Inside the monastery of Tibetan monks trying to resist China

Wrapped in a crimson robe, prayer beads rhythmically passing through his fingers, the monk walks toward us.

It's a risky decision.

We are being followed by eight unidentified men. Even saying a few words to our reporting team in public could get you in trouble.

But he seems willing to take the risk. "Things here are not good for us," he says calmly.

This monastery in southwestern China’s Sichuan province has been a center of Tibetan resistance for decades — the world first learned about it in the late 2000s, when Tibetans set themselves on fire there in protest against the Chinese government. Nearly two decades later, Kirti Monastery is still a concern in Beijing.

A police station has been built right at the main entrance. It is next to a small, dark room filled with creaking prayer wheels. Surveillance cameras on steel poles surround the complex, monitoring every corner.

"They don't have a good heart; everyone can see that," the monk adds. Then comes a warning. "Be careful, they are watching you."

When the men who were following us come running, the monk moves away.

"They" are the Communist Party of China, which has ruled over six million Tibetans for nearly 75 years since annexing the region in 1950.

China has invested heavily in the region, building new roads and railways to boost tourism and integrate it with the rest of the country. Tibetans who fled say economic development has also brought more troops and authorities, reducing their faith and freedom.

Beijing considers Tibet an integral part of China. It has labeled Tibet's exiled spiritual leader, the Dalai Lama, a separatist, and those who display his image or publicly support him could end up behind bars.

Still, some in Aba, or Ngaba in Tibetan, home to Kirti Monastery, have taken extreme measures to defy these restrictions.

The city lies outside what China calls the Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR), created in 1965 and which covers about half of the Tibetan plateau. But millions of Tibetans live outside the TAR, and consider the rest to be part of their homeland.

Aba has long played a crucial role. Protests broke out here during the 2008 Tibetan uprising after, according to some reports, a monk held up a picture of the Dalai Lama inside Kirti Monastery. The situation eventually escalated into a riot, and Chinese troops opened fire. At least 18 Tibetans were killed in this small town.

As Tibet has risen in protest, demonstrations have often turned into violent clashes with Chinese paramilitaries. Beijing says 22 people have been killed, while Tibetan exile groups put the toll at around 200.

In the years that followed, there were more than 150 self-immolations calling for the Dalai Lama’s return — most of them in and around Aba. This earned the main street a grim nickname: Martyrs’ Row.

Since then, China has stepped up its crackdown, making it nearly impossible to determine what is happening in Tibet or Tibetan areas. What information does emerge comes from those who have fled abroad, or from the government-in-exile in India.

To learn a little more, we returned to the monastery the next day before dawn. We slipped past our "supervisors" and walked back to Aba for morning prayers.

The monks gathered in their yellow hats, the symbol of the Gelug school of Buddhism. Low, sonorous chants echoed through the hall, while smoke from the ritual hung in the humid air. About 30 local men and women, most in traditional Tibetan robes with long sleeves, sat cross-legged until a small bell rang to end the prayer.

"The Chinese government has poisoned the air in Tibet. It is not a good government," a monk told us.

"We Tibetans have no basic human rights. The Chinese government continues to oppress and persecute us. It is not a government that serves the people."

He didn't give details, and our conversations were brief to avoid discovery. Still, it's rare to hear these voices.

The question of Tibet's future has taken on new urgency as the Dalai Lama turns 90 this week. Hundreds of his followers have gathered in the Indian city of Dharamshala to pay tribute to him. He announced his long-awaited succession plan on Wednesday, reaffirming what he has said before: the next Dalai Lama would be chosen after his death.

Tibetans around the world reacted — with relief, doubt or anxiety — but not those in the Dalai Lama’s homeland, where even whispering his name is forbidden.

Beijing has spoken loud and clear: the next reincarnation of the Dalai Lama will be in China, with the approval of the Chinese Communist Party. Tibet, however, has remained silent.

"That's the way it is," the monk told us. "That's the reality."

Two worlds under one sky

The road to Aba winds slowly for nearly 500 kilometers from Sichuan's capital, Chengdu.

It passes the snow-capped peaks of Mount Siguniang before reaching the grasslands on the edge of the Tibetan Plateau.

The sloping, golden roofs of Buddhist temples gleam every few miles, reflecting the especially bright sunlight. It is the so-called "roof of the world," where traffic gives way to yak herders on horseback, whistling to their reluctant, grunting flock while eagles soar overhead.

There are two worlds under this Himalayan sky, where tradition and faith have collided with the Party's demand for unity and control.

China has long maintained that Tibetans are free to practice their faith. But that faith is also the source of a secular identity that rights groups say Beijing is slowly eroding.

