5 Zheematam Tibetan Hip-Hop in the Digital World
In November 2014, I received a message from the well-known comedian and actor Shidé Nyima asking if I could meet him at a teahouse in Ziling. When I arrived, I vaguely registered that he had selected a spot near the premises of the Qinghai Tibetan broadcasting station but did not initially think much about the location. I realized its significance when he sat down with a producer from the television station. Over a cup of tea, he explained that he was preparing a script for the upcoming Losar Gongtsog variety show. The program, modeled on CCTV’s internationally popular Chunwan, would welcome the Tibetan lunar new year with singing, dances, and comedy. He wanted the script to include a foreign character. Was I in? I agreed on the spot, and was told that we would begin rehearsing in a few weeks.
At first, we simply met as a cast and read the script, memorizing our lines, and focusing on transitions. In the following weeks, we added movement while rehearsing daily in the banquet hall of the hotel across the street from the television station. It had been fitted with a small stage, and we worked out the gestures and actions there. In between practices, we shared meals with the dance troupe contracted to perform for the event. As the show drew near, the headline acts started to appear. I watched as the others in my group got excited when famous singers began dropping in. Not the biggest names in the Tibetan musical world, mind you, but celebrities nonetheless. The excitement was palpable.
Then a new album from Dekyi Tsering dropped, featuring a combination of rap and more saccharine pop songs. It was like color coming into a black-and-white world, and it soon threatened to overwhelm everything else—both online and off—in this small but vibrant corner of the Tibetan Plateau. The music video for the hit single “Vowels and Consonants” (Yangsel) provided the first sign of things to come. It seemed to be everywhere on my WeChat timeline, while my friends watched it on repeat and discussed it at length.
The music video begins with the artist standing in front of a classroom, playing a substitute teacher telling the class that he is filling in, before beginning what would seem to be a boring lecture about “the value of language.” As the teacher turns his back to the class and begins writing on the board, students begin to zone out and chat with one another, and one boy quietly slips a pair of large headphones over his ears, whereupon a beat fades in, softly at first but then growing in volume. The teacher seems to become aware and taps his finger on the board to the beat a few times before suddenly turning around and rapping. The young boy with the headphones gapes in amazement.
The teacher raps about Tibetan history and the founding of the writing system, then starts listing the consonants; the boy finishes for him with his hand raised. The boy and the teacher go back and forth about Tibetan grammar, culture, and history, and in the end the class is asked:
Do you have the courage to sound the unprecedented sweet call of the blue cuckoo?
[the students respond] We do! We do!
Do you have the courage to sound the unprecedented dragon’s roar that welcomes the spring?
[the students respond] We do! We do!
Do you have the courage to sound the bell of the unprecedented new era?
[the students respond] We do! We do!
དགེ་རྒན། སྔར་མེད་ཁུ་བྱུག་སྔོན་མོའི་གསུང་སྙན་ཞིག་སྒྲོག་པའི་སྤོབས་པ་ཨེ་ཡོད།
སློབ་མ་ཚོ། ཡོད། ཡོད།
དགེ་རྒན། སྔར་མེད་དཔྱིད་དཔལ་བསུ་བའི་འབྲུག་སྒྲ་ཞིག་སྒྲོག་པའི་སྤོབས་པ་ཨེ་ཡོད།།
སློབ་མ་ཚོ། ཡོད། ཡོད།
དགེ་རྒན། སྔར་མེད་དུས་རབས་གསར་པའི་ཅོང་བརྡ་ཞིག་སྒྲོག་པའི་སྤོབས་པ་ཨེ་ཡོད།།
སློབ་མ་ཚོ། ཡོད། ཡོད།
With comedies already identifying language as an area of intellectual concern in the early 2000s and song lyrics defending the importance of maintaining Tibetan language and culture, already a popular topic, “Vowels and Consonants ” tapped into this. But while the lyrics were far from revolutionary, both the video and song seemed to create a compelling break with the Tibetan music scene that had come before, through a unique combination of energy, novelty, visual storytelling, and reasonably high production values that set them apart. Whereas many other music videos at that time featured singers walking through empty grasslands, the one for “Vowels and Consonants” seemed to tell a story and possessed the highest production values of any I had seen to date.
“Vowels and Consonants” was not the first Tibetan rap song produced within the People’s Republic of China. As early as 2009, the same artist performed a popular song called “Father” (Apha). The famous singer Sher bstan dabbled with rap interspersed in some of his songs around the same time. Outside of China meanwhile, the popular Shaphaley (who takes his stage name from the title of his most famous song, and the name of stuffed fried bread) has pioneered Tibetan hip-hop in exile. But these initial attempts are only drops in the bucket compared to the torrent of new songs and artists who began performing in and after 2014 and whose songs reach ever larger audiences, thanks to the widespread adoption of smartphones and other digital technologies.
Most Tibetans in Amdo refer to this new performance style as either zheematam (གཞས་མ་གཏམ།, literally “neither verse nor speech”) or with the Chinese word shuochang (speaking singing).1 Though their work is less humorous than the sketches and comic dialogues of preceding decades, the performers still see themselves as “doing zurza” and providing a new generation of artists with opportunities to rework oral traditions and emerging cultural practices—in conjunction with modern concerns about linguistic and cultural loss—into new and emerging art forms. In doing so, their work builds on the trends of previous generations and articulates a new set of concerns, all during a period of increasing restrictions in Tibet’s cultural sphere.
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Little over a year after Menla Jyab’s “Gesar’s Horse Herder” aired, demonstrations erupted in Lhasa and rapidly spread across the Tibetan Plateau, including Amdo. The government’s response was swift and repressive (see Makley 2018 for a firsthand account from Rebgong). For many, these events in the lead-up to the 2008 Beijing Olympics mark a radical change both in Tibet and across China. The Olympics offered global affirmation, while the contemporaneous global financial crisis affected the country’s economic miracle less than it did many Western democracies. In response, Chinese officials began to develop an assertiveness that podcast host and China watcher Kaiser Kuo (2017) called “the new truculence” and became more confident in the view that China’s authoritarian “consultative democracy” (see, for example, Ma 2015) and managed market economy provided a superior form of national development. The first decade of China’s twenty-first century really ended in 2008.
