What could Xi Jinping and Steve Jobs have in common? To liken them is surely a stretch?

Maybe not. It’s not just the personal psychologies of two alpha males driven to tightly control all aspects of their mighty enterprises. There are plenty of men who are control freaks, few of whom achieve total command of anything as big.

What these two do share is an extraordinary will to conquer all obstacles, to create new realities, invent new human needs and then establish elaborate processes for meeting needs people didn’t know they had.

Steve Jobs was famous, for as long as he lived, for creating realities, not only getting away with behaviour that in others would be deemed reprehensible or even criminal, but making it a virtue. Only after his death has it become apparent that he would stop at nothing in his quest for a machine that met needs others hadn’t even imagined. Only now is it coming to light that he struck collusive deals with competitors to avoid hiring each other’s staff,  creating an “orderly” labour market in which skilled employees lost their bargaining power. What seemed at the time to be light-bending magic now turns out to be obsessive ruthlessness. 

Xi Jinping has likewise made a seamless whole out of a mess of contradictions, and now offers his customers –the Chinese people- an exemplary model of all that is modern, advanced, civilised, and successful, the fulfilment of the China Dream. He has concentrated power in his hands personally, in order to revitalise a flagging brand, rooting out endemic corruption with a relentlessness that has surprised everyone. At the same time he has persecuted and gaoled competitors, community activists and lawyers, writers and intellectuals who had exposed corruption and rot it causes. Xi Jinping has made it clear that the only corruption that will be exposed and stopped is the corruption he and his inner party attack dogs expose.

Like a new CEO helming a failing corporate conglomerate, he wields the razor in his purge of the boyars, the fiefs and chiefs whose rackets had been untouchable. His weapon in doing so has nothing to do with the law; the courts and the law are at best an afterthought, after his own inner-party Discipline Inspection troops have detained, interrogated and obtained confessions from their targets and those who surrounded them.

The world now looks on, and marvels, as is did for Steve Jobs when Apple could do no wrong, as Xi Jinping cuts away at those who could have stood in the way of his ultimate goal of re-legitimating the Chinese Communist Party by major economic reform. Like Ivan the Awesome (or Terrible as the English say) in a Russia emerging from its Mongol servitude, the enemies close to you are the worst, and first to be purged. Ivan slaughtered the nobility and Xi is on the heels of the new nobility, the princelings of red chip stock who control the huge state owned enterprises (SOEs) that dominate the economy, monopolise the capital market, rely on subsidies, distort prices and exclude competition.

Xi Jinping, like Steve Jobs, is a master of creative destruction, of the core dynamic of capitalism that must destroy as well as create in order to be ready to catch the next great wave. Xi fully understands that China’s basic business model has reached its use-by date. China no longer has an endless supply of cheap labour as its outstanding comparative advantage. Nor can China for much longer finance extraordinary rates of growth by massive capital expenditure on infrastructure by a state that  favours its’ own, the big crony SOEs bulked up by fiat as China’s national champions. That is financed by borrowing from future generations, through the bond market.

Xi understands that China’s global reach for raw materials, and markets for the manufactures of the world’s factory, also means greater scrutiny. Some of the deals that enabled China to not only source oil and other energy supplies but also to own oil fields, for example off the Angola coast, are now being exposed as collaborations between China’s intelligence agencies and its biggest SOEs.[1] Many more such revelations seem likely.

Xi Jinping and Steve Jobs both understood that the time to prepare for the future is now, especially in good times when there are plenty of cash reserves to draw on, rather than wait for the crisis, because then it is too late. China is now post-revolutionary, post-communist and, with the looming curtailment of SOE power, China will become post-socialist; at a time when Xi Jinping has simultaneously revitalised Marxism as a compulsory learning for party cadres, and is purging the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences to ensure strict adherence to Marxist orthodoxy. Only a clear head and strong will can keep this together.

We are witnessing the construction of a new reality. In Chinese, the communist party is literally the public ownership party, and now the party, to preserve its institutionalised power, proposes loosening that direct ownership of the SOE means of production, so private enterprise can dominate. Seldom has a ruling party, deeply entrenched at all levels in power, been so able to renew itself after six decades in power, and maintain its ability to set the dominant discourse. This requires a helmsman who sees beyond the horizon.

Steve Jobs was close to fanatical about Apple, as a corporation, and persuaded investors to stay on for the ride, even when it seemed the company was going nowhere. A major source of his success was his full embrace of outsourcing the actual work of construction of Apple devices to China, to underpaid, overworked staff in rigidly disciplined factory towns wrapped in secrecy. That too has since unravelled. In hindsight, it seems extraordinary that one man could have held together such a global enterprise for so long.

Renewing the legitimacy and thus the power of the Chinese Communist Party is even more extraordinary. Jim O’Neill, former chairman of Goldman Sachs, says “the Chinese Communist Party is essentially the biggest business organisation in the world.”[2] Oddly, that is seldom said outside China, even though the deep mistrust of most Chinese towards the CCP is due to more than endemic corruption, it is a result of the uniquely Chines effusion of enterprise ownership and control. Almost everyone in China knows that effective control of an enterprise is, if anything, more important than legal ownership, and control is in the hands of the party elite.

If the CCP is to remain the world’s biggest business, it must rid itself of the rent seekers whose control is grounded in their negative regulatory power to refuse necessary permits. If China, as a business, is to thrive despite rising incomes, economic slowdown and the “middle-income trap”, the fiefdoms much be rooted out, the enervating licence raj liquidated, and China Inc. must become a lot more like Apple. China must be able to foresee the next big thing, the newest disruptive technology that changes the game, and dominate it. China’s central planners, of whom there are still many, may struggle to discipline a wildly oversupplied steel production industry, but they do have their eyes on the new markets a rising China Inc. can dominate, such as solar panels, nanotech and the dozens of new industries named by the central planners as China’s best chance of staying ahead.

So the current purge of corrupt bosses is not about getting the party out of business, or standing back with a lighter neoliberal governance touch, it is about renewing the party as the greatest business conglomerate of all time. The party will continue to control and profit from what it technically does not own, no longer through franchised rent seeking, but through the more sophisticated and up to date processes of contemporary neoliberal capitalism worldwide. The party will thus remain at the heart of the state it controls, at every level, while giving rein to entrepreneurs able to catch the next disruptive wave, thus ensuring China’s growth and stability. The party-state will not only survive but thrive. The rent seeking of the present phase of primitive accumulation will give way, if Xi Jinping succeeds, to a knowledge economy, intellectual property licencing fees and mass entertainment, as China prospers. The society of the spectacle is arising, and Tibet, as China’s most exotic domestic destination, plays a major part. Tibet is available for consumption, and China’s urban masses are responding, as tourism teaches them how to be a self-made, consuming individual.

If Xi Jinping succeeds, he will be more successful than Steve Jobs, whose reputation and corporation suffered quickly after his death, in part because China found Apple a tempting target to pressure.

But Xi Jinping’s immediate task, before he can move on to making private enterprise, with Chinese characteristics, the dominant driver of the economy, is to clean out the corrupt tigers and flies. Not surprisingly, his team of investigators, the party’s Central Commission for Discipline Inspection are focussing intensely on mining and resource extraction, which have been major opportunities for bribery.

As author of the only book on China’s mining company practices in remote areas, I never imagined the crooked deals would come to light. When my book, Spoiling Tibet: China and Resource Nationalism on the Roof of the World, (Zed Books, London) was published 10 months ago, in October 2013, the dodgy deals were clear, but getting no publicity. The book exposes, for example, how a state owned mining company got China’s central government to shift the mapped boundaries of the primary source, in Tibet, of the Yellow River, to enable it to get at the copper and gold beneath.

Now, less than a year later, story after story of resource extraction, and metals trading, as major opportunities for illicit profiteering pour out of China’s official media, as Xi Jinping proves he is serious about rebuilding the CCP brand.


Gabriel Lafitte






Posted in Tibet | Leave a comment

Neoliberal Tibet and China’s end game



Department of Management, Faculty of Business & Economics, Monash University


Community Identity & Displacement Research Network  Victoria University, Melbourne, 8 July 2014


[this awfully long blog -apologies- builds on the previous blogpost called Milking Tibet, looking closely at how today’s neoliberal China commodifies Tibet, and how Tibetans, led by charismatic khenpos and lamas is responding. So this lengthy blog tries to make sense of the wildly popular ten virtues movement sweeping Tibet, as a way of mobilising Tibetans to stand strong and united, in the face of the seductions and disappointments of China’s hedonic promise of neoliberal wealth accumulation.

If you managed to read the previous blog, you will find some overlap, but actually the further you go, the newer the argument, and a completely different frame for viewing contemporary Tibet]



What do the lamas, khenpos and geshes of Tibet observe when they look out across the vast grassland? Although they are no longer permitted any role in the public sphere, they remain keen observers, alert to the patterns of hopes and disillusionments of the pastoralists, who continue to regard their lamas as precious and trustworthy, even when publicly silent.

To the lamas, all situations are workable, all circumstances changeable and amenable to fresh approaches. Yet everywhere they look, they see Tibetans striving, against the odds, to sustain their livelihoods, despite ever-tightening restrictions. Those who have trained deeply in transforming the mind, routinely imagining themselves as all-accomplishing deities, are undismayed by obstacles; bet everywhere they look they see fellow Tibetans best by obstacles, and defeated, both by statist social engineering from above, and their own habitual confusion, from within.

The experience of most rural Tibetans is that the promise of the market is seldom fulfilled, even though it is normal, in a neoliberal economy, that the state, at a local or higher level, subsidises the construction of infrastructure such as saleyards, feedlots, animal fattening facilities on urban fringes, while also paying for road maintenance and even broadcasting price signals to remote producers. Today’s neoliberal China heavily subsidises the big “national champion” dairy companies that control the fast growing Chinese market for dairy. “According to the central government´s ‘Number 1’ Policy Document of 2013, the government will continue to support the scaling up and consolidation of the livestock industry.  As part of that plan, subsidies will be provided to purchase improved varieties of dairy cows and livestock insurance, and for building standardized farms. Large dairy farms will also be supported through general incen­tives provided by the Ministry of Agriculture (MOA) for large scale farms given MOA’s general bias toward scale, standardization and consolidation as an answer to food safety problems and management of natural resources and environmental concerns.”[1]

All four central ministries with power over the dairy industry in 2014 agreed on a state-directed and financed plan of agglomeration. Caixin reported: “Beijing has vowed to form 10 strong domestic dairy companies by the end of 2018 which combined will account for more than 80 percent of the country’s total market share, according to a document jointly issued by four central government departments. The plan also includes building three to five of the big 10 into leading baby formula providers with annual revenue of more than 5 billion yuan. Both the central and local governments will contribute capital into the initiative to facilitate the consolidation of existing dairy firms, the announcement said.”[2]

The current dominance of a small number of huge corporations in China’s booming dairy industry, assisted by state subsidies, is now typical of the pattern of contemporary Chinese neoliberalism; and a major reason why it is now too late for Tibetan livestock producers to enter the market. The barriers to entry are now formidable, requiring from the outset economies of scale, and an industrialised agribusiness model unavailable, unfamiliar and unattainable by Tibetans. Even if Tibetans were to wholly embrace the prevailing model of animal production in penned feedlots on urban fringes, it would at best provide employment for only a small fraction of the current pastoral population.



When asked why they don’t participate in the market economy, Tibetan pastoralists often say they simply don’t have the surplus to sell. Their production is for subsistence. Herd sizes have shrunk, as has the size of adult yaks, as pastures degrade. Regulatory limits on herd size have been imposed and increasingly policed. In Yushu prefecture, one of the better pastoral districts of the Tibetan Plateau, in 1989 rural families had on average 8.04 yaks per person, 11.72 sheep or 51.92 sheep equivalents if each yak is counted as equivalent to five sheep. This was sufficient to live well, with the poverty line defined as 25 sheep units (SU) per person.[3] However, by 2005, according to official prefectural statistics, the number of animals per person had declined to 3.52 yaks and 7.57 sheep, adding up to 25.17 SU, right on the poverty line.[4] However, when one looks not only at the entire prefecture, a huge area much of which is semi-arid, but county by county, especially in the more densely populated counties which sustain the best quality, well-watered pastures, in Trindu, Yushu and Nangchen counties, by 2005 the number of sheep equivalents per nomadic household member had fallen well below the poverty line to 18.5 in Trindu, 15.7 in Yushu county and 18 in Nangchen. On the basis of detailed fieldwork, Gruschke says: “The 2006-2007 sample survey of Yushu households reveals that less than half of them own enough animals to live above the subsistence level (25SU per person). Between 12% and 20% of rural households did not even own livestock. Almost half of the livestock owners interviewed could not earn any cash from animal products, most of them not even producing enough for their own subsistence.”[5]

This slide into poverty, even extreme poverty and destitution, has many causes; regulatory restrictions on land allocation and herd size being one. Climate change and extreme weather is another, leading to accelerating degradation on the unduly small allocated areas to which pastoralists are restricted. A further factor is population growth. Another factor is the absence of livestock insurance enabling nomads hit by blizzards to access finance to buy new stock, to recover from natural disasters. The descent into poverty happened quickly, at the height of neoliberal China’s market embraced. On Gruschke’s figures, in 1992 the number of animals per rural person was well above the poverty line, in all counties of Yushu prefecture, with even the poorest county sustaining animals per person 30% above the poverty line.

The inevitable result of poverty and destitution is that Tibetan nomad children grow up stunted, starved of adequate nutrients. One of the most recent clinical studies by Chinese scientists shows 37.5% of rural Tibetan children have stunted growth.[6]  Another study found mental retardation rates high among Tibetan rural children.[7] Another recent study found that: “women from minority groups had higher odds of anaemia in contrast with Han,” especially in northern Tibet (Qinghai).[8]



While the pastoralists slide further into poverty, neoliberal China has discovered in Tibet a high-end brand that can be used to market packaged milk to urban Chinese consumers who have adopted milk as a health food, for infants and adults, are terrified, after a succession of scandals, of poisonous milk products sold in China, and have sufficient income for a private solution. The Treasure of Plateau Yak Dairy Co., and its Feifan brand of infant milk powder and Tetrapak whole milk is a case study of how, in today’s China, fortunes can be made, aided by central subsidies, by spending far more on marketing and brand building, than is paid to Tibetans to provide the milk of their dri, sold to China as “yak milk”.

Treasure of Plateau 高原之宝 pays Tibetan pastoralists four yuan per litre[9] of “yak milk” and sells it online, on, for 128 yuan per litre, or far more as infant formula, which sells for 440 to 580 yuan per tin weighing less than a half kilo.[10] This extraordinary mark-up finances a marketing budget aimed at the fears of the urban elite who want to consume milk, safely. It also pays for lobbying central authorities to be one of the small number of companies privileged to emerge as state-financed winners of a compulsory agglomeration,  of intensive mergers and acquisitions designed to not only replace reliance on imports but also to create China’s own team of “national champions” capable of exporting dairy products worldwide. The marketing budget is huge. “Treasure of Plateau has budgeted 100 million yuan from 2008 to 2010 to explore the domestic and international markets. It also hired Shenzhen-based China Winwin Consulting to be its branding and marketing agency to make “Feifan” the name to know when it comes to fresh yak milk products.”[11]

Turning the clean air and honest folk of Tibet into private corporate brand equity, while calling this most private enterprise a blessing for Tibet, does little for Tibet beyond monetising its’ supposed other-worldliness. Far from enabling Tibetan pastoralists to gain entry to the now massive Chinese urban market for whole milk, yoghurt and infant formula, the extreme prices limit Tibetan dairy to luxury items for the super-rich, status symbols not meant for the masses, a brand which would only be cheapened if mass produced.



