Lisa Katayama's Articles on Lions Roar

What’s it like being the Dalai Lama’s kid brother? Tendzin Choegyal talks with Lisa Katayama about his struggles with rebellion, alcoholism, and depression, and the big brother who has stood by him through it all. Tendzin Choegyal sits across from me on his living room sofa and lights a cigarette. “I got in trouble with my brother once for smoking,” he says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “He was on me.” It’s a cool fall evening in the Himalayas, and I am staying at Kashmir Cottage, a white brick house at the foothills of the Tibetan community-in-exile’s hub near Dharmasala. The Dalai Lama’s family settled here shortly after their arrival in India in 1959. Choegyal’s home is just behind the cottage, on the second floor of a newly constructed building. It’s a modest abode with mint-green walls, a large wooden dining table, black-painted doors leading to the bedroom and kitchen, and taupe curtains that match the sofa set on which we sit. Decorations are sparse: a stereo and a rotating globe rest on a wooden chest of drawers, and next to that a shelf is neatly arranged with books ranging from the World Almanac to the Koran. The house is filled more with intellect than with spirituality; a single photo of the Dalai Lama hanging above the bookshelf, draped with a silky white khata (a ritual offering scarf), only hints at the Dalai Lama’s indelible link to the residents of this home. The first thing you notice when you meet Tendzin Choegyal is that he looks a lot like his famous older brother, although he doesn’t have the same creases on his face from smiling and he dresses differently. In contrast with his brother’s signature burgundy robe, Choegyal wears beige corduroys, a dark gray fleece, and argyle socks. His thick black hair is a marked contrast to his brother’s shaved head. While the Dalai Lama has become one of the greatest political and spiritual leaders of our generation, Choegyal’s path has been a tumultuous journey that is at once raw with humanity and profoundly spiritual. He, too, was chosen as the reincarnation of a holy man, but his monastic education was cut short when his family escaped Tibet. His life since then has been a wild ride guided by reckless instinct and indispensable advice from his oldest brother; he dropped out of college, joined the Indian army, picked up unhealthy habits like smoking and alcoholism, and proposed radical change to the Tibetan government-in-exile. What is it like to be the black sheep of the holiest family in Tibet? “I’m the doomsday prophet,” Choegyal says, laughing. “Or maybe I’m just a bloody fool.” When Choegyal was born in Lhasa in 1946, the Dalai Lama was ten years old and already living in a separate compound, training to become the next head of state. The family had just moved from their native Amdo to Central Tibet to be closer to their son, and that’s where Choegyal grew up, in a home with his mother, his grandmother, an uncle, and an older brother and sister. His father passed away when he was just a year old. Growing up, trouble was never far away for young Choegyal. “I was very naughty and active,” he says. One time, he tried to knock down one of the doors in the house so he could use it to build a raft. “Whenever I got into trouble, I ran to my grandmother.” At the age of four, Choegyal was recognized as the reincarnation of a lama, and three years later he was sent to Tabo, the biggest monastery in Tibet, for his spiritual training. There he devoted most of his time to memorizing texts and attending debate assemblies. “I was too young to understand,” he says. “It was very dreamlike and not that important.” What Choegyal mostly remembers from that period of his life is the summers and holidays he spent at home with his family, just being a kid. In March, 1959, the Dalai Lama and his family managed to evade capture by Chinese forces and escape from Tibet, traversing the Himalayas to live as refugees in India. The family, along with thousands of Tibetans who later followed, settled in Dharamsala. Choegyal was sent off to a Jesuit boarding school in Darjeeling. St. Joseph’s School was founded by a Belgian priest in the late 1800s. It’s location offers breathtaking views of Mt. Kangchenjunga, the third-highest mountain peak in the world, and architecturally the school looks more like a castle in Versailles than a place of higher learning. St. Joseph’s alumni range from Indian billiards champ Michael Ferreira to the King of Bhutan. Foreseeing the turmoil ahead, wealthy Tibetans had been sending their children there since the 1940s. By the time Choegyal arrived there at age twelve, there were many non-Christians already studying there. New to the country and not knowing a word of English, Choegyal had to learn the ABCs and figure out how to fit in. “I was handicapped in math,” he says, “and I wasn’t a very hard-working student. I was very lazy; slothful is the word.” He had a lot of friends and spent most of his school days daydreaming and socializing. When