R94

Bird has to fly, man has to dream. My friend Sergiu and I were close to fulfilling our dream. Monkette Kelsang Namtso was also on the brink of her dream. It happened one autumn morning high in the Himalaya.

Last base before Cho Oyu peak was near the Nangpa La Pass. Some mountain climbers thought that Turquoise Goddess was therefore a less of a challenge. That morning, refugees from Tibet were traveling trough Nangpa Pass.

To Sergiu and me, this morning was about the final test. Snow and ice of Cho Oyu was challenge to us, just because "it was there". We were grateful to Edmund Hillary for putting the essence of mountaineering in this concise sentence. To hundreds of frozen people that we saw as thin thread of hope in the distance, Cho Oyu was the cruel goddess. They prayed to her to let them pass trough Nangpa La.

The climb was exausting. Thin air was draining our energy fast and we didn't bring our oxygen tank. I chiseled ice and glacier retaliated with snow dust that stung at my cheekbones. I was panting into the jacket and marveled at the heat that made me sweat, eight thousand meters high up in the mountains. From above, I could see row of freezing refugees. They snaked down the glacier, trying to find the easiest way to the valley below.

At the last stop, Sergiu was panting like a tired puppy. I manged to smile and pat his back. Though we were exhausted from heights, cold and wind, we felt some kind of magic that was pushing us upwards and onwards. We moved slowly, like in a dream, like in a slow motion. Down there, refugees were moving trough the pass. Little Kelsang cheered her friends and smiled to them, her cheeks all flushed up. Their hearts were pounding, their desire to see Dalai-Lama gave them strenght to fight their way trough the snow. The Spirit was guiding us, The Body just obeyed.

Finally, we advanced step by step, inching towards the top. And then we just climbed to our dream. We made it to the peak! Sergiu removed his hood, we kissed and hugged. Squinting at the sun we enjoyed in quiet ecstasy. I didn't have the strength to scream, nor to laugh, nor to feel happiness.

Then shots echoed trough the valley and filled our universe with dread. We rushed down the cliff, towards our base. Soldiers appeared on the far ridge. They took potshots at refugees, as if they were hunting rats or rabbits. Thin line kept going on, like enthralled. To them, bullets were not important, only their pilgrimage was. Shots were falling closer to the column of people. Sergiu reached the base and grabbed his cam. Refugees broke into run, slow, painfully slow, much slower than the bullets were falling.

Glacier turned red. Young monk-girl Kelsang Namtso dropped to her knees. She looked into the sky and her soul started to ascend to heavens.

As if the wind from Cho Oyu scattered them, refugees split up. Frantic people swamped our base camp. Like a pack of wolves, Chinese soldiers fell on them, picking on those who strayed. I felt anger but I was unable to react. I turned to the mountain peek and felt as if the entire Cho Oyu is standing on my chest. I gasped in the thin Himalayan air, too petrified to cry. Shots kept echoing, glacier was still bleeding.

I couldn't believe what I was witnessing. Pain rose from my guts. Pressure was pounding in my temples. Bowl of sufferance gathered in my central chakra. I wanted to breathe air, to inhale hope, but cries of children and rattle of gunfire cut deeply into my soul.

Base camp Crew were enjoying the autumn day in the mountains. Chinese soldiers were just a nuisance, a minor menace. Mountaineers were having their coffee, lazily milling about. They chose to be invisible to frenzied soldiers. No one helped the fallen man, no one fed the hungry, no one sheltered the hunted.

I found Sergiu, he was giving some biscuits to the kid and showing to refugees how to evade soldiers, how to reach Nepal quickly. I fought trough my pain and horror and I joined Sergiu. Thin thread of hope was was broken, eight of them were lying dead in the snow. Thirty of them were captured by Chinese soldiers and herded across the border, like cattle. Half of them reached the valley, some of them died on the way down.

Day was reaching it's end. But for me it will never pass. Sergiu and me decided to speak up. It was the only way to save our souls and fight back at the doom of Turquoise Goddess.

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Dedicated to Matei Sergiu and Gavan Alexandru, two Romanian climbers who taped the massacre of Nangpa La and forced Chinese government to admit the crime. This story is also dedicated to all those mountaineers that did not 'mind their own business', to those who spoke out and helped Tibetan refugees.

Also, this story is dedicated to monk girl Kelsang Namtso, seventeen years old, who left her body eight thousand meters high up in the Himalaya.