All of this is evident to the customary leaders of Tibet, the enlightened lamas, khenpos, geshes and wandering ngagpa yogis. Not only are they revered by Tibetans, for their clear-headedness, inspiring leadership and impartiality, if anything, they are trusted more than ever, at a time when it is hard to find Han Chinese who are compassionate towards Tibetans, and trustworthy.

The lamas, even when they must be silent in public, nonetheless see the seductive promise of neoliberal modernity, and its failure to deliver. They see the tilted playing field. They hear the stories of the frustrated pastoralists who have tried to enter the wider market economy, only to be forced to accept a pittance for animals caringly reared for years. They see for themselves the failure of either the social engineering state, or the neoliberal marketplace, to build the most basic infrastructure, such as stockyards to keep animals healthy during the sales process, which would give pastoralists a chance of getting a fair price for their animals.

The nomads who descend into poverty, whose narrowly allocated fenced in lands degrade for want of herd mobility, are the lama’s people, with their loyalty to a specific monastery or a particular lineage of reincarnate lamas that stretches back for generations. If anyone has an intimate, and panoramic understanding of the problems of the red-faced Tibetans of the grasslands (as they traditionally call themselves), it is these traditional protectors of the people and the land, the lamas.

They see all too clearly that the nomads of Tibet have no way forward, and no way back. The way forward, entry into the modern mobility of wage employment in the factories, is blocked, because very few children of nomads, in poor counties with poor schools, complete primary school and qualify to enter one of the limited number of secondary (or junior middle) schools in the towns growing all over Tibet. Even if they make it to junior middle school, they seldom graduate, and those who do then face the overwhelming reality that nearly all employment opportunities require fluency in written and spoken Chinese, which they are not as good at as their Han neighbours. Entry is blocked by the language of the master race, and by the active racism of Han and Hui kin networks originating in the home provinces of the immigrants to Tibet, seizing and monopolising opportunities for wealth accumulation.

All of this is obvious to the lamas, who are seldom unaware of the social dynamics of their people; and even more obvious to the wandering yogis, the ngagpa, who live among the people and see their frustrations every day. The pastoralist parents of children who drop out of school after a few years frequently say their kids no longer have any desire to persist with the hard working life of nomadic pastoral production. They have learned bad habits at school, including the widespread disdain, not only among educated Chinese teachers, but also among Tibetan town dwellers, that nomads are backward. So they cannot go back, and cannot go forward into neoliberal urban modernity.

This has long been known to the lamas, and has long been met with compassion. But compassion, privately expressed when encountering destitute nomads in private is not, in Tibetan tradition, enough. Compassion is traditionally depicted as an energetic, active, masculine quality of an enlightened mind that proactively changes what is changeable. Until now the realm of the changeable has been restricted to the private encounter between the lama and the devotee; because on one the defining features of China’s rule is that lamas are forbidden any role in the public sphere.



What is new is the return of the lamas to the public sphere, most assertively on the fringes of Tibet, in areas where a great revival of transformative mind training has generated a large body of religious practitioners with the skills, strength of mind and courage to publicly guide the pastoralists of Tibet on how to live in a world that offers only the worst of statist command governmentality combined with the more exploitative aspects of neoliberalism.

This is a movement led by khenpos, rather than by lamas who inherit a title and a monastic establishment that the state feels it must regulate. The khenpos are the self-made selfless, whose diligence in study and transformational practice has fruited in an expansive opening to authenticity, in which even the fixations of an obsessively jealous and fearful state can be transcended.

Tibetans are good at recognising those who have awakened to a non-referential, transpersonal, all-inclusive state of being; and rely on them for guidance. Tibetans have had plenty of experience discerning who, whether recognised by title or not, has actually awakened to the nature of reality; and then trusting the non-deceitful ones. They have also much experience of the wannabes and pretenders, discerning the personal neediness persisting behind the spiritual façade. Knowing who to trust, the bond of trust is strong. The khenpos fulfil the highest of human needs, for self-actualisation. Not only does this give them remarkable energy, capability and fluidity; it awakens the minds of others, mobilising collective energies willing to stand up the full repressiveness of the state if necessary; while more usually flowing round the obstacles generated by suspicious official minds, like water.

The result is “the largest centre of Buddhist studies in the world”[12] on a remote hillside of eastern Tibet, the epicentre of a new movement providing public guidance to the millions of Tibetan pastoralists. This is Larung Gar, or more formally the Larung Five Sciences Buddhist Academy, of Kandze prefecture in upland Sichuan.[13] Despite its size, and success in transmitting inner realisation, and 35 year history, Larung Gar attracts little attention. A rare exception is an evocative photo essay by Frederic Lemalet in the geographical magazine of April 2012[14]. That low key may be as its’ khenpos want it, in keeping with its designation as a gar, an encampment, suggesting something provisional, rather than the institutionalised monastic Buddhism the Communist Party finds such a threat.

Larung Gar is an engine of enlightenment, inspiring and insisting on the intensive meditational practice and study that reconditions the human person. Such centres of renewal are many in Tibetan history, as famous monasteries, founded by charismatic lamas, succumb to routine; and new centres of profound insight into the nature of mind grow elsewhere. The number of practitioners, and their energy in mobilising Tibetan society, suggests it is no exaggeration to call obscure Larung Gar the largest Buddhist study and practice centre in the world.

The founder of Larung Gar, Khenpo Jigme Phuntsok, often simply called Khenpo Jikphun, is widely recognised across Tibet as a great reinvigorator of Buddhist practice, and its relevance to daily life, and the problems of living in a new world where the attractions of neoliberal modernity are enmeshed with Chinese characteristics. Khenpo Jikphun created his enterprise in the 1980s, a time when China, appalled by the Cultural Revolution, showed much greater respect for Tibetan language and culture than now. Premier Hu Yaobang, while touring Tibet, went as far as to order Han Chinese cadres stationed in Tibet to learn Tibetan, a command that was never implemented. It was a propitious moment for a renewal movement for Tibetans seeking to rediscover the repressed, not just as culture, tradition, doctrine and ritual, but as a deeply transformative inner journey to experience in fully embodied ways the nature of reality, of mind and of the phenomenal world. Here, Tibetans discovered, the full path to enlightenment could be practiced, under the skilful guidance of Khenpo Jikphun, who himself had spent the barren Cultural Revolution years taking the path of full awakening to its full fruition. His RigpaWiki page says: “During the time of the Chinese invasion and occupation of Tibet, starting in 1950, Khenpo withdrew increasingly from normal monastic life until in 1959 he took to the remote mountains, herding a small flock of goats and sheep. There, for the next twenty years, he secretly engaged in meditation and occasionally taught small numbers of disciples, often basing his instructions on the Seven Treasures of Longchenpa. Throughout this time, he was able, through legendary exploits and means, to elude the Chinese authorities.”[15] The Rywiki entry says: “1960-1980. Khenpo Jigme Phuntsok evades the People’s Liberation Army, the Red Guard and Chinese authorities by wandering as a goat herder and nomad in the remote valleys of Serthar in eastern Tibet. During these years, he continued to practice mediation, write commentaries on Buddhist philosophical texts, as well as informally transmit teachings to students. In Kham, stories abound today of Khenpo Jigme Phuntsok’s miraculous abilities to evade capture during this period.”[16]

Such renewals have happened many times in Tibet, perhaps the best known being the Rimé movement of the mid-19th century. After the cultural revolutionary war against everything old, including Tibetan Buddhism in its entirety, many Tibetans yearned not just for the performative aspects of Buddhist ritual, but for the inward path of discovering, and experiencing, the source of consciousness. The popular biographies of great lamas and yogis constantly emphasize the value of putting all else aside, if one finds an authentic, trustworthy, undeceitful teacher, to go to wherever the teacher resides, however far it may be, whatever the hardships, to receive the whispered oral transmissions that nudge the meditation practitioner beyond concepts and into utter authenticity. Tibetans did make the journey, from all over the Tibetan Plateau, to remote Larung Gar in Serthar County, where they built simple wooden retreat huts for basic shelter while doing intensive mind training practice under the supervision of Khenpo Jikphun.

“In 1987, Khenpo led over 10,000 Tibetan monks on a pilgrimage to Mt. Wutai in Shanxi Province. This particular pilgrimage created a spectacular scene. Crowds of Chinese pilgrims and onlookers tagged along. Upon returning to Serthar, Khenpo and the monks found that a large number of Han Chinese lay and monastic practitioners then followed them into the mountains of Kham.”[17]

Shortly after his death, in 2004, the current Dalai Lama wrote of him:

Even amidst the oppressive darkness of the five degenerations,

You perfected your study, contemplation and meditation on all the outer and inner pitakas, and countless scriptures,

Reached the highest experience and realization of their meaning,

And stood out, as the supreme holder of the definitive teachings.

When the fierce winds of change blew with unbearable intensity,

Your determination and resolve remained steadfast like the king of mountains,

And those in saffron robes, upholders of the three trainings,

And devoted followers in their thousands, flocked around you.”[18]

The impact on Tibetan Buddhism of the fierce winds of revolution is expressed by scholar David Germano: “The body of Tibet herself was stripped of its web of stupas, temples, and other architectural markers, and even the memories of her sacred caves, groves, and mountains were at times eradicated through the human loss. The bodies of religious Tibet were sacrificed and resacrificed on multiple fronts for a three­decade period which resulted in the literal deconstruction of an entire civilization.”[19]

Not only did the Dalai Lama deeply appreciate Khenpo Jikphun’s ceaseless successful transmission of the inner meanings of Buddhist practice; there was a strong link between the previous Dalai Lama and the previous incarnation of Khenpo Jikphun, Terton Sogyal, which is explored at length in a 2014 English language biography of the Terton, or treasure finder.[20]



The English speaking world seems to have barely noticed Khenpo Jikphun and the biggest contemporary centre of Buddhist learning and practice in the world, his creation. The nature of his achievement is evident in the large number of khenpos who graduated from Larung Gar, now revitalising Buddhist practice all over Tibet, strengthening minds and resisting the seductions of neoliberal China. What is less evident is how Khenpo Jikphun achieved what he did, and how his lasting legacy, including the campaign to refrain from sending yaks to slaughter, in the neoliberal market, originates in his decades at Larung Gar.

The only aspect of the Larung Gar story that was widely reported was the spasm of state sponsored destruction ordered by provincial authorities on belatedly discovering, to their great alarm, the number of sincere Han Chinese disciples, monks and nuns, who came to Larung Gar to pursue undistracted the 24/7 inner life of the practitioner on the path of liberation. There were bursts of repression, with the first and worst in 2001 in which most of the monastics were expelled and their retreat huts, laboriously built of timbers from nearby forests, were destroyed. Significantly, the first residential quarters to be demolished were the Han Chinese practitioners.[21]  In the eyes of officials, the feudally superstitious Tibetan religion was barely tolerable when practiced by Tibetans, but when it also infected Han Chinese the transmission of disease into the home population became intolerable. Thus put, it is hardly surprising that the wave of destruction of 2001 occurred, with further crackdowns in 2002 and 2004.

The repression fitted well with the standard Tibetan exile narrative of loss, destruction, Tibetan voicelessness and victimhood; and was widely reported. A 2014 Google search for Larung Gar mostly brings back reports from 2001.

Yet in 2014 Larung Gar is flourishing, and is as big, if not bigger than ever; a fact exile Tibetans ignore. Tibetan victimhood is at the core of the exile narrative of their homeland; inner strength is not. Larung Gar survived both the pogrom and, in 2004, the death of Khenpo Jikphun, because of its inner strengths; the same inner resources that led to its initial success. David Germano calls this re-membering the dismembered body of Tibet. Germano’s observations of Larung Gar in the early 1990s seem as true over 20 years later: “Here the sacred landscape of Tibet was being revived in the radical way that only Ter [recovered hidden treasures] can, and religious energy thus appeared centripetal in marked contrast to the alienated state in which institutionalized Buddhism finds itself in many parts of Tibet. Khenpo Jikphun has created a significant countermovement re-establishing the center of gravity within Tibet herself, thereby stemming the flow of authority and value toward Chinese modernity, on the one hand, and refugee Tibetan communities, on the other. He has constellated Tibet’s fragmented cultural energy around him, reinvested it in the Tibetan physical and imaginal landscape, directly relinked the contemporary situation with Tibet’s past, and thus in a major way reconstituted Tibetan identity within the realities of life in the contemporary People’s Republic of China, thus reinvigorating Tibetan pride, self-confidence, and sense of purpose.”[22]



A closer look at Larung Gar’s initial decades suggest that what is actually remarkable is not that the Chinese Communist Party felt threatened in 2001 and demolished most of Larung Gar, but that it took so long for the CCP’s fears to boil. By 2001, Larung Gar had run two decades of highly structured, disciplined, intensive, intimately supervised training of thousands of monks and nuns, generating a huge number of new khenpos who were spreading across Tibet, and into lowland China.

Khenpo Jikphun, in those decades, had not only led pilgrimage to Wutai Shan, deep in inland northern China, but also went very publicly to Beijing, had extensive dealings with the Panchen Lama and had his institute officially certified by the Panchen; he had been to Nepal and India, had meetings with the Dalai Lama, and toured north America, Europe and Japan. Any or all of these activities could have been considered transgressive, especially by today’s standards, which are much less tolerant than China’s stance of the 1980s. Yet Khenpo Jikphun, through forced of personality, managed to stare down nervous local officials, and always tested the limits of official restrictions on public religion.

From the outset, he ran a highly disciplined operation that gave everyone clear messages as to what was acceptable, and how to deal with the legacy of the Cultural Revolution, when many monastics had no choice but to denounce their fellow religious, take up lay life, marry, and earn a living irrespective of the long term consequences.

He dealt with the traumatic legacy of the chaotic Cultural Revolution decade with a clear policy of truth and reconciliation, enabling many who were burdened with regret at broken vows to decisively put the past behind them. “For those practitioners who broke their monastic and tantric vows during the Cultural Revolution (such as vows of celibacy, respect for religious structures and reverence for one’s master), if the corruption was not too severe as to be beyond restoration, he instructed the performance of appropriate rituals for renewing vows.”[23] This purified the minds of individuals burdened by post-traumatic stress, and purified Buddhism generally, to be capable of moving on. The enduring legacy was an abiding concern with discerning good and ill in the compulsions and corruptions of the times, among individuals and at the behest of the state.