In Amdo, 2008 marked several significant cultural and political shifts linked to—but also sometimes distinct from—these national and international developments. In 2009, a number of Tibetans began self-immolating to express their dissatisfactions on several fronts, and for a significant portion of my fieldwork, news of yet another self-immolation—often reaching me through informal networks or my daily Google alerts, rather than official media—punctuated my morning coffee. In testimonials left behind, these people often spoke not about separatism but about preserving and developing Tibetan language and culture (Barnett 2012, 54). At the time of writing this monograph, over 160 Tibetans, most of them from Amdo, have ended their lives in this fashion.
At the same time, the state began rapidly expanding into ever more intimate domains of everyday life: language, traditions, and lived spaces. The government’s participation in UNESCO’s intangible cultural heritage regime has seen traditional practices identified for protection—thereby bringing vernacular practices under the purview of the state—while officials have simultaneously encouraged the Sinicization of religions, as part of their promotion of a harmonious society (Brown and O’Brien 2020, 273). Some traditions, like the bardic retelling the Tibetan epic of King Gesar, have flourished with state recognition as an “intangible cultural heritage” and the ensuing support that that recognition brought. Others, like the Shépa speech tradition in Choné, have suffered in spite of such recognition, as linguistic and cultural competences shift (Bendi Tso 2023, 1). Language, in particular, has come under increasing scrutiny, with new education policies advocating for more standard Chinese language instruction within Amdo’s bilingual education policies. This short list is representative, but not exhaustive, of the expansion of state space in the twenty-first century in Amdo and around the People’s Republic.
The government has also emphasized increased market participation, further integrating Tibetan communities into China’s market economy (Yeh 2013). This led to a range of Tibetan enterprises emerging during this period: from shops run by Buddhist monasteries (Caple 2019) to NGOs that rebranded themselves as social enterprises to new, Tibetan- owned technology and film companies. In hopes of capitalizing on the growing presence of digital technologies, the government has also worked with private companies, providing grants and loans for the development of Tibetan-language digital platforms, including e-commerce platforms, educational technology platforms based on the Blackboard Learning management system, and the Tibetan-language search engine Yongzin (in 2016). The computing company Lobzang, meanwhile, has forged a business out of creating Tibetan-language hardware and software to aid in learning.
The collection and sale of caterpillar fungus continued to sustain local incomes into this period, and many families earned unprecedented amounts of disposable income just at a time when DSLR cameras, smartphones, and other devices become part of everyday life. Tibetans were especially eager to purchase Apple’s iPhone, because early iterations of the device supported Tibetan-language input without significant tinkering. With the advent of smartphones, the Chinese omni-app, Weixin (WeChat) has become one of the dominant ways of the interacting with others across China, and Tibetans are no different. People send notes, voice messages, and an ever-increasing number of stickers in individual conversations and group chats, and share media (blog posts, images, videos, and more) on their timelines. For some groups that do not have their own writing system, or for speech communities with low literacy rates, WeChat has become a valuable tool for communicating and language maintenance at a time when many are dispersed across the country as students and migrant laborers (Yulha Lhawa 2019, 564).
As larger amounts of Tibetan life have moved online, and companies (often with state support) have created Tibetan-language technologies to support them, residents of Amdo have incorporated digital technologies into their efforts to promote and preserve their language and culture. Shortly after arriving in Amdo in 2010, one friend confided that after the demonstrations of 2008, he would only listen to Tibetan singers who perform in Tibetan. In 2012, a budding filmmaker garnered local and international attention for his debut documentary, Valley of Heroes (Khashem Gyal 2012; see also Robin 2014b), which purported to examine language attitudes in one part of Amdo as a stark statement about the state of Tibetan-language education in the region. On WeChat, I saw intellectuals admonish others to speak “pure Tibetan,” meaning that they should not borrow Chinese terms.
To further support people’s ability to speak pure Tibetan in a time of rapid change, the abbot of northern Sichuan’s massive monastic center at Serta Larung Gar, Khenpo Tsultrim Lodree, began an influential project to create highly popular picture dictionaries with new words for emerging technologies. During my fieldwork, these volumes seemed omnipresent in schools, homes, and bookstores throughout Amdo. Not merely “virtual” activism, online expressions also intertwine with offline actions. In 2010, many across the Amdo region started to express concerns over what they considered to be the marginalization of the Tibetan language within the state’s education system, and this boiled over into student protests.
Though expressing many of the same concerns about the future of Tibetan language and culture, sketch comedy and comedic dialogues have been one of the major losers in this digital turn. Just as I began to study comedies, I found many established performers nearing retirement age and few young people interested in taking their place (including many self-professed fans). One comedian opined that this was because young people were generally unable to write scripts, lacking the requisite life experience and skills in verbal arts.
All of this may be true, but this only tells part of the story. Instead, many of the young Tibetans I knew were more interested in music and film, both of which seemed to present fewer barriers to entry in the years after 2008 and allowed performers to remain somewhat on the peripheries of state space. Just about every Tibetan can sing to some extent (there is even a popular aphorism about it), and music is a highly effective vehicle for expressing and circulating popular ideas. Film, meanwhile, seemed to be a new frontier, with directors like the late Pema Tsetan and Zonthar Gyal earning honors at international film festivals.
To compound this, only the late comedian Jamyang Lodree seemed interested in training younger performers. He regularly shared his scripts, and in the years immediately preceding his sudden passing in 2019, he held free training workshops for aspiring comedic performers. Amdo’s premier filmmakers, by contrast, also have developed a reputation for fostering young talent, and such born-digital cultural production benefited from both the cachet of new media and the opportunity to work with artistic forms that balanced the emerging and traditional.
Beyond film, the affordability of new technologies and emergence of social media also enabled new forms of cultural production to emerge. An active blogosphere has provided a space for literate Tibetans to contest a movement of Buddhist ethical reforms called “the New Ten Virtues” (Gayley 2016) or to vent frustrations about the government’s new bilingual education laws (Dak Lhagyal 2019). On social media, meanwhile, people share video clips of movies and TV series with humorously dubbed conversations, perhaps the most popular of which is a scene from Braveheart in which Mel Gibson and his band are discussing digging caterpillar fungus instead of the English army.
