatists?

Perhaps the most critical dimension of this conundrum relates to the future. Beijing's long-term strategy for subjugating Tibet hinges on controlling the process of reincarnation after the current Dalai Lama passes away. The CCP is fully prepared to identify its own 15th Dalai Lama, hoping to install a pliable figurehead who will endorse Party rule. This strategy, however, relies on the assumption that the Tibetan people, and the Buddhist world at large, can be forced to accept their choice. The growth of a large Han Chinese following loyal to the Dalai Lama utterly complicates this endgame. If millions of the CCP’s own citizens reject Beijing’s candidate and instead recognize the reincarnation identified by the Dalai Lama’s followers in exile, it will trigger a legitimacy crisis of enormous proportions. The CCP's chosen Dalai Lama would be seen as a fraud not only by Tibetans but by a significant portion of its own majority population, rendering the entire political gambit a catastrophic failure.

In conclusion, the Chinese Communist Party finds itself caught in a trap of its own making. Its campaign to politically neutralize Tibet by attacking its faith and its leader has inadvertently highlighted the profound spiritual hunger within its own society. The state's narrative, built on political denunciation and enforced atheism, has proven no match for the deep human yearning for meaning, compassion, and transcendence—qualities embodied for millions, paradoxically, by the Dalai Lama. This phenomenon is more than a fleeting cultural trend; it is a quiet rebellion of the soul. It demonstrates that true power is not merely the ability to build skyscrapers and high-speed rails, but to offer a convincing vision of the good life. The conundrum for the CCP is that the more it attempts to consolidate its material and political power, the more it exposes its own spiritual bankruptcy. The future of the Tibetan issue, and perhaps even the long-term stability of the Party's rule, may ultimately be decided not just in the halls of power in Beijing or the streets of Lhasa, but in the quiet spaces of contemplation where a growing number of Han Chinese are finding solace and inspiration in the teachings of the man their government has taught them to hate.