From the outset, at Larung Gar it was forbidden to smoke or drink alcohol.[24] Lax students, gossips and those with grudges were also forbidden. Every student was required to have a “yellow book” in which disciplinary infractions as well as academic progress was recorded. He asked of his Chinese followers that they learn Tibetan, and Tibetans were encouraged to learn Chinese, as both are languages rich in the texts of the Buddha dharma.

The window for re-establishing the inner path was a rare moment, but much yearned for by Tibetans who wanted nothing in life but to go within, under skilful supervision. Germano reminds us: “there remains a deep, abiding cultural depression among Tibetans, from the educated youth and religious elite to nomads and villagers. In particular, one constantly encounters feelings of alienation and inadequacy among religious practitioners and communities. There is a pervasive feeling, articulated by young people with serious religious or intellectual interests, such as lay scholars educated at the Dawu Nationalities Institute in Kham, that their religious and intellectual as well as political situation is hopeless, given the continuing Chinese cultural and political onslaught.” The way out was the creation of Larung Gar.

The current popular movement to withhold yaks, sheep and goats from the abattoir; to ask lay people individually and as villages, to vow to give up fighting, drinking, whoring and other social evils, all originate in the early years of Larung Gar, when a charismatic Khenpo, in his most generative years, seized what turned out to be a unique moment for reasserting the value of intensive mind training.

In his wrathfully compassionate way, he faced both his Tibetan and Chinese critics head on. He refused to legitimate Beijing’s choice of a Tibetan boy to be declared the reincarnation of the Panchen Lama who had died in 1989; arguing “that in order to recognise a lama one must have attained a higher degree of spiritual realisation than that lama. Furthermore, he said that he was incapable of recognising any lama, and he had never recognised even a single lama in his entire life.”[25] This impeccable logic is classic Tibetan disingenuity, deftly wielding the weapons of the humble yet indomitable. Khenpo Jikphun not only refused to play the game of validating reincarnate lamas, he had a reformer’s scepticism as to the quality of many declared reincarnate tulkus, saying bluntly: “Today we have a surfeit of tulkus. Earlier, the progeny of lamas and aristocrats used to be tulkus. Today the rich and the white people are tulkus. They may recognize their robes and rosaries from previous lives, but the inner qualities have slipped their memory.”[26] Such critiques invited his audience to perceive for themselves the khenpo’s inner qualities, which were not wanting.

His advocacy for animal rights, in the face of China’s neoliberal market economy, likewise had early origins, and became a major theme of his teachings. Recent articles about “the slaughter renunciation movement” tend to treat his concern for all sentient beings as a political move to consolidate Tibetan identity in opposition to Chinese market modernity; or as a doctrinal innovation in which a progressive and a traditionalist outlook are somehow in tension.[27] But Khenpo Jikphun exhorted lay followers to abandon the wearing of furs several years before the Dalai Lama bluntly said the same; and argued not only for refraining from slaughter but actively saving the lives of animals as a daily practice. In 1997 his resolve on this issue was renewed when, in a dream, he met his teacher, who commended him for his desire to save animals, and blessed him with an intimate touching of foreheads. “From that day the Chosje [Jikphun] stepped up his call to liberate a greater number of animals through his wide retinue of disciples, spanning across the globe.”[28]

Khenpo Jikphun and his successors crystallised these concerns into ten vows that could be taken by lay Tibetans, to refrain from stealing, using knives or guns in fights, whoring, selling guns or drugs, smoking drugs or cigarettes, drinking any alcohol, gambling, hunting, and wearing animal fur. But at the head of this list of social evils was: “Not to sell for slaughter: One should not sell horses, cattle, sheep or dogs to be butchered.”[29]

This became a social movement, a popular cause in which his code of contemporary virtues became the lyrics of pop songs and videos, some graphically depicting animal slaughter. He dwelt at length on the specifics of what, on TV news worldwide, is invariably edited out or fuzzed: the specific methods in common use of taking Tibetan animals to the slaughterhouse, and the actual casual brutality of their deaths. He asked audiences accustomed to imaginatively visualising themselves as deities, to imagine the suffering of beasts treated as commodities.

None of this, or the list of ten contemporary virtues, is unique, or even unusual in Tibetan tradition. The lamas are always pushing their hearers to be more considerate, less hot-headed and quick to quarrel, more co-operative and thoughtful, less vain and acquisitive. There is always a tension between the direction the lamas nudge their people, and the abiding human desire to grab fleeting pleasures as opportunity arises. Tibetans in Tibet (in contrast to exile) revere their lamas, perhaps today more than ever, yet don’t always follow their advice.

Khenpo Jikphun’s advocacy of withholding herd animals from the abattoir, and his full list of ten nonvirtue to abstain from, and also his inclusive, non-sectarian inclusion  of all Tibetan religious schools; all have plenty of precedent. One of the most famous 19th century lamas, Shabkar, constantly urged anyone who would listen, as he travelled all over Tibet, to go vegetarian.[30] The practice of saving specific animals for life, buying them as a virtuous act so animals thus marked could live out their days on the pasture, is an old merit-making practice among Tibetans who could afford to do so. New media now make this practice universal.[31]

Khenpo Jikphun gave teachings every morning at Larung Gar, ranging widely and deeply into many topics, including the practical reasons for withholding animals from slaughter, and for his advocacy of a vegetarian diet. His reasoning, based not only on classic Buddhist logic but also on a close reading of the workings of the actual market, were later gathered in publications that circulated widely across Tibet. In these and in further publications by his successor khenpos, his exegetes, much space is given to common sense arguments, taken from direct observation of daily life, in support of taking the vows of the ten virtues. He observes the workings of the neoliberal market economy as inimically unfavourable not only to herd animals but equally to their herders. These observations underscore his alternative, which is retention of the customary moral economy, both in the sense used by James Scott, signifying a use economy of bare subsistence, in which poverty is always close; and in the sense used recently by several economists calling for a return to small-scale organic eco-agriculture to replace the large scale industrial agribusiness exchange economy that is entering Tibet, with Chinese characteristics.



Khenpo Jikphun and other khenpos now leading the renewal movement originating at Larung Gar, identify many aspects of the ways Tibetan primary producers lose by entering the neoliberal market. In 1999, noting the sudden cessation of logging of Tibetan forests,  by orders from Beijing, after disastrous flooding downstream, Khenpo Jikphun writes: “The trucks that earlier transported wood are now ferrying cattle to the abattoirs. If things go on as at present, the size of Tibet’s livestock will be reduced so drastically that the nomads will be deprived of their only source of livelihood.”[32]

This is not just an arithmetic observation on the balance between fields on the hoof versus offtake turnoff rates; it is also an argument for the use economy in which wealth is measured by how many animals remain alive on the pasture, rather than the yardstick of success being the number sold as commodities to be converted as fast as possible to meat. Not only is this an argument for the use economy rather than the modern exchange economy, it also valorises the pastoralist’s understanding that to nomadize is to live in a risky, uncertain environment, in a land of unpredictable extremes of weather, in which recovery from disaster depends on having plenty of remaining animals on the hoof, even if many die in a blizzard or starve in an exceptionally long winter.

Chinese economists, official Chinese Animal Husbandry Bureaus and Western academics all assume the pastoralists are irrational, backward and stubbornly premodern for seeing animals on the hoof as their sole nor, or wealth, capital, collateral, dowry and social security. “The state is irritated when herders don’t slaughter their yaks for spiritual reasons. It is very common for many government officials, including some Tibetans, to say that Tibetan herders are very irrational for keeping so many yaks instead of selling them to improve their living conditions and educate their children.”[33] Gayley, a religious studies scholar, perhaps unfamiliar with pastoralist survival strategies, is similarly sceptical about Khenpo Jikphun’s “premodern” concern to maintain the national herd, “whether or not his assessment holds up to scrutiny.”[34]

Khenpo Jikphun monitored all aspects of the neoliberal animal commodity economy as it operates in Tibet. In a video of his teachings, he says: “from a this-worldly perspective, the business involved with killing will never bring economic improvement. I personally have never seen any middlemen, who do the livestock trading business between Tibetan pastoral areas and nearby Chinese cities, make money from their sinful business. I saw many slaughterhouses in Tibet that have slaughtered millions of livestock for many years go bankrupt one after another.”[35]

Can this really be true, or is it the prejudice of a premodern preacher, predisposed to assume wrongdoers will come to no good? Trucking livestock, on bad roads, long distances to markets that have no infrastructure for animal welfare, still less for spelling and fattening animals prior to sale and slaughter may well debase the value of the animals thus commoditised. The logic of China’s plans for meat production all centre on intensification, which means centralising the last weeks of an animal’s life in a peri-urban feedlot, as in rich countries, fed where necessary on soybeans imported from the US, and hay imported from Australia or the US. In wealthier parts of China this is already happening, making global soybean prices soar due to Chinese demand outstripping supply.

By comparison, the kind of livestock marketing Khenpo Jikphun witnessed is small-scale, amateur, inefficient, and even deleterious to the quality of yaks as meat about to “come out” into the market. It is a primitive mode of accumulation, a step away from the moral economy of subsistence but far from a full step into the machinery of commoditised meat production that China aims for. It is the worst of both; it is ramalug, literally “neither sheep nor goat”, a common metaphor for Tibetans who compromise the purity and expressiveness of Tibetan language by sprinkling Chinese through it.



It may well be that Tibetans and Chinese Muslims (Hui) who truck livestock to market towns seldom make money and eventually go broke. That is what happened in the 1980s to the attempts to add value to the wool of China’s vast rangelands, from Inner Mongolia, the Tibetan Plateau, Xinjiang and elsewhere. In that first decade of opening to neoliberalism, every pastoral county saw its opportunity to add value to the raw greasy wool produced by the pastoralists administered by the local government. County governments, free at last to establish their own Township and Village Enterprises (TVEs) as part of Deng Xiaoping’s opening of the economy, rushed to build wool scouring plants, to clean and add value to wool, in the expectation of selling at a profit to the woollen mills in the boom coastal cities, especially in Shanghai.

Sheep and goat wools seemed ideal commodities for local governments to enter the market economy and get rich. But every grassland county was in competition with every other. The only business plan was to buy as much wool as possible, clean it, and sell to the Shanghai mills. There was little understanding, in remote provinces, that the Shanghai woollen mills could source wool globally, and could switch between wool and synthetics, or blends of both. The county level scouring plants were greedily built to handle more than the wool output the county could command, setting off a price competition as county scours competed to bulk up their inputs, in the short term a great deal for pastoralists who had no prior experience of their wool being competitive and in high demand.

But the over-capitalised and excessively ambitious raw wool processing plants found themselves squeezed, by rising input costs, the cost of servicing the loans they had taken to build their excessively big plants, and  by the woollen mills demanding prices (and quality) competitive with what they could buy from Australia. The scouring plants, rather than raising quality to match the standardised quality of imports, actually cut corners, to increase the weight of wool bales, by deliberately adding stones to weight them down. The woollen mills were furious, and stopped buying inland wool; a classic early case of China’s neoliberal turn creating such grasping at primitive accumulation that the county and township level TVE wool scouring plants nearly all went broke, in what economists call the “wool wars”. Local protectionism and greed led to collapse and failure. But the cadres still had their jobs and their state guaranteed wages; and could even make their debts the problem of the lending banks.  The pastoralists had no such impunity, and went quickly from being in unprecedented demand to their wool being classified as low grade, suitable only for felt making, no longer of any interest to the woollen mills, which turned to Australian, New Zealand and elsewhere instead.

Kazakh, Uighur, Mongol and Tibetan wool growers in China could find markets in Britain, the US and Germany a century ago. Today’s dynamic China could have created a world class industry by now that not only encouraged greater quantity and quality of wool production, but manufactured Chinese wool into top quality, premium priced export market garments. This is what one might expect, since China is the world’s factory, is especially dominant in textiles and clothing manufacture, even to the extent of driving many third world textile industries bankrupt in recent years. This is also what one might expect given China’s genius for nurturing industries and corporations, with state ownership and support, into national champions capable of playing on the global stage.

There has been little attempt, in the past 50 years, to improve the quality of Chinese wool, that has had lasting results. China today has the biggest number of sheep of any country in the world, is the third largest wool producer in the world,[36] yet the wool it produces is regarded as so inferior that it is used only for the coarsest fabrics. There has been no effort to consistently raise the quality of wool produced by poor herders in a primary industry which by its nature is extensive, using huge areas of land not suited to other productive use.



There is now an almost complete disconnect between Chinese wool and China’s woollen textile manufacturing industry. The woollen mills rely almost entirely on imports of fine wool, especially from Australia, rather than using domestic wool. The most value-added product made from Chinese wool was the Mao jacket, once ubiquitous, now a retro look among the fashion conscious nostalgic for a past in which there was a sense of common purpose, and a shared belief in a future socialist paradise. Mao jackets, PLA military uniforms and blankets were all made from wool produced by the upland remote poor, and woollen mills were built in Xinjiang, Gansu and Inner Mongolia to be close to the source of supply. Today nearly all these mills have closed, unable to compete with the more profitable coastal mills reliant on imported wool. [37]

The decline and fall of improvement to Chinese wool is a sad story of repeated state failure, market failure, misguided policy and decades of neglect of the remote upland poor, locked out of global markets since the early 1950s, who were never given the education, training and access to credit enabling them to improve the quality of their wool.

The exclusion of wool growers from the global success of China’s wool industry is dramatically illustrated by comparing the two natural fibres which are the basis of China’s global dominance of the clothing industry, as the world’s factory. If we compare wool and cotton we see a sharp divergence in the connections between domestic suppliers and manufacturers. In the decade to 2005 China’s cotton production steadily increased from around 4 million tons to the present 6 million tons. Imports have fluctuated, sometimes dropping to only 0.12 million tons in 2002, but generally were around 0.6 million tons. Thus China was over 90% self-sufficient in cotton, right up to the ending of the global multi-fibre agreement, which removed quotas that had been allocated to competing third world manufacturing countries, and China’s cotton requirements shot up. In 2005 and 2006 China used over 10 million tons of cotton a year and imported more, with a self-reliance of around 60%.[38]

By contrast, despite the size of China’s sheep herd, self-sufficiency in wool declined to 67% as early as 1982, by 1988 was as low as 52%, and by 1992 down to 43%.[39] On recent figures, Chinese domestic growers produce about half China’s consumption of wool, but imports are dominated by premium priced fine wool, and domestic production is dominated by coarse and semi-fine wool.[40] China paid US$914 million for imported raw wool in 2003.[41] If that amount had been available to domestic growers, they would have capital to invest in fine wool.

The reasons for the comparative health of China’s cotton growing, and decline of wool growing, are not hard to find. The policy of central authorities for decades was to depress the prices of agricultural inputs to industry, so as to concentrate funds within manufacturing industry, for future expansion. This was especially true in established primary industries reliant on small holders, such as wool, rather than newer industries amenable to scaling up to large state farms, such as cotton. This deliberate distortion of the market led to chronic underinvestment in grasslands and wool production, marginalisation of undercapitalised domestic growers, lack of improvement in quality despite rising expectations of woollen mills, and an increased import of fibres. The direct cause-and-effect relations between centrally planned distortions and increased imports are predicted in the modelling of economists Zhang, Lu, Sun, Findlay and Watson.[42] The tragedy of wool is that, at a time when the state was capable of investing in improving domestic wool quality, and grower incomes, it failed to do so; and now the state no longer has the capacity since control is decisively in the hands of privatised woollen mills with no interest in helping domestic growers. Now it is probably too late to improve Chinese domestic wool quality, though the World Bank still hopes to prove otherwise.