Music, in particular, has taken a leading role in promoting the sort of Tibetan nationalism popular in Amdo (Lama Jabb 2011), with modern music production in Amdo generally divided into the categories of “pop music” or the tradition-inspired genre called dunglen, in which musicians (individually or in groups) sing while playing either a mandolin or a rapidly plucked, stringed instrument called a dranyen. Music videos, meanwhile, create unique opportunities to mix lyrics with a visual language of common Tibetan identity (Warner 2013, 545). In this period of intense, “disempowered” cultural, political, and technological development (Fischer 2013), rap emerged as a way for young cultural producers to express themselves and reach audiences.
In many ways, Tibetan rap in Amdo reflects both the national and international development of the genre. Emerging from the cumulative “politics and aesthetics” of African American experience (Rabaka 2013, 285), rap has grown into a global phenomenon, blending the unique sense of spoken delivery and authenticity with local poetics and cultural features everywhere it goes. Hip-hop’s popularity stems at least partly from how it provides youthful musicians with the opportunity to create an “in-your-face rebellious youth style that challenges class inequalities wherever it expresses itself on the globe” (Osumare 2007, 71). And yet the focus on resistance risks obscuring the much richer and more complex landscape that rap inhabits. With reference to hip-hop in the Middle East, for example, Almeida (2017, 6) noticed that the rap is also part of the music industry and may be co-opted by industry and government for its own goals.
In China, where the state’s control over channels for publishing and disseminating music requires that rap demonstrate zheng nengliang (positive energy), artists deploy local concepts to balance these demands with ideas of hip-hop authenticity (Sullivan and Zhao 2021, 275). This does not, however, stop hip-hop artists from engaging in strong social commentary. Liu (2014, 283) noticed how Chinese rap songs sung in regional languages help to articulate subnational identities as part of a “larger countermovement promoting the use of local language in local media to assert the identity of a local community.”
Similarly, Tibetan hip-hop emerges in a cultural space characterized by international and national trends. Han rap group Higher Brothers, for example, performs nationalistic hip-hop that is popular even with some Tibetans (Su 2019). The government also often produces rap videos to accompany and promote its “five-year plans” both domestically and abroad. But Tibetan artists, as we shall see, also mix local ideologies of verbal art—including zurza—and global hip-hop to create something uniquely Tibetan.2 Doing so recognizes that both traditional and newer expressions of Tibetanness are “equally Tibetan and essential for their generation in the future” (Warner 2019, 30). But in this art, the aesthetic of zurza changes yet again, becoming less about humor (though some work is still funny and playful) and more about inversion, indirection, and critique. The critiques point to failings of both the state and previous generations of Tibetan intellectuals.
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Drone footage shows a Tibetan village. Judging from the stone architecture, it is in the eastern region of Kham. Next a Tibetan dranyen player begins to strum a folk tune popular from Central Tibet. Singers sing about Tibet as a happy place, where barley grows. Images cut to the rapper Uncle Buddhist, dreadlocked and wearing baggy clothes, standing in the middle of a town square, then dancers in traditional dress, suggesting a festival—in fact, the famous Tsampa Festival in Yushu Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, in which participants throw freshly ground roast barley flour at each other.
Then the music stops, and the video cuts to an old man standing on a mountaintop, orating about the origins of the staple food tsampa in the Amdo dialect while throwing roast barley flour atop an open flame as part of a fumigation offering. The speech narrates the history of the food as Tibetans memorialize it, with barley first planted in the fields along the Yarlung River in Central Tibet, representing the initial introduction of agriculture, and then expressing a wish that Tibetans never lose the ability to make their staple food. As the orator finishes with the classic “zerjyu ré,” which ends segments of oratory in Amdo, with a louder, higher, drawn-out ré, Uncle Buddhist starts rapping, building off all that has come before. His lyrics speak of barley as a key staple that has spread throughout the plateau and become central to the Tibetan identity:
The green grain of the fields in the Yarlung Valley don’t have wings, but still have wings.
The white wings reach to all the territories surrounded by snow
Like a golden belt that ties all regions.
The winged barley grains rise from the sun’s lap, and [they are] prayer beads of letters.
They help to write the light of this nationality’s history on the roof of the world, spreading to the four directions from Tsethang Gongpo mountain.
Black-haired tsampa-eating Tibetans!
The winged barley grain is the Snowland’s dream and a deity for the Tibetan people of the Snowland.
Those winged barley grains are the messenger of the gods.
It is a light for of white-minded [virtuous] people.
The places where the winged barley grain flies, the honey-white tsampa’s flavor spreads, and the red-faced people flourish.
The places where the winged barley falls, honey-white tsampa’s flavor subdues, and turns people’s minds to the virtuous dharma.
