3 Khashag on Air Solving Social Ills by Radio in the 1990s

Two men stand on a stage holding pieces of paper and speaking into a pair of microphones. They greet each other as friends, and one can imagine the two are catching up in one of Ziling’s many teahouses or having a chance meeting on the street. The first, the renowned comedian Menla Jyab, begins telling Pakmo Drashe the story of his recent trip to a fictional community called “Careful Village”:

MJ: Hey! This year, I went to the so-called Careful Village to write a khashag called “Careful Village.”

PD: Oh?! What was this so-called “Careful Village” like?

MJ: Ah, ah, ah … it was a village!

PD: When you said, “Careful Village,” I knew it must be a village. But judging by the village’s name, I bet you have to be very careful when you go there, right?

MJ: Ah no, no. It’s okay to let your guard down when you go there, I tell you!

PD: That’s right! You wouldn’t dare go to a place where you would have to go in fear.

སྨན་བླ། ཨ་རོག ད་ལོ་ངས་སེམས་ཆུང་སྡེ་བ་ཟེར་ནིས་ཁ་ཤགས་ཟིག་འབྲི་རྒྱུས་བཟེས་ཆེད་དུ་སེམས་ཆུང་སྡེ་བ་གཅིག་སོང་ནོ།

ཕག་མོ། ཡ། སེམས་ཆུང་སྡེ་བ་བདག་གོ་ཆི་མོ་ཟིག་རེད།

སྨན་བླ། ཨ་ཨ་ཨ། སྡེ་བ་ཟིག་རེད།

ཕག་མོ། སེམས་ཆུང་སྡེ་བ་ཟེར་གོ་དུས་སྡེ་བ་ཟིག་ད་ཡིན་རྒྱུའོ་རེད་དྲ། སྡེ་བ་དེའི་མྱིང་ང་བལྟས་ན་ཞེ་གི་སེམས་ཆུང་བྱས་འགྱོ་དགོ་ནི་མིན་ན།

སྨན་བླ། ཨ་ཆི་ཡིན།ཆི་ཡིན། བབ་ཀི་སེམས་ལྷོད་ལེ་བུད་སོང་ཆོག་གི་ཨ་རོག

ཕག་མོ། ཨ་ཨ་ཨ། ཨོ་ལེ་མོ། སྐྲག་དགོས་ས་ཟིག་ག་ད་ཁྱོད་འགྲོ་རོགས་མི་ཆོད་མོ། (Sman bla skyabs 1996e)

This is the opening to “Careful Village’s Grassland Dispute” (Semchung déwee sahtsod), the first of a series of four wildly popular comic dialogues written and performed between 1992 and 1996, and later sold on audiocassette as an album entitled The Colorful Nomad Camp (Rudé tramo) (Sman bla skyabs 1996e).¹ The series is entirely in Tibetan, with each performance lasting between eleven and eighteen minutes and examining a variety of emergent problems facing communities in contemporary Tibet.

Over the next several minutes, Menla Jyab goes on to describe how the community—despite being embroiled in a violent grassland dispute with a neighboring village—greeted him with white silk scarves (called khatak) and plenty of tea. This is the sort of welcome usually reserved for honored guests. The audience soon learns why he received such special treatment, when the village leader—voiced by Menla Jyab, punctuating each line with hearty laughter—says that Menla Jyab is a lama, and that he will not accept any of the comedian’s protests to the contrary:

MJ: [as the village leader] “You shouldn’t keep it a secret that you are a lama. This matter concerns all sentient beings. Hehe!”

P: [chuckling] And you still haven’t escaped [from the village leader].

MJ: [in a normal voice] I was so scared that my hair stood on end. “Dear Village Leader, you seem like an intelligent person, so how can you say this? Look at the hair on my head, the clothes on my body, and the stubble on my face. Where is there a lama like me?”

P: What did he say then?

MJ: Hehe! He had some things to say, aro! [as the village leader] “I’ve seen faces on tangka paintings, Tri Ralpachen’s² head was like that. People say I don’t know anything, but I’ve been around the block a few times. All those who don’t like Tibetan clothes and don’t wear modern clothes wear clothes like this, and don’t seem to shave. Stubble grows on your face even if you are a lama; nobody is planting it.”

P: That’s right. I think that’s definitely true.

MJ: [as himself] So then I also sincerely explained, “If I were a lama, then my monastery would be a distillery, my monks’ perfection of wisdom studies wouldn’t have been perfected, and they would have attained perfection only in smoking cigarettes. If there is a lama like this, let alone in the next life, would the government even recognize him?”

P: That was direct! What did the village leader say?

MJ: [as the village leader] “Huh! I know, I know. Then swear that everyone in your work unit doesn’t call you ’Alak,’” (in a normal voice) he said.

P: But that’s just a name your coworkers came up with themselves, right?

MJ: [normal voice] Eh, I said that too, but there was no changing that old man’s mind.

སྨན་བླ། བླ་མ་ཡིན་ནོ་ཅིག་གསང་མི་ཉན་གི སེམས་ཅན་ཐམས་ཅད་གི་དོན་དག་ག ཧེ་ཧེ་ཧེ་ཧེ།

ཕག་མོ། ཡང་མ་ཐར་ཐལ།

སྨན་བླ། ང་བཟེས་ནོ་སྐྱག་གེ་མགོ་གི་སྐྱ་ཆོ་ར་ཕྱོགས་སོང་ཟིག ཨ་ཁུ་སྡེ་དཔོན་ལོ་ལོ། ཁྱོ་མྱི་མཁས་བ་ཟིག་ག་མ་རིག་ག དེ་མོ་དེ་བཤད་ཉན་ནིས། ཁྱོས་ངའི་མགོ་གི་སྐྲ་ལྟོས་ར་ལུས་གི་ལྭ་ལྟོས་ར་ངོ་གི་སྤུའེ་ལ་ལྟོས་ར། ང་འདྲ་འདྲ་བླ་མ་ཟིག་ཡོད་ནིས།

ཕག་མོ། དེ་བཟེས་ན་ཆི་ཟེར་གི

སྨན་བླ། ཧེ་ཧེ། སྡེ་གི་དེ་ཚོད་ཀི་བཤད་རྒྱུ་ཡོད་ཀི་ཨ་རོགས། ངས་ཐང་ཀ་གི་ངོ་ནས་རིག་མྱོང་ནིས། ཁྲི་རལ་པ་ཅན་གི་མགོ་ར་དེ་མོ་ཟིག་རེད། མི་ཤེས་བཟེས་རུང་བསམ་ཤེས་རེད། བོད་ལྭ་མི་དགའ་ནོ། རྒྱ་ལྭ་མི་གོན་ནོ་ཚང་མས་དི་མོ་གོན་ཡོད་ཀི ཁ་སྤུ་ངོ་སྤུ་གཟོ་བཏབ་ནི་མ་རེད། སྐྱེས་རྒྱུའོ་རེད། བླ་མ་ཡིན་རུང་ར། ཟེ་ཡ།

ཕག་མོ། དེ་བཟོ་རེད། ལོས་བདེན་འདོད་ཀ

སྨན་བླ ད་ངས་ར་སེམས་གཏིང་ནས་འགྲེལ་བཤད་ཟིག་བརྒྱབ་བ། ང་བླ་མ་ཟིག་ཡིན་དུས། ངའི་དགོན་པ་དེ་ཆང་བཙགས་ས་ཟིག་ཡིན། ངའི་གྲྭ་བ་ཆོ་ར་ཕར་ཕྱིན་སྦྱངས་ངེ ེ་ཕ་རོལ་དུ་ཕྱིན་སོང་ནི་མིན། ཐ་མག་འཐེན་ནས་མཐར་ཕྱིན་སོང་ནི་ཡིན། དེ་མོ་བླ་མ་ཟིག་ཡོད་དུས་ད་ཕྱི་མ་མ་དགོ་གོང་མ་ཚང་གིས་ར་ཁས་ལེན་ནིས།

ཕག་མོ། ད་དྲང་མོར་བཤད་ཟིག་གོ ཨ་ཁུ་སྡེ་དཔོན་གིས་ཅི་ཟེར་གི

སྨན་བླ། ཨུ། ཤེས་ནི་རེད། ཤེས་ནི་རེད། ཁྱོད་ཆོ་ལས་ཁུངས་གི་ཚང་མས་ཁྱོའི་མྱིང་ང་ཨ་ལགས་མི་ཟེར་བཟེས་མནའ་ཟིག་སྐྱོལ་ཟེ་ཡ།

ཕག་མོ། དེ་ལས་ཁུངས་གིས་དེ་ཆོས་རང་ང་བཏགས་ནི་རེད་མོ།

སྨན་བླ། ཨེ། ངས་ར་དེ་བཟེས་ར་རྒད་པོ་དེ་སྒུལ་རྒྱུ་མེད་ཀི (Sman bla skyabs 1996e)

Traditionally, communities might turn to elders and religious leaders for help mediating language disputes, as they were the only figures with sufficient authority and social capital to help the parties resolve such conflicts (Pirie 2006, 77–78). Menla Jyab decides to use the village’s misplaced faith to trick them into solving their problems. To begin, he asks them to describe the problem’s origins, and eventually he finds his answer in the village’s response to a new policy:

MJ: [as the village leader] “Do you know the [government policy of the] household responsibility system?”