How can it be, this remarkable situation of the country with the world’s greatest sheep herd using so little of its own wool in its own woollen cloth mills? This is a story over many years, of consistent exclusion and coercive state control over growers, while the big coastal mills were given help to grow bigger. The story of the exclusion and impoverishment of China’s wool producers has many stages over the decades since they were forbidden, in the 1950s, to sell their wool on to international markets, and had no choice but to sell to the Shanghai mills.

This story has been told succinctly by Zhou Li, Zhang Cungen and Shi Zhaolin, all of the Institute of Agricultural Economics in Beijing, part of the Chinese Academy of Agricultural Sciences.[43] They list the many ways that official policy, over decades, discriminated against wool producers, while favouring the big wool manufacturers. China’s developmentalist state chose to boost manufacturers at great cost to wool growers.

First, in the early revolutionary years, all wool became state property, compulsorily acquired at prices set by the state, to be allocated to woollen mills according to plan. The price set by the state in 1952 was RMB 2080 per ton of wool, and 10 years later it was still only 2,240 RMB per ton. By 1970 the purchasing price rose to 3,000, but over the next 15 years, despite the end of the Cultural Revolution, the return of herds to herders, the introduction of a  “free market”, and great income gains by almost all other farmers, the price of wool rose only to 3730. “The relative prices of State purchased wool in the 1978-1984 period declined year by year and….. the total index of official State prices for farm produce and side-line products increased 53.7% during the 1978-1984 period, but the mixed average price of wool purchased by the State increased by only 9.7%. The real (or relative) price of wool dropped to its lowest level in 1984.”[44] At that very time other farmers, free of state price controls, were booming and leaving poverty behind, while wool growers still had no choice of buyer. As a result, in those areas where both climate and proximity to markets allowed growers to switch, wool growers did switch from wool to mutton, or to other production altogether. Since they had no voice in policy making, their only choice was to change production. But in China’s western hinterland, far from markets and in areas too cold for other production, the herders had no choice but to continue with wool.

The latter half of the 1980s was a turbulent time in China’s domestic wool production industry, with great promise for growers. China’s reform era finally reached the wool growers. Two new policies promised to improve the livelihoods of wool producers, one by increasing prices through genuine market competition through an auction system, the other being wool scouring plants near to wool producers, to add value by supplying woollen mills with clean wool ready to make into yarn.

These two new initiatives could have succeeded, but both failed, because of opposition by powerful vested interests, able to undermine the efforts of central ministries because of their tight hold on wool sales. Initially, the auction system seemed to work, as wool prices rose significantly, aided by the drop in wool production as a response top prices being held down so long. Central ministries, still structured to fulfil central plan quotas of a command economy, competed against each other.


Wool was an industry segmented into three separate layers, each controlled by a different central ministry. Wool production was the responsibility of the Ministry of Agriculture, which failed to invest in the grasslands even sufficient to maintain productivity, or arrest the degradation of the working, heavily grazed rangelands. “In Inner Mongolia, the amount invested per unit area in pasture improvement over the past 30 years [to 1989] has been less than one-seventieth of the value of animal husbandry products per unit area over the same period. As a result, pasture yields in some areas are now less than half of what they were in the 1960s.”[45] Wool manufacture was the responsibility of the Ministry of Textile Industry. Coming between the producers and the manufacturers was a third player, essential to the command economy ideal of efficient allocation of commodities according to requirements, the Ministry of Commerce and its monopolistic Native Products Corporation, and under that the Supply and Marketing Cooperatives, which were not in any sense coops set up by or for growers, but were administrative arms of the state, dictating terms of trade to growers.

The Ministry of Commerce had a monopoly on raw wool through its hierarchy of Supply and Marketing Cooperatives (SMCs) down to county level, as the only buyers in rural production areas. The Ministry of Textile Industry championed the interests of the woollen mills, at that time all state-owned, which sought more direct access to raw wool supplies without having to go through the endless layers of rent seeking administrators of the SMCs at county, then prefectural and then provincial level, each adding their own margins before releasing wool to the mills. It was the Ministry of Textile Industry that promoted auctions, but only a small proportion of China’s large wool clip was ever auctioned, as the SMCs managed to maintain their hold and thwart central plans and grower hopes.

One reason the auctions failed is that wool prices were volatile, soaring between 1985 and 1988, then crashing. 1989 was a year of political turmoil that cut China’s trade, including demand for wool, but many other factors were at work. By 1989 the expensive wool scouring plants located in wool producing areas were in serious trouble, on the brink of collapse, at great cost to growers. The scouring plants seemed like a good idea, part of the reform era, enabling not only cities to industrialise and create wealth, but also rural areas were able to capitalise on their comparative advantage by adding value to local raw commodities. This was the time of Township and Village Enterprises (TVEs), a rural industrialisation policy intended to give the countryside its chance to keep up with the booming urban centres and become rich.

In theory, this was a strategy based on real opportunity, but in practice the opportunities were seized by middlemen yet again, by county level officials who used their new permission from above to borrow money, to build wool scouring plants that were too big for the local supply. Greedily, they expected huge profits, which would be possible simply by paying wool growers a little more than the usual price, including growers beyond their own local government jurisdiction. The business plans looked good, and the state owned banks were obliged to lend, since they were directed to do so from above.

Inevitably, the good idea of some quickly became the same good idea driving all county governments in all wool producing areas. Soon there were too many wool scouring plants, with too little supply to justify the capacity of each plant, all competing against each other. This period is known in China as the “wool wars.”

The wool wars were a disaster for China’s poor wool growers. Just at the time when they had opportunity to increase incomes, and at a time of surging demand by woollen mills rapid expansion, the mills turned decisively away from domestic supply, and became big importers, because of the self-destructive greed of the wool scouring plants operated by county level cadres. In 1978, at the start of the reform period, China imported only 10,000 tons of wool. Ten years later, this had risen 15-fold to 152,000 tons, and in 2004 it was 220,000 tons.  The sudden increase in wool imports was boosted by handsome state subsidies to the woollen mills, to ease the burden of paying more for imported wool. In fact, the subsidy was as much as RMB 5000 per ton of wool in 1986.[46] In that year the average price of domestic Chinese wool was RMB 6000, so this is a massive subsidy.[47] In 1978 China’s wool growers provided 93% of all wool used in China to manufacture woollen goods, but by 1987 domestic growers produced only 59% of what manufacturers used.[48] The long term decline that has so marginalised the wool growers had begun, and gradually worsened.

The khenpos now leading the revival of Tibetan values witnessed these successive failures to include the Tibetan pastoral economy in any meaningful way in China’s fast growing globalised economy. They have understood that the fatal flaw in all Chinese plans for Tibet is the neglect, uninterest and even disdain for what is assumed to be a primitive mode of production, little better than an animal existence trailing after animals as they seek fresh grass. The khenpos have seen the full cycle of Chinese policy towards rural Tibet; from revolutionary productivist enthusiasm for bigger herds, and collectivisation, hoping for more meat production; to neoliberal enthusiasm for premium brand niche marketing of Tibetan produce by brand building Han Chinese entrepreneurs to whom Tibetan producers are at best minor aspects of brand equity. In sixty years, China’s primary lens viewing Tibet has shifted, from productivity to sustainability; yet the current dominance of sustainability narratives leads only to grazing bans, loss of Tibetan land tenure, closing of pastures and the redesignation of rangeland as watershed protection zones in which almost all human activity is officially excluded.



Throughout these successive state failures and market failures, the khenpos have seen Tibetan pastoralists, ever hopeful despite their slide into over-regulated poverty, attracted by the neoliberal promise of wealth accumulation.  Having seen the neoliberal market is rigged against Tibetan primary producers, the khenpos instead urge abstention from slaughter, presenting this as the first of ten virtues that are both traditional and attuned to the dangers of the times. While urging their people to take these vows to abstain from unwholesome activity, the khenpos at the same time urge rural Tibetans to send their children to school, even if the only schools are far, requiring not only junior middle school students to board, away from their families and family enterprises, but even primary age children too must these days leave their families, as schooling is increasingly centralised.

Some observers assume the khenpos are reactionary traditionalists, insisting on old fashioned Tibetanness reified as eternal difference, in an anti-modern rejection of the market, which will only doom rural Tibetans to ongoing poverty. Some even accuse these khenpos of being as unhelpful as the Chinese Communist Party, in sacrificing pastoralists’ market entry opportunities for the sake of a foolishly backwards-looking anti-modern agenda.

Yet the khenpos, and other enlightened leaders trusted by Tibetans, urge parents to send children to school, to gain literacy and numeracy, preferably in Tibetan as well as Chinese, which are essential to finding a place in a fast changing world. Far from being green-brained reactionaries, they read the times, and see all too clearly that China has at no point taken the interests of the Tibetan pastoralists to heart, or even identified what those interests might be.

These charismatic khenpos are realists, attuned to the times. When they sometimes urge pastoralists to not only withhold their livestock from “coming out” to slaughter, but even to renounce eating meat themselves, they do so knowing that the proliferation of Han Chinese market gardens growing vegetables make the vegetarian option viable, for the first time in Tibetan history.[49]

The slaughter renunciation movement, based on acute observation of the dynamics of China’s neoliberal economy, thus offers all Tibetans opportunity to participate in the solidarity and revival of Tibetan values that characterises the self-immolation movement. The reframed ten virtues reassert core Tibetan values as classic Buddhist values, which distinguish Tibetans, mindful of long term consequences, from Han Chinese concerned only with immediate wealth accumulation.

Outside Tibet, the 130 or more Tibetan protest suicides by burning the body have been much misunderstood, as a cry of utter desperation, or protest only at religious repression, or a doomed attempt at provoking a mass uprising. It is also misunderstood as a cry for global help, or greater effort by Tibetans in diaspora. But the primary meaning of the self-immolations, if we attend carefully to what the immolators leave as their last testaments, is none of these: it is a call to fellow Tibetans inside Tibet to remain strong, united, with a strong sense of Tibetan identity and a revalorisation of Tibetan culture, as they only way of maintaining what is valuable about Tibet, at a time of rapid encroachment of neoliberal Chinese characteristics.

The ten virtues of the khenpos, not only the abstentions from harm but also their positive embrace of modern education, are likewise aimed at maintaining Tibetan collective strength, as a people, with a clear sense of difference and purpose in life, determined to stand together. Very few can make the ultimate sacrifice of burning the body; but all can participate in the renewal of Tibetan values and identity as a nation, by taking one or more of the ten vows. The decommodification of animal lives is a revalorisation of Tibetan lives.[50]

All Tibetans now have roles in cultural maintenance, in the face of the encroaching neoliberal economy of China and its seductions. Change is now happening  at a much faster rate than ever before, but it is also piecemeal, incremental change: a new road here, a tunnel there, a comfortable housing scheme here, a milk marketing promise, a new shop handily close by. In these everyday ways mundane modernity advances, always with Chinese characteristics. These advances are usually welcomed by Tibetans, who usually have an optimistic attitude. The railway that brings millions of tourists from Beijing and Shanghai to Lhasa also runs from Lhasa to Beijing and Shanghai, enabling Tibetans, at least in theory, not only access to new sights but new markets.

The longer term consequences of China’s massive capital expenditures on infrastructure over two decades of “leap over” investment, only gradually unfold. A newly reconstructed all-weather highway turns an unpleasant journey of nine hours in a grinding, slow, cold, underpowered bus to the provincial capital, into a two hour, heated journey in a fast modern bus, that makes the remote village and the provincial capital within ready commuting distance.  It becomes quite easy for grandparents with an urban apartment to visit grandchildren, or to swap places, allowing the grandchildren easy access to decent schools not available in villages.

But the converse also applies. A highland town once an arduous journey up from the provincial capital is now only two comfy hours away. Thus Rebkong, a town well known for the quality of its iconographic painters, sculptors and applique thangkas, finds itself caught up in a China-wide real estate boom, with high rise apartment blocks, especially on its northern edge, which is closest to Xining, the city of the Qinghai province. Rebkong’s reputation as a town of artists is commoditised, to advertise a property developer’s plans for an “authentic replica” fantasy version of an “artist’s village” accommodating art-loving Chinese tourists who want all modern comforts.

The inconvenient reality is that just to the north of Rebkong, along the Rongwo valley, there are many old Tibetan villages, and long established small farms, some of which will be displaced for the  authentic replica version.

In some minority ethnicity areas of China, tourism is controlled by local communities, and benefits accrue to their tourism enterprises. They often build replicas of traditional villages, so as to be ready to perform traditional dances and displays when the scheduled busloads arrive, without their actual living spaces being encroached upon. But Tibetans do not have control over how they are represented, how the tourism industry is run, or who runs it. Displacing actual functioning villages for a replica village, owned and run by Han Chinese entrepreneurs for their own benefit, in which Tibetans at best are employed as casual labourers to demonstrate their skills in painting or applique, is yet another loss, in a game stacked against Tibetans.

The everyday encroachment is well captured in a recent book by a Tibetan writer in exile who went back to her family place in Nangchen, a remote and poor area of Kham. Even there neoliberal modernity is everywhere in Tibetan lives: “We have brought a tray of plums, apples and peaches with us. Yungyang pulls out a knife to skin her fruit: she says she knows how to eat it. The Chinese are so clever to make such tasty fruit, she says to me. She sinks her three good teeth into the fruit. Her pupils dilate as her tongue registers the sensation of peach.”

In A Home in Tibet, Tsering Wangmo Dhompa captures the everyday aspects of China’s new hegemonic capacity to remake lives in the image of Chinese hedonic neoliberalism:  “Five decades ago it had taken Tashi close to twenty days to reach Xining on horseback from Kyegu. When jeeps began to cover the same distance in twelve hours, she thought it was by some divine machination. ‘Now I can take a plane from Xining and be in Kyegu in the time it takes me to make bread,’ she says in wonder.”

“Each winter Tibetans flock to the city leaving only a caretaker to mind their homes in snowbound towns and villages….  On cold winter days the elders spend their days in the shopping centres. The new buildings are so toasty, she sighs.

“This is the city Tibetans flock to when their small towns cannot help them: the sick come for surgeries, businessmen replenish their goods, families purchase furniture for new homes, and newlyweds spend a month’s salary to capture their union in glossy photo albums in Xining.”

“China is present in the clothes Kunga wears, the writing on the gates of his school, the language in which he studies. He forgets why the Chinese are in Tibet. He would, he says, prefer it is the Chinese left him alone, but since that is unlikely, he doesn’t see any other recourse available to him but to resign himself to the situation and make the best of it. All afternoon, Kunga reads Don Quixote in Chinese.”[51]

These neoliberal commodifications of Tibetan peaches, milk, art, suit coats and ways of life are now met, not only by the public suicides of Tibetans demanding the solidarity of fellow Tibetans, but also the new ten virtues that aim at decommodifying Tibet, decoupling it from its subaltern position in the neoliberal economy, in which Tibetan culture is available for tourist consumption.

