Rinpoche

The attack does not come as a complete surprise. The viciousness of it, however, shocks even the dead.

To the small boy who meditates in a cave above the family camp in the valley, the blurred images of destruction are no clearer today than in the past few weeks. Appearing as they do in sullen darkness, he can’t relate his visions to the brightness of the snow mountains, the deep blue cloudless sky he sees through the mouth of the cave.

When he hears unfamiliar noises outside, he rouses himself from concentration and, curious, quickly dedicates the merit of his meditation that it might benefit all, then moves toward the entrance of the cave. Looking down, his body freezes at a dizzying sight. It is as if the base of the mountain itself is swaying as soldiers move together like a wave rolling left to right, right to left, closer and closer to the yak-hair tents. Facing away from him, the backs of their uniforms are all he can see. Except for the guns. The sun glitters off the metal as he hears a voice in the camp, one he knows well. His father, always the first to sense a disturbance in the field, shouts a high-pitched “Aieeeee!” of warning that is far too late.

As the soldiers stand and take aim, the child bolts from the safety of the cave. He tries to run but slips on shale rocks instead, sliding down on his backside until a boulder stops him. The carnage erupts just as he pulls himself up, so he sees it. Witnesses every drop of blood that splatters, every head that blows apart, every body that jerks when hit by a bullet as if there were invisible strings attaching them to each blast of a gun. It all occurs in horrific slow motion unrelieved by even one breath, yet it takes an unbelievably short period of time – moments – and the silence is sudden, complete. In the beautifully flowered green mountain meadow surrounding their tents, every member of his family, their servants and a few loyal friends all lie bloodied, butchered. The boy cannot move his body; his mind cannot comprehend this experience; no emotion, not even terror, breaks this snapshot of utter destruction. Even the soldiers are still.

From behind him an arm snakes around his waist, a hand tightly covers his mouth, and a voice whispers in his ear, “Shush, shush! Quiet, Rinpoche!” before his resistance to darkness ebbs away and his body sags into unconsciousness.

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