ཡར་ཀླུང་ཟོ་ཐང་ཞིང་གི་ནས་འབྲུ་སྔོན་མོར་གཤོག་པ་མེད་དོ་གཤོག་པ་ཡོད།
འདབ་གཤོག་དཀར་པོ་གངས་ཀྱི་ར་བས་བསྐོར་བའི་ཡུལ་གྲུ་ཀུན་ལ་བརྐྱངས་ཏེ།
ཆོལ་ཁ་ཡོངས་ལ་སེར་པོ་གསེར་གྱི་སྐེད་རགས་བཅིངས།
ནས་འབྲུ་གཤོག་ཐོགས་དེ་ཚོ་ཉི་མའི་པང་ནས་ཐོར་བའི་ཡི་གེ་ཕྲེང་བ་སྟེ།
རྩེད་ཐང་ཀོང་པོ་རི་ནས་ཕྱོགས་བཞིར་མཆོད་པའི་མི་རིགས་འདི་ཡི་ཤེས་རིག་འོད་ཀྱི་ལོ་རྒྱུས་འཛམ་བུ་གླིང་གི་གཙུག་ཏུ་འབྲི་རོགས་མཛད།
མགོ་ནག་རྩམ་ཟན་བོད་པ་ཚོ།
ནས་འབྲུ་གཤོག་ཐོགས་གངས་ཀྱི་རྨི་ལམ་ཡིན་ལ།
གངས་ཅན་བོད་མིའི་ལྷ་སྐལ་ཡིན།ནས་འབྲུ་གཤོག་ཐོགས་ལྷ་ཡི་ཕོ་ཉ་ཡིན་ལ།།
མི་སེམས་དཀར་བོའི་འོད་སྣང་ཡིན།
ནས་འབྲུ་གཤོག་ཐོགས་འཕུར་བའི་ས་ལ་སྦྲང་དཀར་རྩམ་པའི་དྲི་ཞིམ་མཆེད་ཅིང་སྨུག་པོ་མི་ཡི་རིགས་རྒྱུད་འཕེལ།
ནས་འབྲུ་གཤོག་ཐོགས་བབས་པའི་ས་ལ་སྦྲང་དཀར་རྩམ་པ་དྲི་ཞིམ་ཐུལ་ཞིང་མི་སེམས་དཀར་པོ་ཆོས་ལ་ཕྱོགས།
This describes the opening to Uncle Buddhist’s electrifying hit “Tsampa” and its accompanying music video. The rapper, whose real name is Ludrub Jyamtso, is one of the new stars in the Tibetan hip-hop scene, thanks in part to his 2016 album City Tibetans (Drongchyer wodpa). Musically, traditional instruments form the melody of the song, with an electric bass and drum line coming in at different points. The traditional instruments play a Central Tibetan folk song, as singers also add their lyrics. Visually, the opening scenes feature a Khampa village and dancers, as well as the elder from Amdo making an offering on the mountain. Throughout, the video jumps between images of the rapper on mountaintops and participating in the festival more generally. Together, the mountaintop speech from Amdo, the dance and tsampa festival from Kham, and the Central Tibetan background music from Ü-Tsang combine to articulate musically and visually the classic emic division of the Tibetan world into three ethnolinguistic regions. These then set the stage for Uncle Buddhist’s lyrical intervention.
Lyrically, the song uses free verse, as opposed to the seven- or eight-syllable meters most common to Tibetan folk and popular music traditions. In the region’s context, this sort of free verse is often associated with the poetry of modernists like Dondrup Jya. Like many modernist poets, however, his works often draw significantly on Tibetan poetic traditions (Lama Jabb 2015, 12–13). Similarly, many rap songs employ formulae and parallelism common in traditional expressive arts. In “Tsampa” for example, Uncle Buddhist refers to Tibetans as gonak tsamzan (black-haired tsampa eaters). In Tibetan oral and literary traditions, the first two syllables frequently combine with Bod (Tibetan), with the latter coming either before or after gonak, depending on poet-speaker’s needs and preferences, to make a convenient three-syllable noun phrase that slots easily into the seven- and eight-syllable meters of folk songs and other oral traditions. Other phrases like “honey-white tsampa” and “green barley grain” both use four-syllable phrases and create valuable images of auspiciousness. Interestingly, Tibetan rap—and “Tsampa” is a good example of this—also largely avoids the rhyming patterns that often characterizes global versions. Rhyme appears to be important primarily insofar as it results from the creation of parallel lines.
The content of the lyrics is also redolent with meaning. The song’s title, “Tsampa,” refers both to the staple breakfast and travel food made by mixing barley flour, butter, hard cheese, and some hot liquid (preferably milk tea or butter tea) into a dough, and also to the roasted barley flour that is its main ingredient. The song and video both use both auditory and visual means to reinforce a nationalist message about Tibetans, who have long referred to themselves with the epithet “tsampa eaters.” It is a self-identification so powerful that the sign for “Tibetan” in Tibetan Sign Language is the act of kneading tsampa in a small bowl (Hofer 2017, 122). Scholar Tsering Shakya (1993), meanwhile, used the term in the title of an article examining contemporary Tibetan identity. Uncle Buddhist’s song builds on this practice of mixing tsampa to visually and auditorily link Tibetans from each of the three major regions around the habit of making and eating tsampa.
The use of the staple food, with reference to the fields in which Tibetans say it was first grown, draws upon a practice common in Tibetan popular music of the time in which lyrics help discursively create a shared identity through images of history, culture, and territory (Lama Jabb 2011, 1). In fact, “Tsampa”—and indeed much of the burgeoning genre of Tibetan rap more generally—employs many of the same discursive strategies as other forms of popular media to meld the expressive possibilities of new media with emerging concerns about the state of Tibetan language and traditions. In doing so, it creates a sort of “hidden transcript” (Scott 1990). This is not unique to hip-hop from Tibet (see, for example, Lamotte 2014, 689), but the potential social and political consequences that Tibetan cultural producers face, makes this sort of subtle messaging essential (Morcom 2018, 140).
The second verse of the rap takes this still further by linking tsampa to the unity and vitality of the Tibetan people:
If green barley is a single grain, then I and we are as well.
Black-haired, tsampa-eating Tibetans transmit tradition to the future.
When home is far away, you are distant from the yellow yak butter, and each day the purity of yogurt becomes more and more difficult to taste.
Although with each day, the body’s clothing changes, the mouth’s tongue falls dumb, and the mind becomes more and more unable to cope.
I want to say, “Don’t forget the green barley’s origins, but keep it in mind!”
I want to say, “Don’t forget the kindness of the honey-white tsampa, but keep it in mind!”
ནས་འབྲུ་སྔོན་མོ་རྡོག་གཅིག་ཡིན་ན་ཆོག་པའི་ང་དང་ང་དག་ཀྱང་།
མགོ་ནག་རྩམ་ཟན་གངས་ཅན་བོད་ མིའི་རྒྱུད་པའི་རྒྱུད་པ་ཕྱི་མ་སྟེ།
ཕ་ཡུལ་ཁ་ཐག་བཀྱེད་ཅིང་འབྲི་མར་སེར་པོར་རྒྱང་ཐག་རིང་ལ་འོ་ཞོ་ལྷད་མེད་མྱོང་བ་ཉིན་རེ་བཞིན་དུ་ཇེ་དཀའ་ཇེ་དཀའ་ཡིན་ན་ཡང་།
ལུས་ཀྱི་ཆ་ལུགས་བརྗེས་ཤིང་ངག་གི་སྨྲ་ལྕེ་ལྐུག་ལ་སེམས་པས་རང་ལྕོགས་མ་ཐུབ་པ་ཉིན་རེ་བཞིན་ཏུ་ཇེ་ཐུ་ཇེ་ཐུ་ཡིན་ན་ཡང་།
ནས་འབྲུ་སྔོན་མོའི་བྱུང་བ་མ་བརྗེད་ཡིད་ལ་ཟུངས་དང་ཟེར་ན་འདོད།
སྦྲང་དཀར་རྩམ་པའི་བཀའ་དྲིན་མ་བརྗེད་ཡིད་ལ་ཟུངས་དང་ཟེར་ན་འདོད།
The vision of a changing society in which foodways—and, by extension, their very identities as Tibetan—as people move and become physically distanced from the grassland is a key theme in Uncle Buddhist’s work. Having grown up in urban environments and only learned Tibetan as an adult, the rapper feels this issue most keenly. But this has all given him a unique perspective on the difficulties these communities face in transmitting language and culture in the twenty-first century.