P: You certainly do know it.

MJ: [in the voice of the village leader] “Ole! When the livestock were divided up [among individual households], and they had constructed fences in each place, and each family was allotted a mountain pass, they let their horses stray into our sheep.”

P: So, give them back!

MJ: “Ah, how much can a few horses eat? But we can’t lose our pride! If they don’t pay a fee, we won’t return their horses.”

P: So, they pay it, and that’s that!

MJ: “Ah, they didn’t pay, so we weren’t happy, and so now we are at odds.”

P: Now things have gotten worse.

MJ: “From that day on, we grew accustomed to taking turns slaughtering any who came onto our lands.”

P: [addressing the village leader] What did you say? You slaughtered those that entered your land?

MJ: “We slaughtered them! We slaughtered as many as we could catch. If we couldn’t catch them, then they got away.”

P: [directly to the village leader] Oh, so if one rode a great horse, one would escape?

MJ: “Ah? What did he say? Where can you find livestock that ride horses?”

P: Who’s saying that? Do your livestock ride horses?

MJ: [interceding as himself] Eh, the village elder was talking about [slaughtering] livestock!

P: [addressing MJ again] Oh, I thought that he was talking about slaughtering people.

MJ: [under his breath] Wouldn’t that be a hospital [that slaughters people]?

སྨན་བླ། འགན་གཙང་ལེན་ཁྱོས་ཤེས་ཀ་བཟེས།

ཕག་མོ། ད་དེ་ལ་ཤེས་ནི་རེད།

སྨན་བླ། ཨོ་ལེ། རྒྱུ་ཟོག་སྒེར་ར་བགོས། ས་རེར་ར་རེར་འཐེན་ནས།ཁྱིམ་རེར་ལ་རེ་བྱིན་ནས་བཞག་ཡོད་དུས། ལ་ལོ་ཆོ་ལ་ཧ་ཆོའི་ནང་ང་ཡོང་གི་གཞུག་བཏང་ནི་རེད།

ཕག་མོ། དེ་ཕྱིར་ར་སྤོད་ལ་ཐོངས་མོ།

སྨན་བླ། ཨ། ལ་ལོ་འགའ་གི་ཆི་ཟ་རྒྱུ་ར། ང་ཆོའི་ལ་རྒྱ་འཆོར་མི་ཉན་གི་གླ་ཟིག་མ་བྱིན་ན་ཕྱིར་ར་མི་སྟེར་བཟེས།

ཕག་མོ།། དེ་བྱིན་བཏང་ན་ཆོག་གི་མོ།

སྨན་བླ ཨ། མ་བྱིན་ནི་རེད། མ་དགའ་ནི་རེད། ད་མ་འགྲིག་ནི་རེད།

ཕག་མོ། ད་དོན་དག་ཇེ་ཆེར་བུད་ཐལ།

སྨན་བླ དེའི་ཉིན་དཀར་ནས་བུད་ལེ་ད་སུ་སུས་ས་ཐོག་ག་སོང་ན་བཤའ་རེས་བྱེད་རྒྱུ་ཟིག་ལོབས་ཐལ།

ཕག་མོ། ཆི་བཟེས། ས་ཐོག་ག་བུད་སོང་ན་བཤས་འཇོག་ནི་རེད།

སྨན་བླ བཤའ་ནི་རེད། དུ་ཟིན་ན་དུ་བཤའ་ནི་རེད། མ་ཟིན་ན་ཤོར་འགྱོ་ནི་རེད།

ཕག་མོ། ཨོ། ད་རྟ་བཙའ་ཡ་ཟིག་ག་ཞོན་ཡོད་དུས་ཤོར་རྒྱུ་རེད།

སྨན་བླ། ཨ། འདིས་ཆི་ཟེར། ཟོག་རྟ་ཞོན་ཟིག་གང་ན་ཡོད་ནིས་ཆི་ཁོ།

ཕག་མོ། སུས་དེ་ཟེར། ཁྱེད་ཀི་ཟོག་ད་རྟ་ཞོན་ནི་ཡིན་རྒྱུའོ་རེད།

སྨན་བླ། ཨེ། སྡེ་གི་རྒད་པོས་ཟོག་ཟེར་གོ་ནི་རེད་ཡ།

ཕག་མོ། ཨོ ངི་བཟེས་མྱི་བཤའ་ནིས་ན་འདོད་ལ།

སྨན་བླ། སྨན་ཁང་ཡིན་ས་ཡོད་ཀི་ར། (Sman bla skyabs 1996e)

Then Menla Jyab assigns members of the village a specific “karmic enemy.” Each villager is only allowed to fight this one enemy.

MJ: “First, that one with the long braid, stand up. [hastily] Oh, not that one, not that one. A kid with braided hair should be catching baby birds. The one behind him … not you, not you, what lady doesn’t have a braid? The braided one behind her. Not that old man.” I said, “The one young guy behind him, the one who’s praying …”

P: Ah, ah, ah. There are rows and rows of people with braids!

MJ: [as himself] “Ah, speak up! Which is better: to enjoy your own life, or to destroy your own people?”

P: That’s not like what a real thief would say. What did he [the man with the braided hair] say?

MJ: [in a different man’s voice] “By my father’s flesh, how should I know? But it must be that:

‘Living in shame for one’s whole life

is not equal to dying nobly for a single day.’”

P: Oh, so he’s that type of person who is willing to die.

MJ: [as himself in his role as lama] “Ah, noble son, if I tell you to run [to the battle, you will run to] the paths of the dead. If I tell you to hit, [you will hit] your father’s head.” Your karmic enemy is one who is deaf in his left ear, and who has a scar on his upper lip, and you’re not allowed to fight with anyone else.”

P: That’s precise; there can be no mistaking that!

སྨན་བླ ཐོག་མར་རལ་བ་ཅན་པོ་དེ་ཡར་ར་ལོངས། ཨོ་དེ་བཟེས་ནི་མིན། དེ་བཟེས་ནི་མིན། ཨ་ཞ་ཡིས་རལ་བ་ཅན་གི་ལས་ཀ་བྱེའུ་ཕྲུག་འཛིན་རྒྱུའོ་རེད། དེའི་གཞུག་གི་དེ། མ་རེད། མ་རེད། ཨ་ཡིས་རལ་བ་མེད་ནོ་སུ་རེད།དེའི་གཞུག་གི་རལ་བ་ཅན་པོ། རྒད་པོ་དེ་མ་རེད་བཟེས་ན་དེའི་གཞུག་གི་གསར་རུ་དེ། གསོལ་བ་འདེབས་གོ་ནོ་དེ།

ཕག་མོ། ཨ་ཨ་ཨ། ད་རལ་བ་ཅན་པོ་ར་རབས་དང་རིམ་པ་ཟིག་ཡོད་ག

སྨན་བླ། ཨ་ཁྱོས་ཤོད། མི་ཚེ་ལོངས་སྤྱོད་བྱས་ན་ཧྲ་ག མི་རིགས་ཚར་གཅོད་བྱས་ན་ཧྲ་གི

ཕག་མོ། དེ་བཟོ་རྐུན་མ་ངོ་མ་ཟིག་གི་སྐད་ཆ་མི་རིག་གི ཆི་ཟེར་གི

སྨན་བླ། ཨ་རྒྱའི་ཤ་གཅིག་ཤེས་ན། ད་ཚེ་གང་གི་བླ་སྒུལ་ཡེད་རོག་གོ བལྟས་ན་ཉིན་གཅིག་གི་བླ་བསང་བྱེད་དགོ་ནི་ལོས་ཡིན།