As the khenpos fan out across Tibet, urging pastoralist families and whole villages to take the vows of abstention from the quick pleasures of consumption, there is an increasing felt urgency, in a situation where Tibetan language and culture seem to lack agency and efficacy, while standard Chinese Putonghua becomes the highway to access all that modernity promises. This urgency puts the social pressure of the whole village, and the special status of the khenpos, onto those who struggle to maintain these vows of abstention.

Tibetans now complain, on online chat platforms, that group pressure condemns backsliders who fail to keep vows, and khenpos have been known to bluntly warn that those who infract these lay vows are destined in the next life for the hell realms.

The ten virtues movement expounded by the khenpos has been called traditionalist, anti-modern and even a betrayal of the slender opportunities to pastoralists to gain extra income and enter the modern economy. Now, as coercive social pressures are exerted, taking a whole village to raise the abstemious hedonist, the khenpos are now accused of fascism, of imposing their will on the reluctant masses, in the name of abstract Buddhist versions of the good life, denying individual rights to have fun here and now. The khenpos are seen, often from afar, as anti-modern, anti-development and even as fascist. In the west, with its deep history of suspicion of church as a reactionary presence in the public sphere, dark echoes abound.

In Tibet, there is a sense that the endgame is close. Revolutionary China made war on Tibet, starting in the 1950s, which Tibetans resisted as best they could though ill equipped for modern ruin from aerial bombardment. To the many lay and religious of Tibet who have taken the opportunity of postrevolutionary reform to rebuild traditional inner strengths of Tibetans, and thus the collective strength of the Tibetans as a people, neoliberal China is now far more a threat than the forced marches and artillery of the People’s Liberation Army once were.

Once again, this is now new, especially in the Sino-Tibetan borderlands along the eastern rim of the plateau. Traditionally, these border regions were dotted with massive monasteries, capable of mobilising large number of monks to withstand the pressures of encroaching lowland Chinese armies, Mongol invaders, Muslim warlords and ambitious Qing emperors. Just as the new ten virtues are  new only in the superficial sense of naming contemporary vices, the cultural solidarity movement, embodied by the self-immolators and the vow giving khenpos are not new. Within any Tibetan monastic establishment, solidarity is expected, with a high degree of loyalty to the lama or khenpo. Now the widespread popular trust in those who manifest the inner transformation of realisation of the path within is put to the test, as the endgame draws nigh.






[1] Shefali Sharma and Zhang Rou; China’s Dairy Dilemma: The Evolution and Future Trends

of China’s Dairy Industry; Institute for Agriculture and Trade Policy, February 2014, 17


[3] Daniel Miller, Poverty among Tibetan Nomads in Western China: Profiles of Poverty and Strategies for Poverty Reduction, Paper Prepared for the Tibet Development Symposium: Brandeis University. May 4-6,


[4] Andreas Gruschke;  Tibetan Pastoralists in Transition: Political change and state interventions, in Hermann Kreuzmann ed., Pastoral Practices in High Asia, Springer, 2012, 279

[5] Gruschke 279-80

[6].Dang S1, Yan H, Wang D; Implication of World Health Organization growth standards on estimation of malnutrition in young Chinese children: Two examples from rural western China and the Tibet region. Journal of Child Health Care. 2013 Aug 1

[7] Liu SM1, Wei G, Zhang W, Xiang Y, Huang XQ, Yang C, Huang WJ, Xie WJ, He X, Su XF, Wang J, Ciren P, Bima Z, Ci P, Za S, Liu XH.; Epidemiological survey on neuropsychiatric disorders in Tibet of China: neuroses, alcohol-related disorders, mental retardation and epilepsy; Sichuan Da Xue Xue Bao Yi Xue Ban. 2012 Mar;43(2):210-3, 225.

[8] Pei L1, Ren L, Wang D, Yan H.Assessment of maternal anemia in rural Western China between 2001 and 2005: a two-level logistic regression approach. BMC Public Health. 2013 Apr 19;13:366.

[9]  Profits of yak milk business, China Daily, 4 August 2008,


[11] Profits of yak milk business, China Daily, 4 August 2008,

[12] Matteo Pistono, Fearless in Tibet: The life of the mystic Terton Sogyal, Hay House, 2014, 260

[13] Dan Smyer Yu, The Spread of Tibetan Buddhism in China: Charisma, money, enlightenment; Routledge, 2011, 1-3

[14] Vol 88 #4



[17] Dan Smyer Yu, The Spread of Tibetan Buddhism in China: Charisma, money, enlightenment; Routledge, 2011, 1-3


[19] David Germano, Re-membering the Dismembered Body of Tibet, in  Buddhism in Contemporary Tibet: Religious Revival and Cultural Identity (editors Melvyn Goldstein and Matthew Kapstein);  U California Press, 1998

[20] Matteo Pistono, Fearless in Tibet: The life of the mystic Terton Sogyal, Hay House, 2014

[21] Serta Tsultrim, The Glowing Legacy: A brief history of Chosje Khenpo Jigmey Phuntsok and Serta La-rung Buddhist Institute, Kawa Kharpo Tibet Culture Centre, India, 2009, 79

[22] David Germano, Re-membering the Dismembered Body of Tibet

[23] Serta Tsultrim, The Glowing Legacy, 97

[24] Serta Tsultrim, The Glowing Legacy, 42

[25] Serta Tsultrim, The Glowing Legacy, 125

[26] Serta Tsultrim, The Glowing Legacy, 127

[27] Holly Gayley, Reimagining Buddhist Ethics on the Tibetan Plateau, Journal of Buddhist Ethics 20, 2013, 247-86

[28] Serta Tsultrim, The Glowing Legacy, 120

[29] Gayley, Reimagining Buddhist Ethics, 272

[30] Shabkar, Food of Bodhisattvas: Buddhist Teachings on Abstaining from Meat, Shambhala, 2010


[32] Serta Tsultrim, The Glowing Legacy, 121

Kabzung, 122

[33] Kabzung, Alternative Development on the Tibetan Plateau: The case of the slaughter renunciation movement, PhD dissertation, University of Colorado, 2012, 90

[34] Gayley, Reimagining Buddhist Ethics,257

[35]  Kabzung, Alternative Development, 122

[36] 2006 wool profile, Economist Intelligence Unit, 23 June 2006

[37] John Longworth, Colin Brown and Scott Waldron, Chinese domestic wool production, China Agricultural Economics Group, University of Queensland, 2004, 35

[38] USDA Foreign Agriculture Service, China Cotton and products annual 2006, GAIN Report CH6021

[39] Zhang Xiaohe, Lu Weihguo, Sun Keliang, Christopher Findlay and Andrew Watson, The ‘wool war’ and the ‘cotton chaos’: fibre marketing,  120-143 in Ross Garnaut et al eds., The third revolution in the Chinese countryside, Cambridge University Press, 1996, table 10.10, 136

[40] Longworth, Brown and  Waldron, Chinese domestic wool production, table 2

[41] ITS Global, Economic benefits for Australian wool trade from a China free trade agreement, Australian Wool Innovation, 2005, 11

[42] The ‘wool war’ and the ‘cotton chaos’  125-7 in Garnaut ed., The third revolution in the Chinese countryside.

[43] Zhou Li, Economic development in China’s pastoral regions: Problems and solutions, 43-56 in John Longworth ed., The wool industry in China: Some Chinese perspectives, Inkata Press, Melbourne, 1990

Zhang Cungen, Review of wool production and wool requirements in China, 8-23 in John Longworth ed., The wool industry in China: Some Chinese perspectives, Inkata Press, Melbourne, 1990

Zhang Cungen, An overview of the Chinese wool textile industry,  31-42 in John Longworth ed., The wool industry in China: Some Chinese perspectives, Inkata Press, Melbourne, 1990

Shi Zhaolin, Wool marketing problems in China, 24-30 in John Longworth ed., The wool industry in China: Some Chinese perspectives, Inkata Press, Melbourne, 1990

[44] Zhang Cungen, Review of wool production, 16

[45] Watson, Who won the wool war? 226

[46] Ai Yunhang, Major issues in wool supply and demand in China and the appropriate policies (Wo guo wangmao gong qiu fangmian de zhuyao wenti ji qi duice), Problems of Agricultural Economics (Nongye jingji wenti) #7, 188, 30-34, translated in Watson, Who won the wool war?

[47] Zhang Cungen, Review of wool production, table 7

[48] Andrew Watson, Christopher Findlay and  Du Yintang, Who won the ‘wool war”?: A case study of rural product marketing in China, China Quarterly #118, June 1989, 213-241

[49] Kabzung, 140-1

[50] Emily Yeh, (2013). Blazing Pelts and Burning Passions: Nationalism, Cultural Politics, and Spectacular Decommodification in Tibet. The Journal of Asian Studies, 72, pp 319-344

[51] Tsering Wangmo Dhompa, A Home in Tibet, Penguin India, 2013, 270

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China’s failure to make constructive use of Tibet’s traditional economy is a major tragedy. For decades there was opportunity to build linkages with the Tibetan livestock raising economy and the growing Chinese demand for dairy and animal products. There was ample opportunity, if the Tibetan nomads had been treated as respected actual partners, for a steady growth in production, in value adding, and integration into the wider Chinese economy.

Now that opportunity has passed, and China has declared the nomads redundant, no longer needed for any purpose on their ancestral pastures, neither for conservation of biodiversity, sustainability and watershed protection; nor for their production of butter, wool, skins and meat. The time has passed for such a mutually beneficial integration, which could have demonstrated to the nomads that China did actually care about their welfare, incomes and opportunities, and to provide China with what it now sources from around the world, notably from New Zealand and Australia.

It is now too late, in every sense. No longer would the big global lenders such as World Bank or Asian Development Bank consider lending to enhance China’s domestic supply of animal products from its deep inland. No longer does China wish to be considered as a poor country with poor people in need of special assistance. No longer does China imagine its far interior as a source of protein or productivity. China has decisively passed the Lewis inflection point, its economy growing out of reliance on cheap and plentiful labour, turning instead to imports to meet the demand for urban high fashion products such as yoghurt. China now concentrates its domestic animal protein production on national champions, huge corporations made bigger by central subsidies, that feed their dairy and beef cattle in industrial feedlots, on American soybeans. In every possible way, the vast lands of Tibet remain a relic, China’s past, a premodern, unproductive hinterland of raw nomads roaming with their animals, which were seldom brought out into the market economy.

Industrial strength agribusiness is China’s future, leaving Tibet far behind, surplus to requirements. It matters little whether those agribusiness giants are global multinationals selling to China, or Chinese multinationals operating increasingly on a global scale; because that is no longer a meaningful distinction. The biggest Chinese dairy companies now have global companies as major shareholders, and China’s emerging national champion agribusinesses have global reach, not only in sourcing meat worldwide, but in buying the farms, owning the land worldwide on which China’s food is grown.

Anyone suggesting today that the pastoralists of Tibet could benefit by greater access to China’s urban markets will be laughed at, as three decades too late. If there was a time when Tibet’s comparative advantage as a specialist livestock producer could have been beneficial to both Tibetan producers and Chinese consumers it was in the 1980s and 1990s. In those two decades the market economy boomed, Chinese farmers had their land restored to them, long term land tenure guaranteed, and economic decentralisation gave local governments, at prefectural level and below, greater latitude to experiment with new industries and enterprises based on local specialities. This was the time of the Township and Village Enterprises (TVEs), usually owned and operated by county level officials to add value to local products, finding new markets and greater returns for local communities and their surpluses. While the return of animals and land took longer in Tibet than in lowland China, and the issuing of secure land tenure documents was slow, the conditions were right for mutually beneficial integration of the specialist upland Tibetan economy with the lowland demand for greater consumption.

The 1980s is considered, throughout China, a great turning point, away from the revolutionary command economy, to be driven instead by capitalist opportunity to get rich, led, as Deng Xiaoping famously said, by those best situated to get rich first. Deng opened the economy to capitalist competition, embracing the ideology of neoliberalism, along with its inevitable consequence of today’s extremes of inequality. That has long been a standard narrative, uniting proponents of the market economy and its critics.

Identifying the arrival of neoliberalism in Tibet in the 1980s, Kabzung’s ethnography of Rakhor, one village in eastern Tibet, looks not only at the individual Household Responsibility System that contractually connected the state and the pastoralists, he goes further and identifies the psychological shift in the mentality of the pastoralists under neoliberalism. Kabzung (or Ga’errang, to use the name he is known by among the Han Chinese) names the mental changes inherent in the neoliberal market economy: “It means a complete transformation of their lives internally and externally, a historic transformation of primitive and backward nomads who subsisted on livestock production into market-oriented entrepreneurs.”

Kabzung depicts this as a state-driven project of “reshaping the western regions into a specific cultural landscape, instilling people with certain beliefs, desires and behaviours, replacing traditional spiritual culture with market-oriented, materialized and secularized culture.” He argues that the state persisted in intervening in the nomadic mode of production in “an effort to transfer labourers from pastures to secondary and tertiary industries, encouraging herders to be settled in towns and making their living by other means; at the same time the project encourages the remaining herders to increase their livestock production by modernizing and intensifying the system through grass cultivation, building shelters for livestock and grass storage, constructing roads between the pastures, improving yak breeding, and so forth.”

This is not at all neoliberal governance by markets. The above list of statist interventions in the pastoralists’ mode of production is long, to which Kabzung adds the construction of permanent housing, for which the nomads had to pay half the construction costs, even if it meant going into debt. These interventions were seldom just a menu of options on offer from above, which nomads could choose or ignore. They were mandatory, although implementation was often patchy. This is far from what is usually defined as neoliberalism. The state retains its dirigiste regulatory authority to require pastoralists, in the busiest time of year, the summer production season, to fence, sow, reap, dry and store fodder crops for winter feed, to build overwintering animal shelters etc. Even the road building and road mending which often gave nomads their first off-farm cash income, was usually done in summer.

Yet Kabzung rightly emphasizes the desire of the state to kindle desire in the hearts/minds of its pastoralist subjects, “the production of culturally governable subjects who are materialistic and secular.” This, he argues, is a project of self-fashioning and self-ownership.

yak milk infant formula 1

Yet the state, far from retreating, remains highly interventionist, its Animal Husbandry Bureaux active in social engineering projects all aimed at intensifying livestock production. This can be considered neoliberal, but the command and control economy of the 1960s and 1970s was equally productvist in its ideology, although its methods were different.
The highly centralised pastoral productivism of the 1960s and 1970s, and the decentralised individual pastoral household productivism of the 1980s and beyond both largely failed. Neither the revolutionary coercive model, nor the post-revolutionary incentivised model succeeded in intensifying the raising and slaughter of animals to a rate China wants. Based on modern agribusiness operating procedures, China aims to have half of all sheep and goats driven to market each year, and one quarter of all yaks. If the annual statistical yearbooks of the several pastoral provinces of China are to be believed, slaughter rates have gradually risen, but nowhere near the rates defined as modern and efficient.