Some of these concerns are further reflected in his hit “City Tibetans,” which has gained popularity and notoriety for its dark video. In Tibet, you may well be watching the video on your smartphone. You open it in a browser window, and as it begins to play, you immediately see a red moon; in Tibetan Buddhism, the blood moon is an auspicious time when the merit earned from good deeds will be multiplied. Next, a group of young men, drinks in hand stumble through the streets of a town—seemingly one of Amdo’s county towns. Then suddenly, the rapper sees figures standing in red-lit doorways wielding torches and wearing masks associated with religious cham dances and with Tibetan opera. His friends just walk by, seemingly oblivious, but the man seems to feel he is being stalked by these figures. The rap begins unaccompanied in a soft, raspy, singing voice.:
In the east of the world,
In the Himalayas,
The Tubo kings—seven tri kings, six lek kings, and eight dé kings3—
Ruled the Tibetan lands for generations.
Thonmi invented the Tibetan script.
The light of wisdom shines through this land.
This early history is glorious.
The recent history is unspeakable.
The current situation is unspeakable
ས་འཛམ་བུ་གླིང་གི་ཤར་ཕྱོགས།།
རི་བོ་ཧི་མ་ལ་ཡའི་ནང་རོལ་དུ།།
འདི་ན་གནམ་གྱི་ཁྲི་བདུན་བར་གྱི་ལེགས་དྲུག་ས་ཡི་སྡེ་བརྒྱད་ལ་ཡ།།
རྒྱལ་རབས་དང་རྒྱལ་རབས་བྱས་བོད་ཁམས་བསྐྱང་བཟིག།
བློན་སློབ་དཔོན་ཐོན་མིས་ཡི་གེ་གསར་བཟོ་མཛད་བཟིག།
ལྗོངས་འདི་ལ་ཤེས་རིག་གི་འོད་འཕྲོ།།
འདི་སྔོན་བྱུང་གི་ལོ་རྒྱུས་ངོ་མཚར་ཆེ་ཡ།།
ད་ལྟའི་ལོ་རྒྱུས་བཤད་སྲོལ་མེད།།
ད་ལྟའི་གནས་བབས་བཤད་སྲོལ་མེད།།
These opening lines appear to follow a similar pattern to the beginning of “Tsampa,” using phrases referencing the Himalaya Mountains and Tibetan history to frame and locate the remainder of the rap and its critique geographically in Tibetan regions. But “City Tibetans” quickly moves from broader framing into critique when contrasting the present situation with Tibet’s glorious past, adding a temporal frame that invites the audience to share a view of the present as a period of intense cultural and social change. Back on screen, the rapper walks forward. His friends are no longer with him, and a backlit door appears in the road in front of him with masked figures standing on either side.
A fame-destroyer first, and a disgrace second.
A fame-destroyer first, and a disgrace second, but today I sing forcefully for you.
Strong barley wine makes one a crazy drunk.
When drunk, I’m a madman.
སྣ་རྫོད་པོ་གཅིག་དང་ཞབས་འདྲེན་གཉིས།
སྣ་རྫོད་པོ་གཅིག་དང་ཞབས་འདྲེན་གཉིས།
དེརིང་ང་ཡིས་ཁྱེད་ཚོར་སྟོབས་ཀྱིས་ལེན།།
ནས་ཆང་བཟི་ཁ་བཙན་པོ་བཟི་བར་གྱུར་ན་སྨྱོས།།
བཟི་བར་གྱུར་ན་ཆང་འཐུང་སྨྱོན་པ་ཡིན།།
The rapper walks through the door, suddenly transported from the dark city streets to a pristine, sunlit, and open grassland, rapidly intones:
Sick body, sick body, sick voice, sick voice, sick mind, sick mind. This is us!
Wandering souled red-faced Tibetans,
Wandering souled red-faced Tibetans. Us!
Tibetan boys and girls like me! They can’t speak Tibetan and don’t wear Tibetan clothes, but if you trace their heritage, they are Tibetan.
ལུས་ནད་པ། ལུས་ནད་པ།ངག་ནད་པ།ངག་ནད་པ། ཡིད་ནད་པ།ཡིད་ནད་པ།ང་ཚོ་ཡ། །
བླ་འཁྱམས་པའི་གདོང་དམར་པོའི་བོད་པ།།
བླ་འཁྱམས་པའི་གདོང་དམར་པོའི་བོད་པ།།
འདི་ང་དང་ང་འདྲའི་བོད་པའི་གཅེས་ཕྲུག་གཅེས་མ། བོད་སྐད་མི་ཤེས། བོད་ལྭ་མི་གོན། ཕ་རྒྱུད་དེད་ན་བོད་ཡིན།།
Here, the rapper’s critique becomes clearer: many Tibetans no longer wear traditional clothes or speak Tibetan. Powerfully visually contrasting the benighted and drunken city with the sun-soaked countryside, Uncle Buddhist identifies urbanization as one of the key sources for this loss of linguistic and cultural capacity. Distanced from the grasslands and divorced from the sites of language and culture, people in cities have become ill in body, speech, and mind.
