Unburied
By Drolmatso (Eva)
Drolma Tso is from Zoige Autonomous Tibetan prefecture, Sichuan Province,
China. She graduated in 2005 with an Associated degree in English from Qinghai
Normal University Nationalities Department's English Training Program.
In my youth, my Tibetan middle school teacher once remarked to me, “If you are gold, no matter how deep you've been buried, people will dig you up someday." Our school's conditions were very poor, and even though we had many good students, the educational system neglected us. All of the scholarships and other opportunities went to richer schools with better conditions. I told my teacher that I wanted to improve the school and he explained to me that if there is gold under the ground, people will not ignore it forever, but eventually dig it up. What he meant was, if people have worthwhile abilities, others will eventually discover their value one day. In my life, however, I have not had the luxury of waiting. Instead, I have learned that one must make their own opportunities through hard work in order to succeed.
When I was very young, gender distinctions meant little to me. I never considered the fact that I was a girl, and most of my playmates were boys. We played outside all day, catching fish and baby birds. When they fought, I would fight with them. I never thought of myself as different from them. This freedom, however, proved short lived. Because I am a Tibetan woman, I was soon taught to be quite and keep my thoughts to myself, especially around men. Mother would stop me if I held a gun-like toy and ran crazily with my boy playmates. I had to hold back my strength when fighting with my younger brother because father said it was a shame if a boy could not control a girl. As I grew older, I neglected my strength in order to fit in, and day by day I became weaker. When I wanted to speak, in my mind I would imagine my mother's voice or see the reproachful gaze of neighbors. To be a "good girl," I became very quiet and sensitive to what people thought about me, until I could no longer speak in front of a group of men. In class I no longer raised my hand even when I knew the answer. Opportunities ceased to seem important to me, seeing as I was bound to my fate in the home. Yearning for validation, people are limited by the expectations of others, and I was no different. Finally, I could no longer call upon my strength when I needed it – I had buried it too deep.
Since then, I have learned that if you wait for others to discover you, they never will. Thinking back, I've found that by not expressing myself I have lost many opportunities to expand my horizons. In losing my voice, I have realized that being a "good girl " is not what I really. I am a person, not a piece of gold, and unlike gold, which lasts forever, my life is limited. I cannot always wait for someone to "discover" me. Rather, I have to move away the earth that covers me. All my experiences from my childhood until now have impressed upon me the fact that if you want other people to acknowledge your value, you must struggle for it.
People always say a child's world is all about happiness, though I cannot say I agree. I was born in a family of eight children; two boys and six girls. I was the seventh child. Our family's survival rested precariously on the little land that we owned. For many years, I remember weather problems and poor harvests. My sister and I wore only the clothes that were passed down from our older sisters. When those were worn out, my parents mended them by putting patches on them. I remember when village children beat and chased my younger sister and I, and called us the "twin little beggars."
My parents worked very hard to feed many mouths with a meager income. I recall often waking up in the middle of the night to discover my father sitting in dim candlelight and mending our clothes. Day after day the hardship carved deep wrinkles on his forehead. His hair became as gray as winter grass. Every morning when I looked into his bloodshot eyes, a pain began in my heart that seeped to my bones, a pain born of my inability to ease his burden.
My mother got up when the morning stars still shone in the sky. I sometimes watched her as she put on her tattered old robe that smelled of children and hurried into to the kitchen to begin kindling the fire. Before sunrise every morning, she would clean the house and milk our single cow. If it was still early she would walk into the family shrine and prostrate in front of the Buddha image there. I sometimes heard her as she prayed for all sentient beings, her two sons, and the whole family. Once it was light enough to see the road, she would carry her wooden bucket to fetch water at the river, a mile away from the village. All of this took place before sunrise on a typical day during my childhood.