In the late 1990s Dan Miller did detailed fieldwork in Nagchu, a nomadic area north of Lhasa. He found that: “Many nomads interviewed indicated that an ideal herd for an average nomad family (about 5 people) would be 40 yaks and 200 sheep/goats. On average, nomads in Taking and Dingo only have about 30 yaks and 50-75 sheep/goats. Much of the nomads’ production is for home consumption. There is little excess for sale.”

Nonetheless, the “come out rate” did gradually increase, to use the term China’s statistical yearbooks use, a direct translation from the Chinese, for what in other countries is called offtake or turnoff, in developed country markets where the exchange economy has become so normalised that the sale of animals for slaughter is naturalised by language suggesting a routine process. Not so in the vast pastoral regions of China, where the desire of the state, both in its revolutionary and neoliberal phases, for intensified production has largely been thwarted by pastoralists for whom animals on the hoof are the only wealth, social security, and insurance against disaster. Animals on the hoof are beyond the scrutiny of the state, hidden by the pastoralists up winding valleys whenever the state seeks to inspect, to make pastoralism scrutable, visible, legible and accountable.

Ever since the communes failed, in the late 1970s, China lost the capacity to enumerate each animal and impose a quota for slaughter. Kabzung, who grew up in Rakhor, the pastoral community that is the focus of his dissertation, says: “The slaughter rate during the commune system was very high. When I was young I observed that the local slaughterhouse had been slaughtering several hundred yaks per day in the fall of every year.” The collapse of the coercive communes meant a new system, with neoliberal incentives for animals to “come out” to market, coupled with command economy directives on mandatory herd size, stocking rates, carrying capacity, fixed land allocation, compulsory fencing and much urging to invest in fodder crop planting and harvesting.
This mix of inducements and incentives, command and market, failed to address the most basic human needs of the pastoralists; especially their need, in a risky environment, to retain capacity to recover herd size after extreme weather events. The combined carrot and stick approach was, as the pastoralists often said, ramalug, meaning neither sheep nor goat, a hybrid that promised individual choice but compelled nomads to plough, far, fence and store crops, at a time of year when all hands are needed to maximise animal production.

yak milk infant formula 2

So the nomads remained, in the eyes of cadres sent from urban Animal Husbandry Bureaux, stubbornly irrational, refusing to adopt a neoliberal market mentality. As Kabzung says: “It is very common for many government officials, including some Tibetans, to say that Tibetan herders are very irrational for keeping so many yaks on their pastures instead of selling them to improve their living conditions and educate their children.” In Tibetan, this is known as being “green-brained”; having a brain so little used that moss grows over it.

However, the pastoralists who did accept the urgings of the state that more animals “come out” quickly discovered that the terms of trade were stacked against therm. A functional neoliberal market requires, at the least, several market access technologies, usually provided by the state, to enable a market economy to operate, starting with roads connecting pastoral sellers with animal buyers. Even when roads exist, Tibet’s pastoralists quickly discovered that if you sell to the Chinese Muslim (Hui) trader who comes to you, you have no choice but to accept his minimal price for animals you have spent years rearing. So the nomads realised they needed trucks of their own, to take their stock to the urban markets, where there are many buyers. Under the neoliberal Household Responsibility System few pastoralist families could afford a truck, but in many areas money was pooled, or one enterprising individual set up a trucking business for the whole community. In these ways, the “green-brained” nomads turned out to be highly adaptable, taking to motorbikes and then trucks, treating them much like horses.

What deterred these entries into the market economy was the actual outcome. Across rural Tibet, few county towns bothered to build stockyards where animals, after transport, could be watered, fed and rested to recover from the journey to market on bad roads. No orderly marketing system was created, nor was animal welfare considered to be part of local government responsibility. So the nomads found themselves in town, with a highly perishable commodity and no facilities for them, facing cartels of Hui buyers who agreed among themselves to offer one low price, and not negotiate. The herders found themselves helpless, again and again, in the face of price fixing collusion and the lack of any sustenance for their animals. They could only sell as price takers, never as price makers. This is what has happened in town after town, repeatedly, all over Tibet.

Ironically, the failure of livestock intensification of slaughter rates to meet China’s expectations has been due not to some stubborn green-brained irrationality, but by state failure to emplace basic market infrastructure, or to understand the need of nomads for maximum herd size as insurance against climate disasters. Far from being irrational, Tibet’s nomads, with their customary flexibility, tried to realise the promise of the neoliberal market economy, and withdrew when it became clear the system was rigged. Kabzung tells of nomads who did intensify production, and were praised in the prefectural official media as exemplary. Kabzung translates these stories, originally published in Chinese, for example the story of Konchog Tashi, who invested the money from selling animals to “enjoy a comfortable way of life” in a new house, plus he bought a van, then “he boldly sold most of his 100 yaks and kept only a dozen female yaks” and now plans to build a second house to serve as the basis of a new enterprise: “His plan with this new house is to run a home-stay hotel, and with the advantage of its location near the provincial road, the future hotel is expected to earn over a hundred thousand RMB a year.” There is no information on whether this rosy picture, published in 2011, worked out well.


Official media frequently run cheery stories, featuring Tibetan role models who opt for the market economy and prosper. Seldom do such stories bother with crucial details, such as how Konchog Tashi is going to advertise his “home-stay hotel”, or how nomads close to the rail line connecting Lhasa to inland China can use it to get their dairy products or wool to distant urban markets.

The experience of most rural Tibetans is that the promise of the market is seldom fulfilled, even though it is normal, in a neoliberal economy, that the state, at a local or higher level, subsidises the construction of infrastructure such as saleyards, feedlots, animal fattening facilities on urban fringes, while also paying for road maintenance and even broadcasting price signals to remote producers. Today’s neoliberal China heavily subsidises the big “national champion” dairy companies that control the fast growing Chinese market for dairy. “According to the central government´s ‘Number 1’ Policy Document of 2013, the government will continue to support the scaling up and consolidation of the livestock industry. As part of that plan, subsidies will be provided to purchase improved varieties of dairy cows and livestock insurance, and for building standardized farms.Large dairy farms will also be supported through general incen¬tives provided by the Ministry of Agriculture (MOA) for large scale farms given MOA’s general bias toward scale, standardization and consolidation as an answer to food safety problems and management of natural resources and environmental concerns.”

All four central ministries with power over the dairy industry in 2014 agreed on a state-directed and financed plan of agglomeration. Caixin reported: “Beijing has vowed to form 10 strong domestic dairy companies by the end of 2018 which combined will account for more than 80 percent of the country’s total market share, according to a document jointly issued by four central government departments. The plan also includes building three to five of the big 10 into leading baby formula providers with annual revenue of more than 5 billion yuan. Both the central and local governments will contribute capital into the initiative to facilitate the consolidation of existing dairy firms, the announcement said.”

The current dominance of a small number of huge corporations in China’s booming dairy industry, assisted by state subsidies, is now typical of the pattern of contemporary Chinese neoliberalism; and a major reason why it is now too late for Tibetan livestock producers to enter the market. The barriers to entry are now formidable, requiring from the outset economies of scale, and an industrialised agribusiness model unavailable, unfamiliar and unattainable by Tibetans. Even if Tibetans were to wholly embrace the prevailing model of animal production in penned feedlots on urban fringes, it would at best provide employment for only a small fraction of the current pastoral population.


yak milk 4

None of this has dimmed the attractions of getting rich by entering the market, especially for rural Tibetans whose land grows not only grasses, sheep, goats and yaks but also the ingredients of traditional Tibetan and Chinese medicines, notably yartsa gumbu (ophiocordyceps sinensis), a much prized fungal infection of caterpillars of the Tibetan turf. Not all Tibetans are bound to be losers in the neoliberal market. Yartsa gumbu is in such demand that many fortunes have been made, not only by collectors on their knees in the sward, but by pastoralists able to seek rents for entry by collectors onto their land, and by Tibetan middlemen able to compete with Chinese dealers in the urban supply chain.

Some pastoralists have made so much money collecting rental for seasonal access to their pastures that they no longer bother with the hard work of rearing animals. They often spend their money on mansions filled with modern furniture and electronics, seldom entering fully into the chain of capital accumulation neoliberalism requires in order to build a corporation with a life of its own, in competition with similar corporations to become the biggest and most successful.

There are areas in Tibet, especially where the plateau land is vast, uninterrupted by mountains, where pastoralism can also succeed by following the logic of neoliberal accumulation, agglomeration, upscaling, consolidating land holdings into a much bigger enterprise, and herds into specialised, segregated flocks grown for specific markets, some for their milk, some for meat, some for wool, and some for breeding. This is the global logic of “get big or get out”, of economies of scale, of specialist ranching strategies in use throughout the rangelands of rich countries such as US, Australia or Canada. In Tibet, such operations cannot formally incorporate, nor (yet) legally agglomerate land holdings, yet they do occur. The inevitable result is wealth accumulation for the few owners of big, specialised herds, and, at best, wage labour for the poorer Tibetans who do the actual herd management for the newly rich. As in the ranching economies of the US or Australia, a few prosper, and the rest must leave the land, because neoliberal logic declares them inefficient and redundant.

China’s official policies for rural Tibet clearly see this as the direction for the future; with peri-urban feedlots fattening animals prior to slaughter. Official statements present this as inevitable, a law of efficiency that implicitly makes most pastoralists redundant, and most of Tibetan pasture land irrelevant to producing penned, feedlot-fattened beasts ready for slaughter, of the body conformation best suited to butchering into fashionable cuts displayed on the supermarket shelf.

To sum up, Tibetan pastoralists are attracted by the opportunities presented by China’s embrace of neoliberal markets. Yet ongoing regulatory restrictions severely restrict the creation of surpluses that could “come out” into the market. Tibetan wool is no longer used by China’s woollen mills; Tibetan dairy products have barely entered the dairy commodity chains of China, except for very local consumption. China has instead turned to imports, both of fine wool for manufacture into woven cloth, and of dairy products, to meet the booming urban demand for hip health foods such as yoghurt. The demand for imports is so great that the biggest global multinationals all have a major presence in China’s dairy industry. These industries are now so dominated by big players that new entrants face enormous barriers, and no longer have opportunity to scale up gradually, growing incrementally by ploughing profits back to grow their business. Any new entrant would now need from the outset a high end brand name and a national distribution chain, and a capacity to produce high volumes with the low transaction costs that only a concentrated enclave operation can create. Scattered pastoral nomads across a vast landscape will never be able to compete: there are too many hands the product must go through, the costs of establishing, maintaining and quality controlling a network of dairy collectors and aggregators are now too great.

Yak dairy pure land of saintly Tibetans

When asked why they don’t participate in the market economy, Tibetan pastoralists often say they simply don’t have the surplus to sell. Their production is for subsistence. Herd sizes have shrunk, as has the size of adult yaks, as pastures degrade. Regulatory limits on herd size have been imposed and increasingly policed. In Yushu prefecture, one of the better pastoral districts of the Tibetan Plateau, in 1989 rural families had on average 8.04 yaks per person, 11.72 sheep or 51.92 sheep equivalents if each yak is counted as equivalent to five sheep. This was sufficient to live well, with the poverty line defined as 25 sheep units (SU) per person. However, by 2005, according to official prefectural statistics, the number of animals per person had declined to 3.52 yaks and 7.57 sheep, adding up to 25.17 SU, right on the poverty line. However, when one looks not only at the entire prefecture, a huge area much of which is semi-arid, but county by county, especially in the more densely populated counties which sustain the best quality, well-watered pastures, in Trindu, Yushu and Nangchen counties, by 2005 the number of sheep equivalents per nomadic household member had fallen well below the poverty line to 18.5 in Trindu, 15.7 in Yushu county and 18 in Nangchen. On the basis of detailed fieldwork, Gruschke says: “The 2006-2007 sample survey of Yushu households reveals that less than half of them own enough animals to live above the subsistence level (25SU per person). Between 12% and 20% of rural households did not even own livestock. Almost half of the livestock owners interviewed could not earn any cash from animal products, most of them not even producing enough for their own subsistence.”

This slide into poverty, even extreme poverty and destitution, has many causes; regulatory restrictions on land allocation and herd size being one. Climate change and extreme weather is another, leading to accelerating degradation on the unduly small allocated areas to which pastoralists are restricted. A further factor is population growth. Another factor is the absence of livestock insurance enabling nomads hit by blizzards to access finance to buy new stock, to recover from natural disasters. The descent into poverty happened quickly, at the height of neoliberal China’s market embraced. On Gruschke’s figures, in 1992 the number of animals per rural person was well above the poverty line, in all counties of Yushu prefecture, with even the poorest county sustaining animals per person 30% above the poverty line.

While the pastoralists slide further into poverty, neoliberal China has discovered in Tibet a high-end brand that can be used to market packaged milk to urban Chinese consumers who have adopted milk as a health food, for infants and adults, are terrified, after a succession of scandals, of poisonous milk products sold in China, and have sufficient income for a private solution. The Treasure of Plateau Yak Dairy Co., and its Feifan brand of infant milk powder and Tetrapak whole milk is a case study of how, in today’s China, fortunes can be made, aided by central subsidies, by spending far more on marketing and brand building, than is paid to Tibetans to provide the milk of their dri, sold to China as “yak milk”.

Treasure of Plateau 高原之宝 pays Tibetan pastoralists four yuan per litre of “yak milk” and sells it online, on, for 128 yuan per litre, or far more as infant formula, which sells for 440 to 580 yuan per tin weighing less than a half kilo. This extraordinary mark-up finances a marketing budget aimed at the fears of the urban elite who want to consume milk, safely. It also pays for lobbying central authorities to be one of the small number of companies privileged to emerge as state-financed winners of a compulsory agglomeration, of intensive mergers and acquisitions designed to not only replace reliance on imports but also to create China’s own team of “national champions” capable of exporting dairy products worldwide. The marketing budget is huge. “Treasure of Plateau has budgeted 100 million yuan from 2008 to 2010 to explore the domestic and international markets. It also hired Shenzhen-based China Winwin Consulting to be its branding and marketing agency to make “Feifan” the name to know when it comes to fresh yak milk products.”

This effort paid off for the private company, not listed on any stock exchange, in 2014, when China finally announced which companies would be the beneficiaries of the state-driven campaign to substitute domestic production for imports running at over one million tons of milk powder a year. The announcement was delayed by several months, as many ministries were involved, and the whole “national champion” approach of officials picking winners goes against Xi Jinping’s emphasis on letting market forces play the decisive role.

Treasure of Plateau Yak Dairy Corporation is a winner because of its unique selling proposition: the milk of the dri (or yak, as it insists on naming the male of the bos grunniens species as the milk provider), to the great amusement of Tibetans. Even though its tonnage of product is small, it has a favoured slot in the government’s compulsory merger and acquisition program, because China hopes “yak milk” will be a winner globally, and China’s Tibet gives China control of 80 per cent of all yaks in the world.

From a Tibetan viewpoint, “yak milk” sold at exorbitant prices will always be a niche product, and can never get to market significant quantities of Tibetan milk. It will not popularise Tibetan milk as an everyday health food, instead taking the much more profitable role of niche player to an exclusive elite proud to pay premium prices.