ཕག་མོ། ད་བླ་བསང་བྱས་ན་ར་ཡིན་ནོ་བྱས་བུད་འགྲོ་ནོའུ་གྱབ་ཀ་དེ་རེད་མོ།

སྨན་བླ། ཨ། རིགས་ཀྱི་བུ། རྒྱུགས་བཟེས་ན་གཤིན་རྗེ་འཕྲང་། རྒྱབས་བཟེས་ན་ཨ་བའི་མགོ་རེད། རྣ་གཡོན་པ་འོན་པ་ཡིན་ནོ། ཡ་ཁ་ན་རྨ་ཁ་ཅན་པོ་ཅན་པོ་ཁྱོའི་འདུལ་སྐལ་ཡིན། དེ་མིན་ནས་མྱི་ཟིག་ག་བཏུད་ན་ར་མི་ཆོག

ཕག་མོ། རྟགས་ཅན་ད་རེད། འཆུག་ནི་མ་རེད། (Sman bla skyabs 1996e)

After repeating this process several times with different villagers, the audience notices a pattern: Menla Jyab has cleverly assigned each villager a target to whom they are related. The villager in the passage is assigned his maternal uncle, a family member with great significance in a Tibetan’s life. Another villager is asked to fight his brother-in-law. These villagers cannot be asked to fight their own relations! Menla Jyab effectively reminds the villagers of how closely they are related to the neighboring village and dampens their desire to continue the feud.

Next, Menla Jyab reports that he went to the other village and gave a teaching, saying:

MJ: “Om Swa Ra Swa Sti the land dispute, Om Swa Ra Swa Sti will end your grandchildren! Om Swa Ra Swa Sti the land dispute, Om Swa Ra Swa Sti will end your grandchildren! Om Swa Ra Swa Sti the land dispute, Om Swa Ra Swa Sti will end your grandchildren!” I chanted for the entire morning. In the afternoon, they all said that except for the [words of] praise [the mantra] and the “will end,” they didn’t understand anything.

P: They probably didn’t!

MJ: Then I interpreted it clearly for them. I said, “This is not a prophecy that existed before but one that has just emerged for this time. As for the meaning, it says, ‘If you fight over land with Careful Village land, your village will be finished.’” And everyone was afraid.

སྨན་བླ། ཨོཾ་སྭ་ར་སྭ་སྟི་ས་རྩོད་ཀྱིས། ཨོཾ་ཚ་བོ་ཚ་མོ་ཚར་རྒྱུ་རེད།

ཨོཾ་སྭ་ར་སྭ་སྟི་ས་རྩོད་ཀྱིས། ཨོཾ་ཚ་བོ་ཚ་མོ་ཚར་རྒྱུ་རེད།

ཨོཾ་སྭ་ར་སྭ་སྟི་ས་རྩོད་ཀྱིས། ཨོཾ་ཚ་བོ་ཚ་མོ་ཚར་རྒྱུ་རེད།

སྔ་དྲོ་ཟིག་གི་རིང་ང་བཏོན་བཏང་ང་ར།

ཕྱི་དྲོ་ཚང་མས་ཅིག་ཆོད། ཉིག་ཚར་རྒྱུ་རེད་བཟེས་ནོ་མིན་ནས་གཅིག་ག་ར་མ་གོ་ཐལ་ཟེར།

ཕག་མོ། གོ་ས་ཡོད་དྲ།

སྨན་བླ། དེ་ནས་ད་ངས་འགྲེལ་བ་གསལ་བོ་ཟིག་བྱས། འདི་སྔོན་ཆད་ཡོད་ནིས་ལུང་བསྟན་ཟིག་མིན། ད་ལྟ་བབས་ནིས་ལུང་བསྟན་ཟིག་རེད། ནང་དོན་མི་གོ་ན་སེམས་ཆུང་སྡེ་བར་ས་བརྩད་ན་ཁྱོད་ཆོའི་སྡེ་བ་ཚར་རྒྱུ་རེད་བཟེས་ནི་རེད་བཟེས་ར། ཚང་མ་སྐྲག་ཐལ། (Sman bla skyabs 1996e)

With the two villages now unwilling to prolong their dispute, Menla Jyab has only brokered a temporary truce. He provides an extra solution that he expects really will reshape the future of the two villages and bring a lasting peace: using the money that they had given to him as a lama, he asked them to build a school on the land that borders the two villages.

•

The remaining three performances of the “Careful Village” series see Menla Jyab reprise his role as the comedian-turned-lama in subsequent trips to the village. In the second, “Careful Village’s Bride” (Semchung déwee nama), Menla Jyab returns from another trip to Careful Village depressed, because a young villager named Zalejya is determined to marry the wrong woman. Not just any woman—a foreign woman! The village is in uproar. They refuse to accept this unprecedented event until Menla Jyab helps them see that couples should be able to choose their partners. As his partner says:

But Zalejya loves her, and that’s all that matters. It’s none of Careful Village’s business.

ད་ཟ་ལེ་རྒྱལ་གིས་བློར་བབ་བཏང་ན་དི་རེད་མོ། སེམས་ཆུང་སྡེ་བ་མ་བབས་ནི་ཟིག་རེད། (Sman bla skyabs 1996c)

In the series’ third installment, “Careful Village’s Wedding” (Semchung déwee htunmo), Menla Jyab orates a heavily modified wedding speech that he says he had given on a previous trip to the village:

MJ: [as the village leader] “Ah, ah, ah, ah, wise lama! That was perfect! Such a fun wedding speech. Such a dear wedding speech, by my son’s flesh!”

PD: Oh! Without speaking it, I can’t decide whether or not it’s a dear wedding speech. I just hope that it’s in language.

MJ: The village leader spoke the truth! The form of my wedding speech is fresh so as to be in tune with a new era, and its meaning is easy to understand as it’s close to real life.

སྨན་བླ། ཨ་ཨ་ཨ་ཨ། བླ་མ་མཁྱེན། མཁྱེན་ཡག་ག་མཁྱེན་བཏང་ཟིག དེ་མོ་སྟོན་བཤད་བསོ་མོ། དེ་མོ་སྟོན་བཤད་ཐག་ཉེ། བྱི་ལུའི་ཤ་གོ་ཟེར་ཡ།

ཕག་མོ། ཨོ།ཁྱོའི་སྟོན་བཤད་དེ་མ་བཤད་གོང་གཟིག་གི་སྟོན་བཤད་ཐག་ཉེ་བདག་གོ་ཐག་གི་མི་ཆོད་གི སྐད་ཆ་གཟིག་ཡིན་ནིས་སྨོན་ལམ།

སྨན་བླ། ཨ་ཁུ་སྡེ་དཔོན་གིས་བཤད་ནོ་བདེན་ནི་རེད། ངའི་སྟོན་བཤད་རྣམ་པ་སོ་མ་ཡིན་ནས་དུས་རབས་གསར་བ་མཐུན་ནི་རེད། ནང་དོན་གོ་བ་བླངས་ན་དངོས་ཡོད་འཚོ་བ་ཉ་ནི་རེད་ཡ། (Sman bla skyabs 1996f)

Mobilizing the authority of traditional oratory, Menla Jyab’s speech raises a host of social issues facing Tibetan communities, with references to satellites, the influx of fake and counterfeit goods, the negative affects of alcohol, and the bad behavior of students and monks, as in the following example:

Ya, so if I speak of the things of the world that are few,

there are few villages that don’t have grassland disputes,

there are few monasteries that maintain pure religious doctrine,

there are few schools with a good system of education,

there are few leaders who only do public affairs,

there are few lamas without beautiful consorts,

and it should be said that they say that there are few children these days who speak Tibetan.