Uncle Buddhist’s critique that urban Tibetans are both physically removed from Tibetan spaces and psychologically distant from their language and culture derives substantial power not least because it links to popular narratives already circulating among communities in Amdo. Comedies like “Gesar’s Horse Herder” (examined in chapter 4) had already identified the urban-rural divide as a potential threat to the transmission of Tibetan linguistic and cultural knowledge as early as 2007. Simultaneously, throughout my time in Amdo, I heard people share narratives about how one Tibetan intellectual sent his child to middle school in the countryside (rather than in Xining, where they might receive a “better” but Chinese-only education). Many people praised his decision to jeopardize his child’s economic future in favor of a cultural one. Nevertheless, the narrative stands out, and bears repeating by Tibetans, because it appears to buck the broader trend of families making the opposite decision when presented with the opportunity to send their children to schools in Chinese cities. Others tell of a Tibetan child growing up in the city, who said that her relatives “smelled” when they visited from the countryside. In the 2015 sketch I performed, one of the cast had grown up entirely in the city. Unable to either read or effectively speak in Tibetan, he wrote his lines in Chinese characters to mimic the sounds of the Tibetan he was to speak. His character was labeled as “Korean” to further explain some of his linguistic deficiencies. I could go on. Uncle Buddhist’s rap suggests that this trend has only intensified in recent years.
However, instead of blaming the cities themselves or the policies that encourage urbanization, Uncle Buddhist takes it upon himself to address these issues in his own life. Sitting astride (and sometimes riding) a horse while men around him ride their motorcycles over the grassland, he further emphasizes this agency in his refrain:
From this day forward,
until the day of my death,
I won’t stay silent but speak my pain.
A mouth is for eating as well as speaking.
དེ་རིང་ཉི་མའི་ཕན་ཆད་འདི་ནས།
ང་མ་ཤི་ཉི་མའི་ཚུན་ཆད་བར་དུ།
ཁ་ཁ་རོག་མི་འདུག་ན་ཟུག་བཤད་ཀྱང་བཤད།
ཁ་ཟ་སྤྱད་ཡིན་ལ་བཤད་སྤྱད་ཀྱང་ཡིན།
The promise begins softly but increases in power and intensity with each line until he is practically shouting the final one, leading into an impassioned plea:
Brothers and sisters, listen to me!
I’ll admit my own faults.
My father tongue and writing are stumbling.
I’m the descendant of the Tibetans. Nope.
It’s shameful that I don’t understand regional traditions.
This is a stain! This is a failure! Is it not, my friend?
གྲོགས་པོ་གྲོགས་མོ་གསོན་ཅིག་རྣ་བ་བླགས་ཏེ་ང་ལ་ཉོན།
ངས་རང་སྐྱོན་ང་རང་གིས་བཤད།།།
ཕ་སྐད་ཡི་གེ་ཀྱ་ཙེ་གོམ་ཙེ་ཡིན།།
གདོང་དམར་ཚང་གི་རྒྱུད་ཚང་གི་རྒྱུད་པ་ཡིན།།མ་རེད།
ཡུལ་སྲོལ་གོམས་གཤིས་ཆ་ལ་ཆོལ་དེ་ངོ་ཚ་རེད།།
འདི་མྱིག་རྫོད་རེད་འདི་ཕམ་ཁ་རེད་མ་རེད་གྲོགས་པོ།།
Other popular songs from Amdo’s musicians in the twenty-first century also do considerable work to valorize the Tibetan language and support its use, often even describing it as the soul of the people (Roche 2020). But Uncle Buddhist goes further, criticizing the linguistic incompetence of urban Tibetans like himself. In the lines above, he switches to imperatives and begins to link linguistic and cultural incompetence with “shame” and “failure” as Tibetans. It is a shortcoming suggested also by the song’s ungrammatical title (which would normally require a genitive particle).
Having grown up in an urban environment himself, Uncle Buddhist calls “City Tibetans” his favorite from the debut album of the same name, saying, “I feel that it really portrays my innermost feelings; it conveys all the things that I think about. I portray the things that I have gone through by making fun of myself, and in this way, it can be a warning for today’s young people. It is about what I experienced growing up. I wrote down my very own thoughts, and that is what I wanted to convey” (High Peaks Pure Earth, 2020). These thoughts are specific about the behaviors being criticized, but the broad thrust of the rap means that “City Tibetans” does zurza by engaging in the sort of generic critique common to cultural production across the post-Mao period.
•
But this is only one mode of zurza that hip-hop artists deploy. Jason J, meanwhile, uses a complex array of traditional imagery and direct quotations in a more traditional style of zurza in his hit song “Alalamo.” I met Jason J in the summer of 2017, a little over six months after its release. He was studying tourism management at a university in Ziling. He had secured a day off from his internship at a hotel to perform at an English school’s summer party, at the request of one of his university teachers. I was also in attendance. The school’s owner was a friend, and I knew that my presence as a Caucasian foreigner would be seen to somehow underline the school’s credentials. The summer party was held a little bit outside of town, a picnic in the countryside as a reward for everyone’s hard work. The outskirts of Ziling and smaller urban areas of Qinghai have many such small businesses that rent out their land and provide the food for precisely these sorts of gatherings.
After eating, people began to sing and dance. The children sang English songs that they had prepared for the day. I struggled through a few bars of one of my standby songs, and Jason J and another singer, also invited guests, performed as well. Technical difficulties prevented him from singing his signature hit that day, but I recognized him from the music video, as I had played it many times for my daughter back home. He also recognized me from the sketch I had done a few years earlier. We eventually decided to sit down soon for a recorded conversation away from the distractions and obligations of the picnic. A few days later, we sat in a Starbucks in the center of Ziling and chatted about his life and work to that point, focusing particularly on his hit single “Alalamo.”
As the video begins, the sun is setting over a city skyline, through which a meandering river runs. Soft, slow synthesized music plays for about fifteen seconds before Jason J appears and begins his rap. With a measured, almost monotone delivery, he begins his free-verse poem by addressing his intended audience, and describing the purpose of his song:
Youths, who are striving after the ideals they have heard from me and those like me, as for the song I’m singing now, I’ve loved, suffered, and even cried for your youth and mine. But I haven’t ever given up on the path of my heart, and I’ve never bowed my head.