Wang Shiquan, boss of Treasure of Plateau, is a shrewd operator, taking full advantage of the lingering fears of the urban new rich after China’s big domestic milk companies were caught up in the scandal of poisoning the kidneys of millions of pampered urban babies, with infant formula to which melamine plastic powder had been illegally added. Many other Chinese entrepreneurs also saw the opportunity, after the 2008 melamine scandal, to create new brands, often in New Zealand, a major dairy exporter, producing a range of brands specifically for the Chinese market, utterly unfamiliar to New Zealand consumers. A professor of farm management and agribusiness in New Zealand comments that: “Most of these new brands are custom manufactured in two Auckland factories. The owners of the brands are a mix of Chinese immigrants and New Zealand born Kiwis. These small New Zealand brands have been developed by entrepreneurs who saw an opportunity to make good profits. Chinese consumers have been paying extremely high prices for infant formula, including extra-large premiums for anything of foreign origin. The profit margins have been so great that there was good money to be made.”

The Chinese operating from New Zealand were smart, trading on New Zealand’s reputation as a clean and safe source of milk products; but Wang Shiquan was even smarter, foreseeing that the allure of the foreign source enables a huge mark-up, but China’s government would tire of the import bill and seek to boost domestic production. In Treasure of Plateau Yak Dairy Corporation, the sales pitch combines everything that sells not only to consumers but to government as well. Treasure of Plateau emphasizes how hygienic and scientific and health-giving its product is, and also how foreign and exotic it is as well, coming from Tibet, where the pure Tibetan people are guardians of milk purity, according to the company’s publicity: “For Tibetans, the friendliness and honesty is golden quality. Their eyes, a little shy, but pure. They smile, a little shy, but sincere. Their words, and perhaps not much, but no hypocrisy and no deception. They still regard honesty as a virtue, and fraud and treacherous, will provoke the gods punishment. Perhaps, they are God’s chosen guards of Tibet – the world’s last piece of pure land of the people.”

Trading on the Tibetan reputation for saintly, unworldly honesty as a brand guarantee, enabling profit margins as fat as any New Zealand infant formula pitched to the Chinese market, is a new move for neoliberal China. This is marketing genius, making Tibet as exotic as New Zealand, yet also domestic, but different to the China familiar to urban consumers, where rip-offs are often considered smart.

This could be considered a new kind of exploitation, in which real Tibetans, and Tibetan livelihoods have at most a peripheral role, as highly disciplined producers of modest quantities of raw material, namely milk. Treasure of Plateau makes it clear, on its website, that it does not hesitate to discipline its Tibetan milk suppliers, as part of a publicity campaign aimed at overcoming the popular Han Chinese depiction of Tibetans as dirty. A 2008 China Daily article commending Treasure of Plateau quoted boss Wang: “Wang remembers that yak milk sent to the factory had some too-natural ingredients in it – insects and yak hair among them. ‘I told them if you don’t clean it up, you will be forbidden to send milk to us,’ he says. New stainless-steel pails were given to yak herders, along with instructions on how to keep the milk clean.”

Turning the clean air and honest folk of Tibet into private corporate brand equity, while calling this most private enterprise a blessing for Tibet, does little for Tibet beyond monetising its’ supposed other-worldliness. Far from enabling Tibetan pastoralists to gain entry to the now massive Chinese urban market for whole milk, yoghurt and infant formula, the extreme prices limit Tibetan dairy to luxury items for the super-rich, status symbols not meant for the masses, a brand which would only be cheapened if mass produced.

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Ever since the ascendancy of Xi Jinping as China’s new helmsman, at the end of 2012, Tibetans have looked for signs of fresh thinking on ethnic relations. With the optimism so characteristic of Tibetans, they scanned the media for the slightest sign in China of a shift, away from stigmatising the Tibetans and their neighbours to the north, the Uighurs of Xinjiang, as, first and foremost, a security threat.

The slightest of signs were pored over. An academic in a high level official think tank, the Party School, suggested China could make fresh overtures to the Dalai Lama, such as allowing him into Hong Kong. Nothing further was heard of her, or her ideas, but it seemed a hopeful sign.

Now, 18 months after Xi’s rise to full control of all organs of the party-state, something more definitive is on the record, coming out of the May 2014 Work Conference on Xinjiang, a whole-of-government gathering of all the agencies of party and state to come up with a coherent and comprehensive strategy for dealing with the arrival of terrorism as a regular occurrence.

Xi Jinping’s speech to the second work conference (the first was in 2010) named many initiatives to crush the car bombers and train station killers afflicting Xinjiang and several Chinese cities. Many are short term: heightened security, preventing minority nationals from travelling abroad, deeper cooperation with security agencies abroad, further restricting internet access. Xi has also praised the militarised Xinjiang Production Corps which pioneered the large scale exploitation of Xinjiang cropland and cotton plantations, using demobilised soldiers to build the dams to irrigate a dry land and make it suitable for high-yield farming, oil, gas and mineral extraction. Far from being a relic of the Maoist command economy, the Xinjiang Production Corps, Xi says, “is absolutely not an temporary improvisation but a long-term strategy. Under the new situation, the work of the corps can only be strengthened, not weakened.”

None of this is new, only an intensification of repressive policies, long in place, all intended, as Xi says, to establish ‘‘correct views about the motherland and the nation’’ among all ethnicities so that people from all the groups would recognize the ‘‘great motherland,’’ the ‘‘Chinese nation,’’ ‘‘Chinese culture,’’ and ‘‘the socialist path with Chinese characteristics.’’ These counter-productive policies, in Xinjiang and in Tibet, have long bred resentment at the relentless insistence on (Han) Chinese, put on a pedestal as the exemplary nationality, the peak of human social evolution, the model all others should emulate.

What is new is the rhetoric. Xi’s speech to the Work Conference demanded “nets spreading from the earth to the sky,” to defend against terrorist threats in northwestern region of Xinjiang. Is this just hyperbole, as exaggerated as Mao’s bold claim that “women hold up half the sky”, when all that meant was that women had to do the same work as men?

Xi went further with his metaphors, calling for “copper walls and iron barriers” as well as “nets spread from the earth to the sky.” This is interesting usage. China long had its Great Wall to keep out marauding foreigners from the north and the west, which never achieved its purpose. But China also has its natural walls, of desert, both to the west, in Xinjiang, and to the north, in the Gobi that separates China’s Inner Mongolia from the independent nation of Mongolia. In fact the –bi in Gobi is Chinese for wall.

Now it seems none of these walls, man-made or natural, suffice to keep out the knife-wielding Uighur slashers, and an impregnable copper wall is promised. Further, there is to be an iron barrier as well, an echo of the iron curtain the Second World drew around itself, around China and the entire Soviet bloc, to keep out the First World. Actually, Xi Jinping meant one barrier, not two, his classic phrase “铜墙铁壁(Tóngqiángtiěbì) can be translated into “wall of bronze”, instead of “wall of copper and iron”.

That’s still being literal: the everyday meaning is impregnable. China may, even must, impregnate backward peoples with modern ideas, but must itself remain impregnable.

But Xi Jinping has new and quite specific policies too. He talks of moving more ethnic Uighurs to inland areas of China where they can be educated and work among the ethnic Han, becoming acculturated to Han values. According to the NY Times, Xi called “for moving more ethnic Uighurs to inland areas of China where they can be educated and work among the ethnic Han.” This is new: a population redistribution according to an assimilationist masterplan that would erect the net stretching to the heavens, yet situate Uighurs on both sides, sterilizing the good Uighur learning to become Chinese from the bad Uighur remaining in the net, in their suffocating homeland.

If serious, this suggests a social engineering experiment on a larger scale than anything before, though the idea is not all that new. The neidi schools set up specifically to assimilate young Uighur into Han ways and values, were established in major Chinese cities far from Xinjiang in recent decades, a copy of the neidi school model established earlier for taking young Tibetans from their families and inculcating Chinese values . For both Tibetans and Uighurs, the attraction of these schools is that they are better than anything China offers in their homelands, with better prospects for passing the gruelling gaokao exams that open the door to university and high incomes. The price of getting a good education is a strong emphasis on Chinese language, Chinese values and patriotic education in loyalty to the party.

But how to extend to adults the socialisation of adolescent Uighurs into Chinese normality? How to get Uighurs to become factory workers in the cities of the world’s factory, at a time when most Han have learned to fear and loathe the Uighurs?

“Uighurs frequently say they’re made to feel like second-class citizens, facing difficulties obtaining passports or even travelling outside Xinjiang. Hotels and airlines are reported to have floating unofficial bans on catering to Uighurs, and many employers refuse to hire them,” said an Associated Press report in October 2013.

“Hotels won’t take us and you can’t rent if your ID shows a Xinjiang residence. People look at us with a lot of prejudice,” said Yusuf Mahmati, 33, a fur trader plying his wares on a busy sidewalk opposite the Panijayuan market, a gathering place for traders from several regional ethnic groups.”

It may be too late already, for Xi Jinping to make the Uighurs into an industrial proletariat, scattered across many provinces, wherever the factories are. The hatred, amplified until quite recently by official media, will not be easily undone; and Uighurs will be deeply unhappy if it takes force to scatter them across China. They may remain inside Xi Jinping’s net reaching to the heavens, cut off from accessing the world by internet firewall restrictions that deny them an online presence in an internet that has long reached the sky.

Nonetheless, Xi Jinping, a promising reformer in many ways, has now shown himself utterly bereft of new ideas when it comes to imagining ethnicity as anything other than a security problem. Not only does the Xinjiang Production Corps remain at the forefront of making Xinjiang Chinese, the grand strategy is more of the same old. . ‘‘Practice has proved that our party’s ruling strategy in Xinjiang is correct and must be maintained in the long run,’’ Mr. Xi said.

China’s policy in Tibet is equally sclerotic and counter-productive. As in Xinjiang, social engineering remains a tempting option for central planners, who definitely see the removal of nomads from their pastures as a first step in creating a new class of mobile workers who will be drawn to the factories, of distant lowland China, as they realise there will be no returning to their rangelands once the supposedly temporary grazing bans expire. So far, this social engineering has relied on inducements rather than coercion, and is not at all like Stalin’s ethnic social engineering, which deported entire nationalities from frontier zones to Siberia and Central Asia. So far, Tibetan resistance to China’s insistence that modernity –with Chinese characteristics- is compulsory, has been to burn themselves to death, not harming others.

Seldom have the contradictions inherent in China’s policies towards its unassimilated minorities been more obvious. In order to assimilate, or cook, the raw minorities outside the heartland of China, they must be brought in, to learn from the exemplary Han, even made to mingle, not only in special schools but in the factories and great cities of China. Yet at the same time they are to be kept out by an impregnable shield of copper and iron reaching to the sky, because roving bands of knife wielding Uighurs have succeeded in terrifying a billion ordinary Han Chinese that nowhere public is safe, no train station in any province is immune from the whirling assassins.

The same is true of Tibet, where 130 people have taken their own lives in protest against suffocation by “Chinese characteristics.” Those who burn the body, making the ultimate sacrificial offering, have chosen a decisively different path to that of the Uighurs, yet the cause is the same: a stubborn refusal of the raw barbarians, as China has always seen these peoples, to be cooked into loyal Chinese citizens. The contradictions of an assimilationist agenda imposed by force are the same, in Xinjiang and Tibet. There can be no hope of assimilation, or of mutual respect, as long as the overriding policy imperative is to build impregnable walls of copper and iron reaching to the sky, to keep the foreigners foreign.

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Have you ever wondered at the persistent coupling of Tibet with the possessive prefix China’s? China’s Tibet is obsessively used to claim possession, since that claim is so clearly contested.

China never talks of China’s Xinjiang, or China’s Sichuan. Let’s unpack that oithy two-word slogan, and look at what it signifies.

China’s home-grown orientalism, like the historic orientalism of Europe towards west Asia, ascribes fixed roles and identities to its exotic objects. The Tibetans are required to play their part in a Beijing based script. The scripted role for Tibetans is to be forever on the way to modernity, without ever reaching their goal of achieving a level of civilisation equivalent to the urban Chinese who come to Lhasa as tourists. This is an unresolved tension. If Tibetans remain backward, ungrateful and uncivilised, tourists will not feel welcome or even safe. If Tibetans adopt Chinese ways and language, thus improving their human quality, becoming more civilised and employable in Chinese enterprises, they lose their exotic appeal, and will compete with politically reliable Han Chinese immigrants for hospitality industry jobs. So Tibetans must forever be in between, striving but not yet succeeding in becoming more modern, in recognisably Chinese ways. This is the paradox: the Tibetans are not permitted to turn their backs on Chinese modernity, but they may not succeed either. They cannot fail but they cannot win. This internal contradiction inherent in China’s mass tourism industry and overall policy towards Tibet is at the core of the unique brand China has invented: China’s Tibet™. The agenda of this logo is that Tibet must be different, but not too different. It must be exotic, a mirror of otherness held to the visage of the visitor, yet also safe, familiar, domestic, with the reassurance that in China’s Tibet™ all Tibetans love China, and as a destination Tibet is not only safe but even comfortable.
In these ways central authorities achieve a “narrative uniformity that is enforced upon and over lead tourism sites [which] constitutes a form of cultural grammar by and through which the state defines travel itineraries and controls the meaning held over landscape, space, and place.” Cheng Yan received a PhD in recreation, sport and tourism from University of Illinois, pointing out that: “the pursuit of collective and monolithic national imagery has caused a representational violence –one that is committed by the nation-state ideology operated through the organisation of tourism language.”

China's consumerism Hulme book cover

This book, due out in July 2014, looks in depth at China’s tourism boom in Tibet.

How is it possible that Tibetan culture, history and identity can be turned inside out in this way? How can it be that an articulate and profound culture cannot speak for itself? How could it happen that Tibetans have only minor, walk-on roles in a massive Tibetan tourism industry in which Tibetan history, culture and scenic spots are the core attractions?
Elsewhere in China, other minority nationalities have succeeded in controlling the tourism industry that brings many visitors to their villages. They are not bit players but actively build, manage and operate their own tourist village, their own cultural displays. This has been documented by several anthropologists.

Yet there are several iconic scenic spots in the lands of minority nationalities that are now utterly overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of Han Chinese domestic tourists, and have become marginalised in their own land. Tourism notoriously “spoils” destinations, swamping the original, authentic and local with kitsch replicas, mechanical reproduction, endless hotels and bars, until it becomes hard to find what drew people to come. While this greatly worries the discerning international traveller, it is much less of a concern to Han Chinese, who have no problem accepting, and enjoying, the “authentic replica.” To westerners, the phrase seems paradoxical, even self-contradictory. Chinese tourists are more relaxed about spectacles staged for them, less troubled about whether they are witnessing something pure, original, authentic, unspoiled.