They claim that countless Tibetans have been detained for holding peaceful protests, promoting the Tibetan language or even possessing a portrait of the Dalai Lama.

Many Tibetans, including some we spoke to at Kirti Monastery, are concerned about new laws governing the education of Tibetan children.

All minors under 18 must now attend Chinese state schools and learn Mandarin. They cannot study Buddhist scriptures in monastery classes until they turn 18 — and they must “love the country and religion, and follow national laws and regulations.”

This is a major change for a community where monks were often recruited as children, and monasteries functioned as schools for most boys.

“One of the nearby Buddhist institutions was demolished by the government a few months ago,” a monk in his 60s in Aba told us, standing under an umbrella as he walked to prayers in the rain.

"It was a school of preaching," he added, emotionally.

The new rules follow a 2021 order for all schools in Tibetan areas, including kindergartens, to teach in Chinese. Beijing says this gives Tibetan children a better chance of getting jobs in a country where the main language is Mandarin.

But these regulations could have a "profound effect" on the future of Tibetan Buddhism, according to renowned scholar Robert Barnett.

"We are moving toward a scenario where Chinese leader Xi Jinping will have total control — toward an era where little information will reach Tibet, where the Tibetan language will be shared little," Barnett says.

"School education will be almost entirely focused on Chinese festivals, Chinese virtues, advanced Chinese traditional culture. We are talking about the complete management of intellectual input."

The road to Aba is a testament to the money Beijing has poured into this remote corner of the world. A new high-speed rail line circles the hills, connecting Sichuan to other plateau provinces.

In Aba, traditional street shops selling monks' robes and packets of incense have been joined by new hotels, cafes and restaurants to attract tourists.

Chinese tourists arrive in their branded hiking gear and stand in awe, while local worshippers prostrate themselves on wooden clubs at the entrance to Buddhist temples.

“How do they manage to do anything all day?” one tourist asks loudly. Others spin prayer wheels with enthusiasm, and ask about the colorful murals depicting scenes from the life of Buddha.

A party slogan written on the roadside boasts that "people of all ethnic groups are as united as the seeds of a pomegranate."

But it's hard to miss the widespread surveillance.

Checking into a hotel requires facial recognition. Even buying gasoline requires multiple forms of identification, which are flashed to high-definition cameras. China has long controlled the information its citizens have access to — but in Tibetan areas, the controls are even tighter.

Tibetans, says Barnett, are "isolated from the outside world."

It’s hard to say how many of them know about the Dalai Lama’s announcement on Wednesday — broadcast to the world but censored in China.

Living in exile in India since 1959, the 14th Dalai Lama has advocated more autonomy, rather than full independence, for his homeland. Beijing believes he has "no right to represent the Tibetan people".

He handed over political authority in 2011 to a government-in-exile democratically chosen by 130,000 Tibetans around the world — and that government has held behind-the-scenes talks with China this year over a succession plan, but it is unclear whether there has been any progress.

The Dalai Lama has previously suggested that his successor would come from the "free world," meaning outside China. On Wednesday, he said "no one has the authority to interfere anymore."

That sets the stage for a confrontation with Beijing, which has said the process should "follow religious rituals and historical customs, and be handled in accordance with national laws and regulations."

Beijing is already doing the groundwork to convince Tibetans, Barnett says.

"There is already a huge propaganda apparatus in place. The Party has sent teams to offices, schools and villages to teach people about the 'new rules' for choosing the Dalai Lama."

When the Panchen Lama, the second-highest authority in Tibetan Buddhism, died in 1989, the Dalai Lama identified a successor to that position in Tibet. But the boy disappeared. Beijing has been accused of kidnapping the child, although it insists the boy, now an adult, is safe. It has since approved a different Panchen Lama, whom Tibetans outside China do not recognize.

If there are two Dalai Lamas, it could become a test of China’s powers of persuasion. Which one will the world recognize? More importantly, would most Tibetans in China know about the existence of the other Dalai Lama?

China wants a credible successor — but perhaps no one very credible.

Because, according to Barnett, Beijing "wants to turn the lion of Tibetan culture into a poodle."

"She wants to remove things she considers risky and replace them with things she thinks Tibetans should be thinking about: patriotism, loyalty, fidelity. They like the singing and dancing — the Disney version of Tibetan culture."

"We don't know how long it will survive," Barnett concludes.

As we leave the monastery, a line of women carrying heavy baskets filled with tools for construction and agriculture, passes through the prayer wheel room, turning them clockwise.

They sing in Tibetan and smile as they pass, their gray hair pleated beneath their sun hats.

Tibetans have maintained their identity for 75 years, fighting for it and dying for it.

The challenge now will be to protect her, even when the man who embodies her beliefs — and her resilience — is gone.