ང་དང་ང་འདྲ་བའི་ཁོ་ཡི་ཁ་ནས་ཐོས་པའི་ཕུགས་བསམ་ཟེར་བ་ཞིག་གི་ཆེད་དུ་འབད་བརྩོན་བྱེད་བཞིན་པའི་ན་ཟླ་ཚོ་། ད་ནི་བླངས་བའི་གླུ་གཞས་འདི་ནི་ཁྱེད་དང་ང་ཡི་ལང་ཚོའི་ཆེད། དགའ་མྱོང་། སྡུག་མྱོང་། མཐའ་ན་ངུ་ཡང་མྱོང་། འོན་ཀྱང་སེམས་ནང་གི་ལམ་དེའི་ཆེད་དུ་ཡིད་སེམས་ཕམ་མ་མྱོང་། མགོ་བོ་སྒུར་མ་མྱོང་།
The Tibetan word langtsho (ལང་ཚོ།) used in the lyrics refers to the qualities of youth and youthful vigor. It is the promise that each generation possesses. The remainder of the verse describes how, despite others giving up on these hopes and dreams, he will not. He will continue pursuing them. He will not bow his head.
With the refrain, Jason J’s collaborator, Suozha (short for Sonam Tashi), appears in black jeans and a black shirt and leather jacket, singing the refrain in a high falsetto: Ala, a la la mo, tha la la mo zer la a la len go (ཨ་ལ། ཨ་ལ་ལ་མོ། ཐ་ལ་ལ་མོ་ཟེར་ལ་ཨ་ལ་ལེན་གོ). Though these vocables have no English translation, they are deeply resonant for Tibetan audiences, who will recognize in them the syllables used in the first lines of sung arias from the Tibetan epic of King Gesar.
In the second verse, Jason J further defines his vision of the future for Tibet’s youth, using the imperatives “look!” and “listen!” to address his audience directly. His vocal pitch rises, and his pace quickens ever so slightly, a climax in intensity both to the lyrics and their delivery:
We are arising from a single line. We are the inheritors of ancestral heritage and our parents’ hopes for the future. Ancestral heritage! Parents’ hopes! And so, we can never stop moving forward. He’s Amdo. I’m from Kham. She’s from Ü-Tsang. No! No! We’re all a single family. Though unrelated by flesh and blood, we are successors of a single ancestor.
ང་ཚོ་ནི་རིགས་རྒྱུད་གཅིག་ལས་ཆད་པའི་གདོང་རྒྱུད་ཡིན། མེས་པོའི ོ་ཤུལ་བཞག་རྒྱུད་འཛིན་མཁན་དང་ཕ་མའི་མ་འོངས་བའི་རེ་བ་ཡིན། མེས་པོའི་ཤུལ་བཞག ཕ་མའི་རེ་བ། དེ་དང་དེའི་ཆེད་མདུན་བསྐྱོད་ཀྱི་གོམ་པ་ནམ་ཡང་རྒྱུན་མ་ཆད། ཁོ་ནི་ཨ་མདོ་རེད། ང་ནི་ཁམས་པ་རེད། མོ་ནི་དབུས་གཙང་རེད། མ་རེད་མ་རེད་ང་ཚོ་ཚང་མ་ཁྱིམ་ཚང་གཅིག་པ་རེད། ཤ་དང་ཁྲག་གི་འབྲེལ་བ་མེད་ཀྱང་མེས་པོ་གཅིག་གི་རྒྱུད་འཛིན་ཡིན།།
Up to this point, the song is unremarkable beyond its infectious and easily remembered refrain. For the music video, the performers deliver their lines from various urban vantages: inside a many-windowed building, overlooking the Pearl of the Orient Tower in Ziling, etc. The beat is little other than rim shots and high hats, the melody made up of synthesized music. It is as if the entire song is constructed to direct audiences to the lyrics. The rapper said as much during our conversation, arguing, “My lyrical style really focuses on the colloquial. It has a lot of colloquial speech. When others listen to it, oh, they understand the lyrics. Why is this? In most Tibetan music, poets write the lyrics, and the people don’t understand them. I don’t write lyrics that the people can’t understand.” After this, he went on to liken lyrics by poets to traditional poems full of obscure metaphors, which he considers to be at odds with hip-hop.
At this point, we might notice immediately resonances with cultural producers from earlier periods. In the 1980s comic script “Studying Tibetan,” speakers opined that the ability of the “the people” or “the masses” to understand the Communist Party’s policies. In one of the 1990s “Careful Village” performances, Menla Jyab justifies his modernization of a traditional wedding speech on the grounds that it will be easier to understand. In the 2008 garchung “Gesar’s Horse Herder,” the teacher Hongmei’s mixing of Tibetan and Chinese makes it difficult for her to communicate with the title character. More than just the content of his lyrics, Jason J’s concerns about being understood link his work stylistically to the broader trends of the post-Mao cultural world in Amdo.
Since they can be understood, his messages about language, cultural heritage, and ethnicity can reach their target audiences. Valuable? Yes. But this should not be enough to make the song stand out from the many other popular Tibetan songs promoting these views. Jason J then proceeded to explicitly link hip-hop and zurza, the first of my interlocutors to do so. This is what makes his lyrics stand out. He illustrates this with the first two lines of the third verse, pointing out that they reference two famous modernist poems by the iconoclast Dondrup Jya (introduced in chapter 2):
I haven’t seen the waterfall-like youth,
I haven’t seen the wildly beating heart.
རྦབ་ཆུ་བཞིན་གྱི་ལང་ཚོའི་རྣམ་པ་དེ་ངས་མ་མཐོང་།
དྲག་ཏུ་མཆོང་ལྡིང་བྱེད་བཞིན་པའི་སྙིང་དེ་ངས་མ་མཐོང་།
In the first of these lines, the rapper invokes and inverts the language Dondrup Jya’s seminal poem, “The Waterfall of Youth.” Regularly recited at Tibetan cultural events and memorized in some schools, the poem remains one of the most iconic and recognizable contemporary Tibetan poems. The second line is a reference to another of Dondrup Jya’s poems, entitled “There Is a Wildly Beating Living Heart Here.” Both poems are renowned for constructing a vision of Tibet’s modern present and future through radically breaking with its past (Shakya 2001, 37). With tremendous communicative economy, the mere mention of these poems metonymically refers to the broader Tibetan modernist movement, of which Dondrup Jya remains one of the most iconic figures. Through inverting the titles into negatives, the artist “does zurza” on the modernist view, saying that he hasn’t seen the future that these poems promise.