ཡ་ད་འཇིག་རྟེན་གི་ཉུང་བ་རྣམ་གསུམ་གཟོ་ཅིག་བཤད་ན།

རྩྭ་ས་རྩོད་གླེང་མེད་ནིས་སྡེ་བ་ཉུང་ནིས་ཟེར་གི

ཆོས་ཁྲིམས་གཙང་མ་ཅན་གི་དགོན་སྡེ་ཉུང་ནིས་ཟེར་གི

རིག་གནས་མ་ལག་ཚང་ནིས་སློབ་གྲྭ་ཉུང་ནིས་ཟེར་གི

སྤྱི་དོན་རྐྱང་རྐྱང་བསྒྲུབ་ནིས་དཔོན་པོ་ཉུང་ནིས་ཟེར་གི

ད་རིག་མ་ཡག་མ་མེད་ནིས་བླ་མ་ཉུང་ནིས་ཟེར་གི

དེང་སང་བོད་སྐད་ཤེས་ནིས་བུ་ཕྲུག་ཉུང་ནིས་ཟེར་གི་ཟེར་རྒྱུས། (Sman bla skyabs 1996f)

In his final trip to Careful Village, “Careful Village’s Thief” (Semchung déwee hkun ma, Sman bla skaybs 1996d), the villagers beseech him to help fight off a rash of thievery that has impoverished the community. They had previously sought the advice of another lama named Ra dzu na ma (ར་ཛུ་ན་མ།), whose name spells out the Tibetan word dzunma (རྫུན་མ།), meaning “fake.” The lama took monetary offerings from the community in return for his “services.” In the end, it is revealed that the lama had been arrested for being a thief himself.

A studio audience laughs and applauds freely throughout the performances. They appreciate the village’s humorous misunderstanding of the comedian-turned-holy-man, and the parodic reenactments of modified oral traditions allegedly orated on visits to the village. They laugh as the comedian speaks in a high pitch when voicing the speech of women and children, and when he punctuates the leader’s speech with deep laughter. They applaud at witty turns of phrase, and the partner responds with his commentary as he reacts to the story being told in the present.

Zooming out from the performance itself and the recording’s live studio audience, a still-larger audience listens eagerly at home on radio and audiocassette, which were the most important forms of mass media for Tibetan communities at that time. Since they historically experienced high rates of illiteracy, persisting into the 1990s (Fischer 2009, 16) and with few families owning television sets, the Chinese government invested early in the creation of Tibetan-language radio broadcast infrastructure as one key way to keep them informed about government policies (Zhou 2004, 89; Ji 2013; and Zhou 2007). The radio stations drew many of Amdo’s best and brightest. Even at the height of the Cultural Revolution, a teenaged Dondrup Jya was able to gain employment in one (Virtanen 2011, 38–39) despite the “deep freeze” (Hartley 2005) for Tibetophone media in the period more generally.

Despite radio’s well-established place in Amdo’s mass-media environment, personal radios and cassette players were rare even at the time that Menla Jyab wrote and performed the khashag series about “Careful Village” in the early and mid-1990s. “When I was a child,” one Tibetan teacher shared, “you know, not many families had [cassette tape] recorders … So sometimes people listened to comedies by chance. If it played on the radio, they listened. But I think one family, they had a radio, uh, a recorder, and they had a cassette of the comedies … So people liked to listen to it” (personal communication, June 5, 2013, in English). Similar scenarios likely played out in Tibetan communities across Amdo, with listeners of all ages huddled around a radio or cassette player, perhaps the only one in the village, eagerly anticipating the next rollicking dialogue.

As this teacher’s recollections suggest, the arrival of new technologies for recording, reproducing, and broadcasting sound media have spurred the widespread popularity of these comedic forms. No longer reliant on gathering audiences around the stage for an emergent and ephemeral performance, recordings allow enjoyment beyond the event itself. Listeners of the audio recordings can enjoy the exact same performance again and again. Over time, they may knowingly anticipate a favorite line or savor particularly witty expressions.

More than just laughter, however, Tibetans also find meaning and social critique in comedic dialogues. As one fan of Tibetan comedy put it, “These all have a common characteristic, and if you ask what that characteristic is, it’s that they all give something to think about, and point the way for society’s nomads. For example, they do zurza on bad activities” (personal communication, March 24, 2013). Other Tibetan consultants were similarly quick to place social critique and zurza at the center of these activities. In the “Careful Village” series and other comedies from the 1990s, the “bad activities” targeted frequently focus on the actions and attitudes perceived as being at odds with the modernizing project popular among Tibetan intellectuals in the 1990s.

•

At the end of the twentieth century, the Tibetan Plateau’s most remote areas—many inhabited almost exclusively by Tibetans (Fischer 2008, 639)—were among the most impoverished in the nation, and “39 of Qinghai’s 46 county-level jurisdictions had become officially classified as ‘poverty stricken’” (Goodman 2004b, 379; Wang 2013). The percentage would have been even higher for Qinghai’s Tibetan populations.³ Horlemann (2002, 244) meanwhile recognized that Tibetan pastoralists were among the poorest in one of the poorest provinces in the People’s Republic during this same period.

A variety of related problems accompanied, and in some cases compounded, this poverty. In education, for example, many village schools only offered the first few years of elementary school, after which students might need to board at a school in the township or county seat. This often required children to leave their family for weeks at a time, forcibly distanced from their native communities and lifeways. Schools that did exist were often poorly maintained (Kondro Tsering 2012) and suffered from a lack of qualified teachers, many of whom were abusive, gamblers, or drank excessively (Tsering Bum 2013; Rdo rje tshe brtan 2013). Combined with the government’s lax enforcement of the existing policy mandating nine years of education, it should be no surprise that many parents often saw little benefit in putting their child through school.

This was particularly the case for girls, who were much less likely to attend school and much more likely to be illiterate (Fischer 2009, 19–20).⁴ One comedy, for example, poignantly portrays and satirizes this common attitude when a father—having traveled from his distant village—tries to take his daughter out of the school where she is studying. Modeling the behavior and expectations of nomads talking with people in power, the father brings gifts and alcohol and offers to bribe him with further gifts of meat. His aim is to get the bride-price from selling his daughter’s hand in marriage so that he can in turn pay the bride-price for his son to marry. Bribes of alcohol and meat may have worked with the school’s previous headmaster, but this newly arrived principal is, well, more principled. He refuses to let the girl leave school. In short order, this khashag suggests concerns over the state of education, educators, and pastoral attitudes toward education. In the end, the girl is happy to continue her education.

The lack of qualified, skilled personnel and the infrastructure to facilitate access, meanwhile, dogged hospitals and other public services as well. During my fieldwork, for example, I often heard people question the usefulness of going to hospitals, even for quite serious medical conditions. One person told me of an elderly relative who went to a hospital for eye surgery and woke up with her eyelid literally stitched to her eye itself. Such narratives of either incompetence or malpractice were and remain unfortunately common along Qinghai’s periphery, further underpinning the basic mistrust of Western medicine. In their place, rural communities often relied on “barefoot doctors,”⁵ religious means of expiating sin, and Tibetan herbal medicine. When people did seek out doctors trained in Western medicine, language barriers often compounded the difficulty, as most institutional interactions were conducted in Chinese languages, a significant stumbling block for those who had never attended school.

On top of the matter of the human capacity to provide better services, the lack of modern infrastructure further complicated these issues. As late as the year 2000, for example, Horlemann (2002, 244–45) noted that, in Golok Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, roads remained rudimentary at best, electricity and telecommunication facilities were available only in county seats and townships, and “one pastoralist … in [Gabde County] had to ride on horseback for two days to take his sick baby from his home to the hospital in [Gabde] County seat.” One young Tibetan corroborated this, remembering that, for his pastoralist community in nearby county, “when I began school, Father sent me into the county seat on horseback, taking at least two days” (Chos bstan rgyal 2014). Infrastructure was also pressing need.

In hopes of improving economic outcomes for Tibetan pastoralists, the Chinese government implemented policies to decollectivize and privatize pastureland on the plateau and to sedentarize the grassland’s inhabitants (Du 2012, 121; Sulek 2012). Grasslands that were once communally managed were divided among individual families based on family size, and (more recently) fenced in. These privatization movements have been known to cut across traditional “tribe” or “clan” boundaries, cleaving traditional social groups into separate administrative units. Doing so undermined traditional patterns of cultural authority and replacing it with the state and its legal structures.