he graduated nine years later, he enrolled in a nearby college in Darjeeling, but he was soon restless and looking to try something new. He applied for and won a scholarship to a community college in Washington State, packed his bags, and moved stateside. His goal was to transfer to the University of Seattle in a couple of years, but things didn’t go as planned. While he did maintain a B+ average and a strong affinity for Starbucks coffee, an unexpected obstacle befell him. He got homesick. “I had culture shock,” he says, “so I became a college dropout.” Back home in Dharamsala, he got a teaching job at the Tibetan Children’s Village, a boarding house and school for Tibetan-refugee children founded by his sister, Jetsun Pema. That’s where he met his wife, Rinchen Khando, then a secretary in the administrative office. (She later went on to become the government-in-exile’s minister of education and founder of the highly successful Tibetan Nun’s Project.) His daughter was born when he was twenty-eight, and his son fifteen months later. For a few years, Choegyal, a new father, stayed close to home. But he still had an itch to go somewhere new and do something different. So in 1979, he joined the Indian Army and became a member of the Special Frontier Force. The SFF is a covert unit in charge of gathering intelligence and fighting terrorism at the country’s porous borders. When Choegyal joined the SFF, it was comprised almost entirely of Tibetans. (Today the SFF ranks are more diversified, but there are still an estimated 10,000 Tibetans serving in the force.) Two and a half years in the army was enough to destroy Choegyal’s spirit. The once-determined young paratrooper was deeply disillusioned by the blatant corruption among the top ranks of the SFF. He slowly lost all confidence in his commanding officer. “I couldn’t serve under somebody I didn’t respect,” he says, “so I sought premature retirement.” He was thirty-six. Choegyal’s experience in the army left him with deep emotional scars. He went home to Dharamsala, depressed, and eventually began taking medication to cope with his extreme emotional swings. It took him nearly two years to get well enough to rejoin society. This time, Choegyal went to work for the Tibetan government-in-exile. After a brief stint at the Security Office, Choegyal was chosen to be His Holiness’s private secretary (a post that is currently held by Choegyal’s only son, Tenzin). Most siblings would scoff at the idea of being their brother’s secretary, but Choegyal occupied the post with sincerity, integrity, and honor. He handled all of the Dalai Lama’s correspondence, kept his schedule, and traveled the world by his side. “I had a wonderful boss to serve,” he says. When Choegyal talks about the Dalai Lama, the edge in his voice completely dissipates. The sarcasm drops, and the snide jokes are naturally replaced with unmistakable reverence. Without the sharpness, his voice sounds exactly like the Dalai Lama’s. “My sister, myself, and His Holiness get together sometimes. We are the three youngest in the family,” he says, smiling. “First and foremost, we’re brother and sister. But we also have a tremendous interest in the same cause. His Holiness is my teacher; he has made me into what I am today. It probably wasn’t intended.” He takes a moment to reflect on his turbulent past, and laughs. Then he continues, his voice turning to a whisper, “He has affected so many people’s lives. It’s unbelievable. I share his philosophy of life. I share his views wholeheartedly. I mean, the guy cares, you know? Any other guy would be engrossed in just Tibetan problems, but he’s taking all of humanity’s problems as one. World peace and religious harmony are two of his top agendas. The way he treats people amazes me. He treats everyone the same. Being the Dalai Lama hasn’t gone to his head at all. He’s still a simple human being, with a tremendous sense of fun.” He pauses thoughtfully, “Of course, my view of His Holiness is completely prejudiced.” But it’s not all peace and harmony between the two brothers. Every once in a while, they’ll have some words with each other; most of the time, it’s the Dalai Lama chastising Choegyal for little things. “Sometimes, when he says something I don’t agree with, His Holiness says, ‘Oh, look at your face! You’re already making a face!’“ I ask Choegyal what the two call each other. “I call him ‘Your Presence,’ ” he says. “And he calls me”—he puts on a fake scolding voice—“Tendzin Choegyal!” He picks up his pack of Benson and Hedges. “I started smoking when I was nineteen as a gesture of rebellion, and now I’m stuck with it,” he says. “His Holiness used to get mad at me for smoking. Then one day, I said to him, ‘You don’t know it, but I still smoke. I love you, but this is something I find extremely difficult to give up.’ ” The Dalai Lama never mentioned Choegyal’s habit again. The Dalai Lama lets out a low, steady laugh. We are sitting in a greeting room at the top...

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