After the sun was up, my parents would eat a rushed breakfast before taking the elder children to help them with work. My younger sister and I were sent to the village's childcare – an old woman who had a lame leg and was charged with taking care of all the village's young children. Her yard was always crowded with little boys and girls, usually about thirty of them. We quarreled and fought, and the older, bigger children would beat the smaller, weaker ones. When the granny heard the noise, she would come out and try to threaten the bullies by saying, "Nice and quiet children will get more food." After that, all of us would become quiet and behave nicely for a while, because food was a sensitive topic for hungry people. This would never last long, though, and as soon as she reentered her house we would continue fighting. Later I learned not to believe what she said because well mannered silence only left me a starving belly.
One morning, when our parents went to work, they took my younger sister and I to the granny's home with a few handfuls of rice to cook for our lunch. We took our wooden bowls and spoons with us. Children were not allowed to take porcelain bowls because they were too easily broken. Our bowls were made of knots that grew on the local pine tree branches. The length of a morning is a short when having fun, but it feels like a lifetime for a hungry person. We stayed in the sun all morning and our skin was burned to a deep brown color. We tried playing with dirt to pass the time, but that did not calm our growling appetites.
At lunchtime, as soon as we smelled food, we ran to the black wooden framed windows and stared in. The granny yelled at us to keep away from the window and wait in the yard. After what seemed an eternity, she carried out a dirty basin filled with watery porridge. Bowls in hand, all the children rushed to her. Amid the jostling and shoving crowd, I heard my younger sister's screaming voice. I stopped pushing and went to her. She was the shortest of all, and was being trampled. Squashed, it took all my strength to get near to her, and as I reached for her, a big foot stepped on my right hand and my bowl fell away. I opened my mouth tried to shout but another foot stepped on my head. I held back my voice, recalling the granny's warning, "Quiet and nice children will get more food." I crawled back from the crowd to find a clear place to breathe. My little sister came and sat by me, and we both hoped that the granny would notice us and offer us some food out of pity. She did not. The crowd dispersed and finally my sister and I rushed to the pot, only to find it empty. I began to regret not pushing in when there was a chance. Knowing that I would not eat for another long time, tears rolled down my burning cheeks. My stomach cried for food but I swallowed saliva to calm it. Looking at my little sister's hungry lips, I promised her that I would get food next time. Gazing into her weak but trusting smile, I realized that charity, if it comes at all, comes too late. One must struggle to make the most of this world.
At fifteen, I experienced another lesson, this time through a life-or-death trial. It was July, and we students considered it the "black month." A crossroad of sorts, it was then that we had to put everything we had learned in school down on pieces of exam paper. After long and tiring study at school, we took a break to shop in the county town. For the countryside people this is a great event, and so we were excited. At the time, only one nearby bus went to the county town, but no one took it due to the booming lumber trade. Lumber trucks zoomed back and forth to the county town, and every driver was friendly on account of the newly earned wad of money in their pockets. People who wanted to go to town would only wave their hand and a truck would stop, the smiling driver urging them to hop aboard. Without a penny to spare, we were happy to hitch a ride.
As soon as we flagged down a truck it started to rain heavily. There were many people on board, since rural people have formed the good habit of saving whenever possible. All the four sides of the truck were open. We could hear the wind whipping by our ears, and see the sky above our heads. People were seated in groups of five or six, all busy chatting and eating. People usually don't stand on the truck because it is easier to fall off. Many accidents have happened because people were standing in the open truck bed. But that day, there wasn't any space and the floor was flooded, so my classmates and I gathered at one corner of the truck and stood with our backs to the railing. At one turn in the road the driver sped up and swerved suddenly. I heard a loud crash, and suddenly found myself dangling over the side of the truck. Only my feet, pinned under the railing, kept me from falling onto the road. Blood rushing to my head, I felt I might burst at any moment. The tires whirred near my ears and I became dizzy. The stones on the country road were so clear I could almost count them. Everything slowed down; green trees beside the road appeared greener than ever before. I could see life was shining on every leaf.
A pain in my chest jarringly brought me back to reality and I realized I needed to breathe. I tried to move my body but I felt only my classmates' bodies hanging over me. They were crushing me, and my lungs burned. There was pain, true pain, stabbing my body. That was the first time I comprehended the nature of flesh and blood so vividly.