The number of violent grassland disputes rose sharply as the rupture in traditional protocols for accessing and using prime land and water resources became an issue of chief importance. Indeed, Yeh argues that “contradictions between these socio-territorial identities and state territoriality precipitated boundary conflicts which might not otherwise have occurred, or which would have perhaps been easier to resolve” (2003, 520), while Dkon mchog dge legs (2012, 51–52) says, “Rangeland privatization intensifies conflicts between communities and creates small-scale conflicts, which were uncommon prior to privatization.”

Admittedly, rangeland warfare was no new phenomenon. Feuds arising from access to pastureland, banditry, or love were not uncommon in Tibetan areas prior to the establishment of the People’s Republic, and an unmediated conflict could fester into a multigeneration cycle of like-for-like reprisals (Ekvall 1964a, 1123). Nevertheless, scholarship suggests that the government’s interventions during the post-Mao period appeared to be exacerbating the problem. With firearms unavailable in recent years, many wars were waged with knives and swords. More than a few of these conflicts plagued communities in the northeastern region of Amdo, and many Tibetans died or were injured before the communities resolved these issues. Given the range and severity of the concerns facing Tibetan society, it is unsurprising that Menla Jyab has placed a grassland dispute at the center of his dialogue (despite the rather depressing topic).

•

Winter sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of a teahouse in the center of Ziling, making the seats uncomfortably warm until a hostess lowers the shades. Menla Jyab shakes my right hand with his left (he always keeps his right concealed to hide a childhood injury) and leans back comfortably in the deep leather chair across from me, wearing blue jeans, a black silk jacket with metallic buttons on the right in the classic Tibetan style, and glasses perched on his nose. His black hair, streaked with gray, is just long enough to tie at the back. A cowboy hat balances on the arm of his seat.

In our conversation, in between chain-smoking cigarettes and sips of puer tea, he discussed his views on the history of Tibetan comedic dialogues, his experiences as a performer, and his views on a number of his most famous scripts. He also spoke about growing up and starting school in a Tibetan pastoral area during the Cultural Revolution—providing him with a wealth of traditional knowledge that informs his comedic endeavors—and his life on stage. Throughout, he frequently diverted our conversation to the value of education and his concerns about the state of the Tibetan language, issues that he considered particularly important for Tibetan communities. But we began our conversation with his background.

To hear him tell it, Menla Jyab was born in 1963 in a pastoral community called Sumdo, located in Mangra County, Tsolho Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, in Qinghai. Growing up in the chaotic years of the Cultural Revolution, he attended primary school in a tent at the age of seven. He was a good student, and he eventually matriculated at the renowned Tsolho Nationalities Normal School, which served as an incubator for several of the post-Mao period’s most famous Tibetan intellectual and cultural talents. Then, in the 1980s, he joined the Qinghai Song and Dance Troupe and embarked on what would become a storied career as a comedian and public intellectual. Also publishing under the pseudonyms “Pleasure Bringing Snow Child” (Gangwu ga hjyel), and “Burning Pebble” (Nbarde)—the latter being his childhood nickname and a reference to the aforementioned injury (Anonymous 2010)—Menla Jyab developed a strong reputation as not only a comedian but also an accomplished poet and essayist.

Despite working as a lyricist, film actor, and more, Uncle Menla—as many in Amdo affectionately call him—owes much of his fame to the popularity of his work as a comedian. He wrote and published his first script, “The Artist” (Jyuhtselpa, Sman bla skyabs 1985), while still working in the song-and-dance troupe. Later, he spent two years studying acting at the Shanghai Theatre Academy between 1990 and 1992, where he honed his ability to combine his deep knowledge of Tibetan pastoral life and oral traditions with biting social critique of the “social ills” facing Tibetan regions and the formal arts of comedy. Since Menla Jyab’s comedic performances densely interweave traditional verbal art, context-dependent witticisms, and satirical critique of trends in Tibetan society, people often suggest in reference to them that “every line has meaning.”

As Menla Jyab sat chain-smoking across from me, our conversation moved from his background to his better-known performances. When we arrived at “Careful Village’s Grassland Dispute” and the other comic dialogues in the series, I wanted first to ask about the fake lama. Without missing a beat, he replied, “So, primarily, at that time … these Tibetan problems couldn’t be solved by China’s laws. And Tibet’s own, uh, common folk couldn’t solve them alone.… if Alaks were pure of intention, the monasteries and all the Alaks could solve many of the people’s problems, and especially grassland disputes … but they don’t do it.”

The “Tibetan problems” vary by dialogue, but a lama can take care of each of them. He can help mediate the divisive grassland disputes plaguing pastoral communities. He can also encourage people to attend (and even open) schools, change their attitudes toward marriage for love, and even get people to give up thieving. In many cases, lamas have done this, both before the 1990s and since.⁶ But in Menla Jyab’s estimation, they had used this tremendous charismatic authority all too infrequently.

He is not the first to place religious practitioners (and the public’s faith in them) under a satirical lens. In the seventeenth century, the Amdo lama Shar Kalden Jyamtso composed songs of spiritual enlightenment chastising clerics for their impure ways (Sujata 2005; Makley 2007). Beyond this, Kapstein (2002, 103–10) and Dor zhi Gdong drug snyem blo (1997) have found further precedents elsewhere in the Tibetan written record,⁷ while we have already seen above how the trickster Uncle Tonpa often targeted and impersonated clerics as well. More recently, Dondrup Jya famously lampooned fake monks in his short story “The Tulku,” and author Tsering Döndrup (2019) placed the misbehavior of monks on display in his famous short story, “The Handsome Monk.”

Art and reality are often intertwined, and people continue to impersonate monks to this day in order to swindle believers (see, for example, Hu 2016). For Menla Jyab, the answer to the social problems facing Tibetan communities—to the grassland disputes, and to insularity and backwardness in a modernizing world, etc.—lies not in religion and religious institutions but in a modern, secular education. Importantly, Menla Jyab finds no place for the police and government in solving these problems. The only government representative in the series, the village leader, seeks the fake lama’s higher authority to solve the village’s problems, and statements across the four dialogues of the series suggest that even he feels his powers to be limited. Instead, a modern, secular education is the antidote, as Menla Jyab makes clear when he instructs the villages to build a school at the border between them. Education also features throughout the “Careful Village” series and across Menla Jyab’s broader corpus.

“Careful Village’s Grassland Dispute” concerns the effects of misplaced faith in religion and religious institutions; promoting modern, secular education; and violence hollowing out rural communities. Individually, any one of these khashag make a significant critique of the problems facing Tibetan society. Together, they align this performance and Menla Jyab’s comedy more generally with a growing movement of “New Thinkers” (Samlo sarwa). Centering most famously around the controversial ideas of the author-intellectual Shokdung, whose sobriquet translates as “Morning Conch,” the New Thinkers advocated for a Tibetan “May Fourth Movement” at the end of the twentieth century to parallel China’s pathbreaking modernist movement nearly eighty years earlier (Hartley 2002; Yü 2013; Shokdung 2016). Like the Chinese May Fourth movement, the New Thinkers promoted a modern project defined by rupture with a seemingly “backward” and overly religious past through education, scientific advancement, marriage by choice, and rational human agency in a progressive and secular present.⁸

Even the name, “New Thinkers”—along with other discursive formations, like the New Youth (Nazhun Sarwa) web portal from comedian-intellectual Pakmo Drashe, and a “new generation” of poetry (Pema Bhum 2008)—draws parallels with the proliferation of groups and concepts labeled as “new” in China during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, including Chen Duxiu’s New Youth (Ch. Xin qingnian) magazine and Liang Qichao’s “new people” (Ch. xin min) and “new prose style” (Ch. xin wenti, forwarded as a simpler, vernacular style of prose to replace classical prose forms) (Lee 2001, 31–32). However, unlike the May Fourth Movement’s intellectuals, Tibet’s New Thinkers distinguished themselves from their Chinese predecessors by avoiding calls for political change (Peacock 2019). Instead, they advocated a rupture with (primarily religious) traditions, “overturning old habits” (Shokdung 2008) that in their estimation were holding Tibetans back from engaging more fully in modern life.