Instead of directly stating his opposition to the modernist perspective, Jason J inverts the poem titles to create an indirect critique of the broader epistemic positions for which they stand. At the same time, the reference to the titles is far more person-specific than the literary or comedic critiques of the first few decades of the post-Mao period. Traditional zurza builds on and inverts the words of others to articulate humorous critiques (as seen in chapter 1), and Jason J’s use of a more specific one here suggests the persistence of a folk understanding of zurza in Amdo, rooted in both indirection and targeting specific and identifiable people and ideas rather than generalized behaviors.
Instead of the failed promise of a radical break with traditions, Jason J uses the lines immediately following to encourage Tibetans to learn and pass on their linguistic and cultural traditions in the modern era.
Brothers and sisters!
Cherish well our brilliant ancestors’ glory,
diligently study their completely beautiful cultural heritage,
listen to the heartfelt advice I am singing and keep it in mind.
ན་ཟླ་ཚོ།
འོད་དུ་འཚེར་བའི་མེས་པོའི་གཟི་བརྗིད་ལེགས་པོར་གཅེས།
རབ་ཏུ་མཛེས་པའི་ཤུལ་བཞག་རིག་གནས་ཧུར་ཀྱིས་སྦྱོང་།
ཁོ་བོས་བླངས་པའི་སྙིང་གཏམ་དམར་པོ་དེ་རྣ་བས་ཉན་དེ་སེམས་ལ་ཉོར་དང་།
The remainder of the final verse references uniquely Tibetan ways of understanding and engaging with the world. His statements about auspiciousness and fortune reference traditional routes of creating auspicious circumstances through speech. Phrases like “Kisoso! May the gods be victorious,” meanwhile, recall mountaintop rituals for local deities who protect the village from misfortune; the words of the refrain repeated again and again return the listener to the Gesar epic—ritual and narrative. The forms that Jason J proffers cover the range of the Tibetan expressive traditions to include ways of being and knowing the world. Importantly—and perhaps prudently, given the restrictions on religious expression in popular media—it would seem to include vernacular religious traditions outside of institutional religion but also only tangential to the state’s heritage regime.4
In promoting the protection of traditions and advocating for ethnic unity (based around the traditional chol kha sum idea of the three ethnolinguistic regions of Amdo, Kham, and Ü-Tsang), “Alalamo” promotes similar goals as Uncle Buddhist’s hits “Tsampa” and “City Tibetans.” Jason J’s indirect (but clear) critique of the modernity promoted by Tibetan cultural producers in previous decades of the post-Mao era is more than a mere hidden transcript. If it is resistant, it is resistant not to the state but to the earlier generation of producers and their overwhelming focus on modernization.
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Jason J and Uncle Buddhist are a study in contrast. Unlike Uncle Buddhist, whose urban upbringing and elite education at the Contemporary Music Academy in Beijing have influenced his development as an artist, Jason J grew up in the pastoral areas of Tsekhog (Ch. Zeku) County, studied hospitality management in university, and is a self-taught rap artist. Whereas Uncle Buddhist only learned Tibetan for his album, Jason J grew up in a Tibetan-speaking environment and received a bilingual education in a prefecture renowned for its emphasis on Tibetan-language cultural production. This contrast extends even to their appearances, with Jason J’s slight frame and short hair making him less conspicuous than the dreadlocked Uncle Buddhist. These contrasts appear in their music too: Uncle Buddhist delivers his lines with force, sometimes racing from one to the next, whereas Jason J takes his time. The latter’s music videos are less cinematic than Uncle Buddhist’s multimedia storytelling, and his lyrics use zurza to critique previous generations of Tibetan intellectuals, while Uncle Buddhist’s form more of a hidden transcript resistant to state discourses.
But despite their myriad differences, both converge in using hip-hop to promote ethnic unity as well as the protection and maintenance of Tibetan languages and traditions in the twenty-first century. Their explicit and implicit reference to the traditional chol kha sum encourages Tibetan audiences to unite around the shared identity of the Bod pa (Tibetan people) as an internally diverse but still unified group. Their passionate defense of Tibetan language and culture in the face of significant political and economic headwinds presents a clarion call for the region’s youth to learn their native tongues and to maintain traditional cultural knowledge.
In doing so, they align themselves with issues that have become increasingly prominent in Amdo’s twenty-first-century cultural production, and especially in music. Uncle Buddhist’s “City Tibetans” takes this issue up explicitly from his own perspective as a Tibetan who has grown up in an urban environment in which a Chinese language—whether Putonghua standard Chinese, Sichuanese, some version of the Qinghai dialect, or the Beijing dialect—is the primary medium of everyday interaction outside the home. At the end of the song, he repeats several times the promise to not stay silent, fading gradually into silence. The emphasis on maintaining cultural traditions in “Alalamo” and on foodways in “Tsampa,” meanwhile, emphasizes the need to continue practicing the most quotidian of traditions at a moment of tremendous change. Importantly, these are often neither institutional religious practices nor those officially recognized as intangible cultural heritage. In doing so, Jason J, Uncle Buddhist, and other Tibetan rappers use this new art form as a form of grassroots language planning (Moriarty and Pietikäinen 2011, 372–75) and as way to support revitalization (Cru 2018, 3) of Tibetan language and culture.
Like the comedies in previous decades that used it to shape popular attitudes, zurza serves as one essential ingredient that helps to simultaneously access new media and authorize a trenchant form of critique. Rap artists in Amdo use it to localize this new art form, and to shape popular attitudes toward Tibetan language and culture. Zurza, then, not only makes content meaningful but also continues to serve as an indigenous resource for cultural localization and innovation in Tibet. But it also changes—or perhaps is changed—at least partly thanks to contact with various media and ideologies, each carrying with them new meanings and expressive expectations.
In the hip-hop examined here, artists still say they are “doing zurza,” but it ceases to be as humorous or playful. Instead, it uses indirection to articulate an (at times) almost angry cultural nationalism directed both at the current conditions of Tibetan life and of the intellectual foundations of Tibetan modernism. The example of Jason J, however, demonstrates that this inversion and indirection also ensures that zurza provides a resource of constant revision and renewal of Tibetan culture in the face of increasing political and economic headwinds.