Was I going to die? Where would I be after death? I didn't want to think more because I didn't have time to waste. My body was slipping down and I could hear the sound of my braided hair dragging along the ground. While so close to death, it never occurred to me to give up on life. If I wanted to live, I knew that I must struggle, but heavy bodies were pressing on me and I could not move. What could I do? The memory of the starving afternoon at the granny's house jumped into my mind. The distance between my head and the rocky ground became even shorter. This time, I didn't stifle my voice. Instead, I cried out as loud as I could. The next moment, I felt someone grab my feet and my body stopped slipping down. In a few seconds I was yanked back atop the truck, breathing in huge gulps of air. My cries had saved me. When your life rests on a knife's edge, a single gesture can mean the difference between life or death. In that moment, there is no room for passivity, only action.
So it is with daily life. Although your survival may not always be at stake, people will never notice your voice unless you use it. If you remain quiet, your voice will only become dull, and you may eventually lose it. At the end of my high school, I was chosen for a unique opportunity to learn English in a program for Tibetans at Qinghai Normal University. Representatives from the program came and collected students from all over the Tibetan plateau according to school grades and behavior. I promised myself to make the best of this opportunity.
I was a quiet girl when I first entered the program, because that is how teachers in my old school expected us to act. In class we scarcely asked questions, and, like receptacles, took in everything that teachers told us – we never had the idea to think critically. Speaking one's opinion was considered a shameful thing; after all, people believe the saying, "never listen to a woman."
Early in our first semester, each student had to stand in front of the class and talk about themselves in English. I was petrified. When my turn came both my voice and my legs shook with fear. Unable to utter the words I had desperately tried to memorize, my face became so red that I could feel the hot blood in my ears. I nearly cried seeing so many strange eyes peering and waiting for me. I only said very few sentences because my mind was empty, having totally forgotten what I was going to say. After seeing how others students gave their speech I thought, if we are all beginners, why can't I speak like everybody else?
Continuing in the program, I have discovered that capability alone is not enough to achieve success, one must also be confident enough to show your abilities and prove yourself. Our foreign teachers wanted us to participate in order to learn the language faster. They expected us to express our thoughts and opinions and ask about what we did not understand. Everyone studied very hard because each of us felt we represented our home schools and areas. Our work paid off, and after two years of study we could speak English very well and passed the national English tests. Thrilled with our progress, we continued to work hard.
We are seniors year now, and our progress has continued to advance. Unfortunately, just like buried pieces of gold, many students in our class, especially girls, remain timid. When spoken to privately, they have excellent ideas, but in public they are quiet, just as I was taught to be. On the contrary, boys speak freely and express themselves openly. Many people, therefore, conclude that boys are smarter and more useful than girls. Boys are first in line to gain opportunities like studying abroad or helping foreigners do research. All the same, girls in my class tend to get higher scores on exams. Unfortunately, in this world that is not enough. I have taken this lesson to heart, and striven to speak bravely in class. I am used to it now and enjoy expressing my opinions and challenging those with whom I disagree. Only with this confidence can I take on the challenges or opportunities in life.
I think back now about that night after the speech fiasco my first semester. That night, I lay awake thinking about my shyness speaking in front of others. I could remember my peers' critical eyes piercing me. However, out of the classroom and alone in the empty, quiet night, I felt a kind of release. A gust of wind blowing through the gaps in my window caught my attention, and I got up and pushed the panes open. Gazing out over the millions of stars shining in dark blue sky, I thought about how they would all vanish with the dawn. Those slumbering in their beds would miss this wonderful scenery. We Tibetan women are just like those brilliant night time stars, and our brilliance will never be known if we do not wake others to show them. To be successful in this society today we have to struggle and assert ourselves. Unlike buried gold, we cannot wait to be discovered. Instead, we must discover ourselves, our talent, and our confidence. That done, no one can afford to ignore our brilliance.