The New Thinkers, however, were (and remain) a highly controversial group, and some Tibetans stridently opposed the perceived antireligious tone of their modernist intellectual cultural producers. Shokdung reportedly received death threats for his essays (Sonam Tsering 2016, x), while public intellectual Lobsang Yongdan, often known by his internet handle “Donkey Herder” (Bongdzi), argues that Menla Jyab, Shokdung, and other New Thinkers are little more than ethnic turncoats and mouthpieces for the ideology of the Chinese Communist Party. At the same time, however, by positing himself as a modern protagonist who acts as a false lama to cross boundaries and who uses his deceits for good, Menla Jyab also thematically links his comedies to Tibetan trickster tales, creating a space for traditional motifs in modern media.

That Menla Jyab has largely succeeded in walking the tightrope of satirizing religious practitioners without alienating audiences is a tremendous accomplishment and owes much to his ability to seamlessly combine humor and meaningful critique. Doing so rests heavily on his impressive ability to create and voice a variety of credible and intriguing characters. Indeed, the lines that win the biggest laughter and applause are often those in which he switches from his own natural speaking voice to imitate that of different community members: an elderly woman, a shy but respectful young man, a child, and, most prominently, the gravelly voice of the village leader, who punctuates his speech with a forceful, three-syllable laugh: “ha ha ha!” Menla Jyab then seamlessly weaves these characters’ speech into his own conversation with Pakmo Drashe in the performance’s present, reporting their words as part of his “conversational narrative” (Norrick 2000) retelling his travels to the village.

Such reported speech—in which speakers in the “narrative event” voice the words of characters in the “narrated event”—helps to create and identify each character’s discursive “footings”: a “participant’s alignment, or set, or stance, or projected self,” in which “a change of footing implies a change in the alignment we take up to ourselves and the others present as expressed in the way we manage the production or reception of an utterance” (Goffman 1981, 128).

Among the characters voiced in the “Careful Village” series, the leader, whose social status gives him authority to represent the people when talking to their chosen “lama,” is the only villager to feature in more than one. Other characters emerge, speak a line or two, and then disappear as quickly as their words and are not enriched with psychological depth and motivations. They are primarily linguistic constructs that serve the needs of the narrative (Barthes 1970, 178–81; cf. Cashman 2008) and focus the audience’s attention on themes and plot rather than on the characters themselves.⁹

Reporting these characters’ speech, meanwhile, allows the storyteller to model a socially recognizable manner of speaking linked to the character or type of character being voiced (Volosinov 1973; Bakhtin 1981). Throughout the series, one notices that the speech and attitudes of the villagers appear fairly uniform, even though they sound different, are identified by different names, and are described as having unique physical characteristics. For example, villagers pepper their speech with oaths (na), as with the unnamed villager in the grassland dispute who is asked to only fight his maternal uncle:

MJ: Ah, speak up! Which is better: to enjoy your own life, or to destroy your own people?

PD: That’s not like what a real thief would say. What did he [the man with the braided hair] say?

MJ: [in a different man’s voice] By my father’s flesh, how should I know? But it must be that: Living in shame for one’s whole life is not equal to dying nobly for a single day.

སྨན་བླ། ཨ། ཁྱོས་ཤོད། མྱི་ཚེ་ལོངས་སྤྱོད་བྱས་ན་ཧྲ་ག མི་རིགས་ཚར་གཅོད་བྱས་ན་ཧྲ་གི

ཕག་མོ། དེ་གཟོ་རྐུན་མ་ངོ་མ་ཟིག་གི་སྐད་ཆ་མི་རིག་གི ཆི་ཟེར་གི

སྨན་བླ། ཨ་རྒྱའི་ཤ་གཅིག་ཤེས་ན། ད་ཚེ་གང་གི་བླ་སྒུལ་བྱེད་རོག་གོ བལྟས་ན་ཉིན་གཅིག་གི་བླ་བསང་བྱེད་དགོ་ནི་ལོས་ཡིན། (Sman bla skyabs 1996e)

In “Careful Village’s Bride,” an old woman villager identified as Aye Tsigtsema expresses her opposition to the proposed marriage between a village boy named Zalejya and an American woman, saying:

A tsi! Zalejya must have epilepsy! If I met someone like that [the foreign woman] alone in the fields, by my mother’s flesh, I’d faint.

ཨ་ཙི་ཟ་ལེ་རྒྱལ་གཟའ་ཡིན་ནི་ལོས་ཡིན། ངི་བཟོ་དེ་མོ་ཟིག་ག་ཐང་ཟིག་ནས་ཐུག་བཏང་ངས། ཨ་མའི་ཤ་ཨུག་ཆད་མི་འགྲོ་ན། (Sman bla skyabs 1996c)

Menla Jyab and his speaking partner, by contrast, speak in their own voices in a plain and unadorned style, and the former swears only one oath: “by Picasso” (as in the contemporary painter Pablo Picasso). Audiences recognize these particular oaths as characteristic of pastoral communities.

In other instances, the villagers may also use humilifics—a practice in which speakers “downplay their own prestige by showing politeness and modesty and lowering their own status” (Tsering Samdrup and Suzuki 2019, 223; Beyer 1992, 210–12) common to Menla Jyab’s home area. Placed on stage and in the mouths of pastoralists, the oath swearing and humilifics help to contrast their social voice with those of the comedian’s own voice.

Standing in for the social backgrounds they are intended to represent, the behaviors and attitudes of rural characters contrast with the performers speaking in their own voices in the dialogue’s present to construct two basic identities: the modern of the comedians, and the backward Other in the form of the villagers. For example, through voicing villagers in the “narrated event,” in which he has already said that he has gone to the countryside, Menla Jyab indexes their rural background, which in turn suggests a relative lack of education. The performances, then, link modern ideas with urbanites like Menla Jyab (as himself) and his speaking partner. Backwards ideas, by contrast, are linked with the villagers.

In “Careful Village’s Grassland Dispute,” Menla Jyab places a variety of “social ills” on display for audiences, both in the studio and listening on at home. The most prominent two are the village’s continued desire to wage deadly conflicts against fellow Tibetans, and their religious faith, which leads them to blindly follow the advice of a comedian. But in addition to these, audiences also see the village’s mistrust of modern, state-run institutions like hospitals, and an inability to value a modern, secular education. In one part of the grassland dispute, the villagers try to clarify how it began and intensified. They are discussing how they slaughtered the other village’s livestock when Pakmo Drashe says:

PD: [addressing A again] Oh, I thought that he was talking about slaughtering people.

MJ: [under his breath] Wouldn’t that be a hospital [that slaughters people]?

ཕག་མོ། ཨོ། ང་བཟོས་མྱི་བཤའ་ནིས་ན་འདོད་ལ།

སྨན་བླ། སྨན་ཁང་ཡིན་ས་ཡོད་ཀི་ར། (Sman bla skyabs 1996e)

The quick exchange alludes to a general distrust of hospitals in Tibetan regions, which were frequently poorly funded and staffed and led to poor health outcomes. Schools, meanwhile, often seemed like a waste of time for families that might need their children as labor just to make ends meet, but Menla Jyab has them build a school and encourages a young boy to pursue his education (turns 257 and 259). Voiced through his characters, the social issues examined in “Careful Village’s Grassland Dispute” can be mapped to the following binary oppositions:

Reading across the four performances in the series, the juxtaposition of “backward” and “modern” social voices links to a broader “modernizing” project seeking to emphasize a temporal rupture with practices and attitudes viewed as best belonging in the past. Some of these seem unique to the Tibetan experience, as with the juxtaposition between bandits and thieves in “Careful Village’s Thief,” but others, like the preference for free-choice marriages over arranged ones, are common parts of modernist projects across China and around the world.¹⁰

In this way, Menla Jyab’s use of reported speech becomes “a powerful linguistic apparatus to conquer alterity and thus to consolidate the modern self” (Inoue 2006, 50). He portrays the traditional subject as basically incapable of participating in modernity. Everything—from their faith in religion to their lack of technological literacy to their continued practice of traditional (rural) lifeways—denies the rural Other a “coeval” place in modern life (Noyes 2009, 240).¹¹

These periodizations—modern and backward/traditional—are best understood as a part of the broader project of Tibetan modernity rather than as temporal categories (Makley 2013a, 193–94). As such, although the emphasis on technological development, gender equality, modern education, urbanization, and marriage for love may initially appear little different from the messages promoted in Chinese government propaganda, the “Careful Village” series and other comedic dialogues from this period also put different linguistic practices on display. Doing so subjects language and language use to satirical scrutiny. Again, the juxtaposition of characters and their social voices helps comedians to articulate and discursively construct new ideological positions through both what they say and also how they say it. This creates an additional set of critiques focusing on language that helps to shape the Amdo Tibetan project of modernity.

In the grassland dispute, and across the other dialogues in the series more generally, three linguistic practices stand out particularly clearly: oath swearing, oral tradition, and figurative language. All of these feature frequently in everyday Tibetan speech. Placed on stage, meanwhile, they simultaneously demonstrate Menla Jyab’s impressive command of verbal art and deepen his satirical critique.

For example, Tibetans might swear oaths to emphasize the truth of their words, to make a promise, or to seal a deal with another party. Oaths operate on the principle that the spoken word ties to Tibetan “economies of fortune” (Da Col 2007) that have real-world effects on an individual and a community in this life, and potentially in future reincarnations.¹² Seen from this perspective, breaking one’s word (literally “eating one’s oaths”) carries potentially grievous karmic consequences (Tshe brtan rgyal 2010, 196), and the swearer of too many oaths appears untrustworthy or rash.

Interestingly, fans with whom I spoke did not feel that oaths sworn on stage (or recounted in storytelling) put one’s fortune on the line. Instead, in Menla Jyab’s four trips to Careful Village, oath swearing draws a contrast between Menla Jyab’s own speech and that of the characters he voices. In turn 195, for example, an unnamed villager tries to emphasize the depth of his commitment to his cause through swearing an oath, “by my father’s flesh.” With these three (Tibetan) syllables, Menla Jyab not only refers to these existing traditional ideologies but also links these ideologies to the villagers, whose oaths of flesh and blood mark them as nomads. As the series continues, villagers swear with increasing regularity. Menla Jyab, by contrast, swears only once when speaking as himself, and when he does, it is the entirely novel oath, “by Picasso” (as in the Spanish artist). When his partner comments on this, he says that he panicked and swore by the name of a famous painter. Without any way of understanding this oath, however, the village leader misses the reference, suggesting the community’s insularity and lack of education.

The portrayal of oral traditions sends still more complex messages. Villagers may use proverbs or render their expression more eloquent through versification, as when the village leader describes the village’s predicament using the following proverb drawn from the Tibetan epic of King Gesar:¹³

A guys’ fight is like an unbreakable stone,

A girls’ fight is like juniper that won’t rot. (turn 61)

ཕོ་གྱོད་ཕ་བོང་བཤིག་རྒྱུ་མེད།།

མོ་གྱོད་ཤུག་པ་རུལ་རྒྱུ་མེད།། (Sman bla skyabs 1996e)

Like many other Tibetan proverbs, this is a short verse composed of two poetic lines. These lines are frequently parallel in structure, and the situations in described in each is meant to be paired and contrasted (Sørensen and Erhard 2013a).

But if proverbs and other rhetorical flourishes may traditionally sway a mediator (Pirie 2009), they sometimes confuse the audience. Menla Jyab rarely uses proverbs when speaking as himself, and oral traditions in these contexts are useful only to either dupe or with great modification. In resolving the grassland dispute, for example, Menla Jyab combines the mantra of the bodhisattva Yangjenma—Om Swa Ra Swa Sti—with his prophecy of the village’s destruction. His purpose? To terrify the villagers into realizing that the dispute will be their own undoing. He relies on the villagers’ inability to comprehend the chanting to dupe them into believing that a religious text—one that he appears to have made up on the spot—is in fact a prophetic one that applies to their situation. Mutually assured destruction, he seems to suggest, is the best way to secure a truce.

While Menla Jyab uses religious speech to dupe the village in this khashag, other oral traditions also feature throughout the series, including an entire dialogue centering on a wedding speech he made on a previous trip to the village. But it quickly becomes apparent that his speech is traditional only in the sense that audiences can recognize the meter, structure, and delivery as being inspired by Tibetan traditions. Instead Menla Jyab states at the outset that he has updated it:

The form of my wedding speech is fresh, to be in tune with the new era, and its meaning is easy to understand, as it’s close to real life.

ངའི་སྟོན་བཤད་རྣམ་པ་སོ་མ་ཡིན་ནས་དུས་རབས་གསར་བ་མཐུན་ནི་རེད། ནང་དོན་གོ་བ་བླངས་ན་དངོས་ཡོད་འཚོ་བ་ཉེ་ནི་རེད་ཡ། (Sman bla skyabs 1996f)

He then proceeds to demonstrate the extent of these changes by launching into the long speech. The opening stanza is a good example:

I will say, ya, now praise e ma ho, praise e ma ho, praise e ma ho.

Praise, praise, praise, praise the azure blue sky.

If you don’t speak praises to the azure blue sky,

It is said that there is no place for satellites to orbit the earth,

And it is said that there’s no place for these airplanes to fly in the sky.

And it is said that people won’t know that this earth is round. (turn 21)

ཡ་ད་སྟོད་ཨེ་མ་ཧོ། བསྟོད་ཨེ་མ་ཧོ། བསྟོད་ཨེ་མ་ཧོ།

བསྟོད་བསྟོད་བསྟོད་ལ་དགུང་ཨ་སྔོན་བསྟོད།།

དགུང་ཨ་སྔོན་འདི་མ་བསྟོད་མ་བརྗོད་ན།།

མིས་བཟོས་འཁོར་སྐར་ར་འཁོར་རེ་འདུག་ས་མེད་ནིས་ཟེར་གི།

ནམ་མཁའི་གནམ་གྲུ་འདིར་འཕུར་རེ་འགྲོ་ས་མེད་ནིས་ཟེར་གི།

སའི་གོ་ལ་འདི་ཀོར་ཀོར་ཟིག་ཡིན་ནོ་ར་མི་ཤེས་ནི་ཟེར་གི་ཟེར་རྒྱུ།། (Sman bla skyabs 1996f)

In a traditional wedding speech, orators use the opening stanzas to invoke a host of Buddhist and autochthonous deities. These have now been replaced with discussions of modern technological wonders like satellites and aircraft. In other stanzas, Menla Jyab proceeds to promote free-choice marriage, criticize the behaviors of monks and leaders, and encourage better educational practices, among other topics.

He also makes more subtle changes. While a traditional wedding speech will open each stanza with phrases like “worship om a hum” (མཆོད་ཨོཾ་ཨ་ཧཱུཾ།) that help to generate the auspicious circumstances of the wedding through the use of religious language, Menla Jyab uses the more innocuous—though still positive—“praise e ma ho” (བསྟོད་ཨེ་མ་ཧོ།). Such changes, when read alongside his above statement about intelligibility, effectively erase the traditional wedding speech’s religious overtones. Like the grassland dispute mediation, Menla Jyab’s speech marks religious and traditional texts as difficult to understand, and then changes one for his satirical purpose. Traditional verbal art, it seems, can only become appropriate for the modern world through the (parodic) interventions of the comedian-intellectual.

Just as comedians distinguish between “backward” and “modern” social positions, they also model the language practices of both the modern, educated, sophisticated, and urban selves of the comedians when they speak in their own voices as well as their discursively constructed opposite: the “backward,” uneducated, unsophisticated rural speaker. Placed side by side for the audience’s enjoyment and evaluation, this creates a second set of binaries that maps onto the first:

It is difficult to overstate the significance of this linguistic critique. Although the government in China does support the very Tibetan-language media stations that aired these comedies, it also continues to promote a monoglot language ideology (Dong 2009) that places state-sponsored “universal speech” (Ch. putonghua) at its center and discursively casts minority languages and regional dialects as anti-modern “Others” (Tam 2016; Gunn 2005, 7; Li 2004, 103; Liu 2008,1). Through linking characters with specific speaking styles, comedians show traditional language practices to be sites of confusion and complexity and model a more simplified and direct alternative. In doing so, they add a linguistic element to their already penetrating social critique.¹⁴ Interpreted through the satirical lens of zurza, this second set of binaries, modeled in comedic performance, suggests a set of language ideologies for a distinctly Tibetan engagement with modernity.

In China, where “the narrative of emancipatory modernity … has its power because it has elicited the commitment of both the Chinese state and the modern intelligentsia” (Duara 1995, 226), and where the Chinese Communist Party has placed considerable emphasis on modernization, the first set of social binaries described in relation to the “Careful Village” series would initially appear to share much in common with the sort of modernity frequently promoted by the Chinese state. Indeed, by privileging social issues like technological advancement, an antireligious secularism, and the rule of law over religion and tradition, Menla Jyab uses zurza to create a comedic performance that appears to conform to the “singular script” of Chinese modernity available to ethnic-minority cultural producers in China (Schein 1999, 387). But in extending his satirical critique to the creation of modern Tibetan-language practices, he refuses the state’s script (without explicitly denying it) through providing new pathways for Tibetan modernity grounded primarily in linguistic practices.

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Careful Village is a fictional place. The term semchung (སེམས་ཆུང་།), which may literally be translated as “small mind,” implies timidity and, in certain contexts, meekness and cowardliness. The album title Rudé tramo (The colorful nomad camp) uses the word tramo (ཁྲ་མོ།), which can mean “pretty” in a slightly pejorative sense, or “colorful” in both a literal sense and, more appropriately in this situation, a connotative one. Put together with the name of the series, this suggests a pointed critique of the underlying malaise that led to the problems that the performers and many other Tibetan intellectuals feel their culture faces in the twenty-first century: that Tibetan society is increasingly insular, afraid of the outside world, infighting, fearful of thieves, and the like.

Internally, a number of lines and features of the comedies direct culturally fluent audiences to recognize them as not simply articulating local or even regional issues but promoting ones of concern to Tibetan people as a whole. One important way of discursively creating the massive scalar jump from village to entire translocal ethnic group is through references to conceptions of myth and history. At several points in the “Careful Village” dialogues, Menla Jyab and the characters he voices explicitly and discursively scale up from the village to the ethnic group. In “Careful Village’s Grassland Dispute,” for example, when his partner Pakmo Drashe realizes Menla Jyab has arranged for the villagers to fight only those opponents to whom they are related, the latter responds by saying:

Didn’t they all arise from the bodhisattva monkey and the rock ogress?

ཚང་མ་སྤྲེའུ་བྱང་ཆུབ་སེམས་དཔའ་ར་བྲག་སྲིན་མོ་ནས་ཆད་ནི་རེད་མོ། (Sman bla skyabs 1996e)

This reference to the mythical progenitors of the Tibetan people rests on the tremendous “communicative economy” (Foley 1995) of Tibet’s heavily referential language to discursively link the people of Careful Village to all other Tibetans. Audiences, in turn, recognize that the concerns being discussed confront not only the village but the ethnic group more generally.

This jump from village to ethnic group is achieved again in “Careful Village’s Bride,” when the villagers speak of their credentials to some American matchmakers, saying:

We are descended from Lhalung Hualdor

ངེད་ཀ་ལྷ་ལུང་དཔལ་རྡོར་ཚང་གི་གདུང་རྒྱུད་ཡིན། (Sman bla skyabs 1996e)

This references Tibet’s most famous assassin, a monk renowned for having slain the apostate King Langdarma in 842, before fleeing to Amdo. In some cases, the reference might be a regional one, as some villages in Amdo trace their origins to Lhalung Hualdor, but this figure is also viewed as a Buddhist hero in almost all regions. Claiming common ancestry through both the historical hero Lhalung Hualdor, and mythical figures like the bodhisattva monkey and the rock ogress place Careful Village squarely within a much broader Tibetan cultural world.

If these examples reference culture, myth, and history to achieve a scalar jump, other performances do so through comparison with the world beyond the village. In “Careful Village’s Thief,” for example, the village leader says:

As for where they went, they’re modern thieves. They might have gone to India or China. But me, I don’t speak anything but Tibetan. Where would I go to look for them?

དེ་གང་ང་བུད་ཐལ་ཟེར་རྒྱུས་དེང་རབས་གི་རྐུན་མ་རེད་མོ། སྟོད་རྒྱ་གར་ར་སོང་གི སྨད་རྒྱ་ནག་ག་སོང་ན། ང་བོད་སྐད་མིན་ནིས་མི་ཤེས་ནི་ཟིག་གང་ང་བཙལ་གི་འགྱོ་་རྒྱུས། (Sman bla skyabs 1996d)

In choosing India and China, Menla Jyab sets Careful Village as a metaphor for the entirety of the Tibetan Plateau caught between the two countries. China and India, meanwhile, comprise different cultural systems and civilizations between which Tibetans have long felt caught. Significantly, he states this in linguistic terms, emphasizing that he will be inarticulate in these foreign lands, and therefore incapable of dealing with these modern thieves. In this way, “articulate … individuals could become inarticulate and ‘language-less’ by moving from a space in which their linguistic resources were valued and recognized into one in which they didn’t count as valuable and understandable” (Blommaert 2007, 2). By moving to other countries, and the other linguistic systems these countries represent, the village leader loses the authority of his position. He ceases to be the most-voiced villager in the “Careful Village” series and becomes distinctly voiceless.

Externally, both audiences and performers expect zurza (satire) and larjya (pride) as an integral part of a good khashag in Amdo. The combination of traditional verbal art, pride, and satire enables a comedy that might otherwise be treated as pure entertainment, or as a very localized phenomenon, to speak to broader social issues considered relevant to communities living on the Tibetan Plateau in post-Mao China. In the cases above, historical references then help audiences recognize that the dialogues describe not merely the unique issues facing a single village but rather those plaguing the whole plateau.

Mustering all his powers of satirical critique, his knowledge of traditional Tibetan verbal art, and his widely acknowledged ethnic pride, Menla Jyab places the entirety of contemporary (Amdo) Tibetan society under his critical lens. The social problems satirized, then, must be read accordingly. Thus, “Careful Village’s Grassland Dispute,” in which the village is at war with its neighbors, is an internal feud within the ethnic group. In describing the village’s shortcomings and the difficulties it faces when confronted with such modern situations, the comedians expose problems they perceive to be facing contemporary Tibetan society, lampoon current attitudes, and (crucially) provide models for the resolution of such challenges of modernity, which are not limited to the village but face all Tibetan communities.

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The four comedic dialogues about Careful Village remain extremely popular on the Tibetan Plateau to this day. People listen to them on long car rides, share favorite sections with each other on social media, and reference them in daily conversation. With a unique combination of humorous, conversational storytelling and socially meaningful critique—in short, their ability to “do zurza”—these khashag have had such a pervasive influence in Tibet that they have shaped attitudes and language practices both in Amdo and beyond. One consultant, for example, described how Tibetans invoke the name Zalejya—the young villager who wishes to marry a foreign woman in the second part of the series—to sarcastically draw attention to a companion’s behavior: “For example, if I have a friend, and … if he likes a girl, I make a joke.… ‘What’s wrong? Don’t be like Zalejya! You’re not Zalejya, are you?’”

Menla Jyab uses zurza to access state media, and to share complex critiques about Tibetan engagement with modernity. His critiques tend to be indirect and rarely (if ever) mention socially identifiable individuals. In this way, his zurza remains similar to more conventional satirical fare legible to the state. But Menla Jyab’s audiences, meanwhile, reuse favorite parts of his comedies to entertain and critique those around them, taking from the performances new rhetorical tools with which to educate (and lambaste the undesirable behavior of) others. Alongside Menla Jyab’s generalized satire, then, the strain of person-specific but indirect critique seen in some oral traditions remains an important part of the Tibetan discursive repertoire.

And yet, Tibetan society does not stand still. New technologies, political and discursive environments, performers, and cultural trends have all emerged in the twenty-first century, reshaping the issues that cultural producers and audiences find important. Rather than replacing the modernist comedies of the 1990s, they create new layers on top of it that further complicate our understanding of Tibetan experience in contemporary China. Comedy and zurza continue to play an important role in this new environment, helping intellectuals articulate an evolving critique of the issues facing Tibetan communities.