In the lowlands close to the Tibetan Plateau, Lijiang, Dali and Xishuangbanna are case studies in the marketisation of ethnic difference as a profitable commodity packaged by a tourism industry that dominates the lives of the ethnic minority who were the original attraction. These places first got on the radar of tourists as funky, offbeat, quaint and charming destinations known only to intrepid backpackers. Then they were officially designated as scenic spots, fitting them into China’s long tradition of iconic scenic spots one must visit if one is to be considered civilised. Tourism at these paces scaled up and up. Mass tourism flourished, and also elite tourism with its luxury villas, upmarket hotels and resorts, taking more land and resources. The minority nationalities still sing and dance, at times that suit tour organisers, only the singers, dancers, ethnic artefact sellers, even the sex workers, are increasingly Han Chinese in ethnic costume. This does not trouble China’s tourist masses, who enjoy the spectacle, accepting the authentic replica.

One of the case studies in this anthropological fieldwork is of three performances staged daily for tourists in Lijiang. The oldest, conceived at a time when all the tourists were international backpackers seeking unspoiled authenticity, is deliberately staged in a rundown hall with dim lighting of a ramshackle stage, in a dilapidated mansion down a winding alley. All this reeks of authenticity, the pure, unspoiled, actual original that has somehow survived intact.

The newest of the daily spectacular performances, geared for the mass Chinese domestic tourism market, features pyrotechnic lighting, an outdoor setting that makes dramatic use of a snow mountain as backdrop, a fast pace, a romantic story of tragically doomed love, inviting tourists to escape their ordinary stressful urban lives and participate in various forms of transgressions, and it enables their secret selves to be displayed while pursuing an unrestrained hedonic experience. The latest product, specifically aimed at the Chinese domestic market is a re-enactment of traditional Naxi minority nationality wedding ritual, cut down from the customary three days to a five minute performance, conducted by a Naxi wedding ritual specialist, in which Han couples don’t merely watch, but dress as Naxi, and are actually married. This is what today’s China calls the “authentic replica”, a term that is not, to Han Chinese, in any way paradoxical or contradictory. English speakers, by contrast, habitually go to the other extreme, making sharp distinctions between “the real” and “the fake.”

The tourism boom in Tibet follows this authentic replica pattern. The focus now is on Lhasa, with global brand hotel chains in a race to get a branded property on the map in Lhasa, to get market share as tourist numbers swell and China’s new rich readily pay for the Tibetan décor and personalised butler service that are features of the newest hotels. But Lhasa is not the first major tourist destination in Tibet, only the latest. The first places in Tibet to become popular tourist destinations were on the peripheries of the Tibetan Plateau, some in places so remote and obscure few Tibetans had heard of them. Jiuzhaigou (Dzitsa Degu in Tibetan) and nearby Huanglong, now world famous for their scenery, became major destinations because peripherality could be turned into proximity. The further they were from the centre of Tibet, the closer they were to lowland China, accessible to backpackers by local bus, then to mass tourism on improved highways, then to the rich by air, even by helicopter from Chengdu, Sichuan’s hot and humid capital city. Chengdu now had its hill station, much as the British Raj in India built hill stations to escape the summer on the plains below. The deep valleys and their Tibetan farming villages were no longer associated, in tourists’ minds, with the adjacent nomad pastures above. They became China’s newest iconic scenic spots, magical places of exquisite beauty, jewels in China’s crown, with the special status of UNESCO World Heritage listing. In both Tibetan and Chinese, Dzitsa Degu and Jiuzhaigou means the nine stockaded villages of the Tibetans, but this meaning is lost, the Tibetans forbidden to farm or to host visitors overnight. The remaining villagers depend solely on their menial roles in the mass tourism industry, holding a docile yak for a Han Chinese tourist to bestride for a photo op.
Other peripheral places, many of them close to China, also boomed as tourist destinations, including Labrang monastery in Gansu; and Kumbum monastery in Qinghai, (Ta’er in Chinese) not far from Xining, the capital, and now surrounded by polluting industries. Another remote area, in the far west of upper Tibet, is the holy mountain of Gang Rinpoche, known worldwide as Mt Kailash. What all these locations share is not only remoteness but also that they were “discovered” first by nonChinese visitors, by backpackers and, in the case of Kailash, by Indian pilgrims. It was only later that the backpacker guidebooks, and China’s enthusiastic culture fever for all things foreign, led to a Chinese fascination with such places. China belatedly “discovered” these jewels in its own back yard, and built them up as destinations attracting millions of tourists a year. UNESCO’s scientific advisors long ago expressed alarm that World Heritage listing was achieving the opposite of what inscription on this select list was intended to do. Instead of ensuring preservation, World Heritage became a brand to be monetised by a growing Chinese tourism industry, a magnet to visitors guaranteeing a quality scenic experience.

In this way, Tibet was colonised by tourism from the outside in. Lhasa, the heart of Tibet, joined this accelerating process only this century. Prior to the arrival of fast, cheap, heated and pressurised rail services in 2006, Lhasa was too far, too expensive, too difficult, too lacking in infrastructure and dangerously lacking in oxygen. That was the prevalent attitude in lowland China: no-one would choose to go to Tibet unless they had to.

As the tourism industry expanded its palette to include Lhasa, some of the expansion was led by the same entrepreneurs who had made their fortunes on Tibet’s peripheries. This is especially so of Deng Hong who made good use of his connections, and his father’s military reputation, to gain exclusive access to much of the land surrounding the Jiuzhaigou World Heritage area. There he built luxury villas, hotels and resorts, in partnership with the InterContinental hotel chain; then did the same in Chengdu, and now Lhasa. In 2002, he was indiscreet enough to boast to a Washington Post reporter of his Party connections, and that they were the secret of his success. Now, in 2013, as China’s new leaders pursue their pledge to crack down on corruption, he is one of the first to be investigated and interrogated.

Private entrepreneurs such as Deng Hong and Zhang Baoquan of the Mangrove Tree Resort chain, also planning to build in Lhasa, got into the lists of the richest in China by speculative real estate deals, and building luxury resorts on some of the land they dealt in. But the state was never far, or merely a regulator. In China’s Five-Year Plans, tourism has long been identified as a “pillar industry” or “backbone industry” that can ignite economic take-off in Tibet, holding up the entire economy. Earlier Five-Year Plans, such as the 9th, in 1996, named targets of visitor numbers far ahead, but the reality was that the infrastructure, hard and soft, was not there. It was the state that engineered the urban construction boom of the 1990s and since, building the power stations, hydro dams, highways, railways, oil pipelines, airports and urban facilities, museums and exhibition halls that got Lhasa and central Tibet ready for mass tourism, and ready for entrepreneurs to create profitable businesses. In the past two decades, billions of dollars have been spent by central authorities to create the necessary preconditions for as tourism boom.

The hard infrastructure is obvious. Less obvious is the shift in popular attitudes essential to attracting the tens of millions of lowland Chinese now travelling to Tibet’s iconic spots. This too was engineered by the state, again working closely with private entrepreneurs, especially documentary film makers and glossy magazine editors. Tibet got a makeover. Lhasa became a place of comfort, inviting women and families, not just desperately poor men out for a quick fortune. Taking their cue from centuries of western fascination with Tibet as a land of mystery, Chinese movies, docos and tourism magazines represented Tibet as a land of great beauty, and the people as simple, timeless folk, always dressed traditionally, always smiling. China’s new orientalism remade the image of Tibet, editing out anything modern, including the massive military and paramilitary presence in all Tibetan towns. Tibet became an intriguing, exotic other that was at the same time safely domestic, where Chinese is the common language, where Chinese money works, where extra oxygen is reassuringly ever at hand for altitude sickness, where all the comforts and luxuries of global resorts are now available. It is this combination of the exotic and the domestic, the thrilling and the safe, the scenic and the familiar, the photo op and the hotel room, that makes Tibet especially appealing.

As a result, ten times as many Chinese visit Tibet as visit the US. Although the US is the leading nonAsian destination for Chinese tourists, 1.5 million came in 2012, while Lhasa alone receives 12 million Han Chinese tourists a year, Jiuzhaigou and Huanglong a further four million, and many more at other iconic Tibetan scenic spots.

The footprint of these visitor numbers is great, since almost anything manufactured must be brought to Tibet, to meet the expectations of visitors, from soy sauce to computers, steel to fresh prawns and plastic palm trees. The historic population of the entire Tibetan Plateau was never more than six million. According to China’s 2000 Census, the resident population had swelled to 10 million, not counting the floating population of immigrant fortune seekers, or the military stationed in Tibet. Since then, the tourism boom has further overloaded the carrying capacity of the Tibetan Plateau, which historically sustained a low density population willing to maintain a mobile way of life so as to not exhaust the alpine ecosystems of Tibet.

The guiding hand of the state is directly responsible for the emergence of tourism as a pillar industry. Not only did the state finance and engineer the physical infrastructure and reshape the popular image of Tibet, the state owns all the iconic scenic spots and controls the message given to tourists. The state trains and licences the tour guides permitted to interpret Tibetan history and culture, who must pass exams, in Chinese, in accredited tourism academies, which teach a syllabus written by the state. While insisting tour guides attain a high level of proficiency in the official line, tour guiding pays very little, and guides must detour their clients to Chinese enterprises and persuade them to buy, and receive their commission. This all makes for minimal connection between Tibetans and tourists.

The iconic sites of Lhasa such as the Potala Palace and Jokhang Temple are no longer big enough to handle the tourist rush, and so many of Lhasa’s old buildings have been knocked down. The solution is to build a brand new city across the Kyichu river from Lhasa, on the south bank, as a major industrial expansion area, featuring a $4.75 billion investment in staging a daily spectacular enactment of the marriage, 14 centuries ago, of a Tibetan king and a Chinese princess. Yet again, the money is coming from the state.
A separate theme park is proposed to make the “Tibet Code” fantasy Chinese adventure books and movie into a literalised stage production enacted daily for tourists. This will appropriate a slightly later slice of Tibetan history, the reign of the preBuddhist Bonpo king Langdarma, who attempted to suppress the early adoption of Buddhism by Songtsen Gampo, his predecessor. The threat to Buddhism enables the Han Chinese hero in Tibet in the 9th century, and his trusty Tibetan mastiff, to come to the aid of the Buddhists and their treasures.

Now that two of China’s richest and best-connected men, Deng Hong and Zhang Baoquan, are building their Lhasa resorts, with InterContinental already locked in as operator of one, and smaller Starwood St Regis, Shangrila and Taj hotels in Lhasa either open, under construction or announced, the race is on among the big brands to get market share, to get the best locations, to be seen to have a full range of properties across China, including Lhasa. The new rich of China, despite recent requests from China’s new leaders that they be less ostentatious, continue to consume Tibet, and expect luxury. Across China, the number of star-rated hotel rooms is due to double between 2010 and 2017, from 2.25 million rooms to 4.16 million rooms. In 2012 China had 18,200 hotels of international standard. By 2017 that will increase by 50% to 27,300 hotels.

Throughout these major state initiatives, there have been tempting opportunities for official land managers and private developers to make massive profits, often by using borrowed money loaned by state owned banks, to finance the buying and selling of land for private profit. Throughout China, local governments used readily available central funds intended as economic stimulus, to speculate in land and run up massive debts when deals went wrong. Few cities have grown as fast as Lhasa, which may by now have its share of nonperforming loans weighing on local government, and on the banks that were instructed by the state to lend to them. Those loans have, for the time being, been rolled over, but must eventually be repaid, or written off. Land has become a valuable commodity in Lhasa Municipality, which covers a very large area far beyond the city, in which urban land can be bought and sold. Even before a building goes up, and before an international brand name operates a functioning hotel, there are fortunes to be made. Both in China and worldwide, there is increasing anxiety at these unrepayable loans, and at the secrecy surrounding them. Nowhere is more secretive than Lhasa, where the hotel boom guarantees property speculators with insider connections can make fortunes. Increasingly, the danger of a real estate speculative bubble burst looms over the Chinese economy. The rush to build luxury brand hotels in Lhasa, well ahead of international demand and perhaps ahead of domestic demand, may contribute to what is recognised, in China, as “a China style subprime mortgage crisis.”

Urban construction, in the small historic heart of an increasingly sprawling city, necessitates destruction. Prime sites are few and the 1990s decision by Lhasa Municipality to conserve remaining manors of Tibetan families is now swept aside in the urban construction boom, and speculative property bubble. With big brand hotels scrambling for market share, and other sites in demand catering to the mass domestic tourism boom, there is now intense pressure to further demolish traditional Tibetan buildings, which are too small to accommodate contemporary commercial uses.

A shopping mall under construction in Lhasa, with excavated space for 1000 car parking spaces underneath, has prompted a shocked cry of protest from Tibetan blogger Woeser, who is seldom allowed to see Lhasa for herself, and this blogpst on the shopping mall promptly censored. After her blogpost was removed, she told South China Morning Post: “I therefore plead to Unesco and other international organisations, Tibetan scholars and experts, and all of you, please stop this horrible modernisation from committing unforgettable crimes to Lhasa’s old town environment, culture and architecture. Lhasa is being destroyed by excessive commercial development. Lhasa doesn’t exist for only tourists. There are real people who live here and it’s also a religious place. You can’t just turn it into a Sanlitun village.” Sanlitun is an upmarket shopping mall complex in Beijing favoured by wealthy Chinese and international shoppers.

The mall alarms her for several reasons. The above ground loss of streetscape, the underground pumping lowering the water table of a river city, the huge scale of shops with 150,000 sq m of floor space, the relocation of residents to the edge of the city, and the danger of land subsidence as the water table recedes. The provision of 1000 car parking spaces is a sign of who the shopping mall sees as its customers. China is now the biggest automobile market worldwide, and sales of SUVs –large cars looming high above ordinary sedans- are especially booming. SUV sales have been energetically promoted by glossy advertising in travel magazines featuring Tibet as a self-drive destination. Chrysler Jeep and Tata Range Rovers have been particularly keen to sponsor rallies traversing Tibet, which set up photo shoots enabling them to insert ads into upmarket magazines, appealing to wealthy masculine Chinese drivers to personally conquer Tibet. The self-drivers need shopping malls to restock before photogenically splashing through more Tibetan rivers.


Tourism in Tibet should be in Tibetan hands. This is what visitors, especially international visitors expect. If the tourism experience fails to be built around real encounter, across cultures, between Tibetans and visitors, tourists leave disappointed and Tibetans miss out on opportunities to enter the global economy by being themselves.

The principles and specific codes of practice for sustainable tourism are well-known, and have been codified in detail by many intergovernmental and other agencies, including the UN World Tourism Organisation, UN Development Programme, UN Environment Programme and by the tourism industry’s Global Sustainable Tourism Council. Under the heading of Local Control, UNWTO and UNEP define the goal: “To engage and empower local communities in planning and decision making about the management and future development of tourism in their area, in consultation with other stakeholders. Giving people responsibility and control over their lives is a fundamental principle of sustainable development. Moreover, tourism projects that engage local communities directly in their planning and implementation are much more likely to be successful in delivering local benefits and to be sustained over time. Policy in this area is not, however, just about engagement through consultation processes; it is also about empowering communities to influence decisions about the developments and activities that will affect their future while enabling the needs of other legitimate interests to be taken into account.”

An alternative direction, enabling tourists and the Tibetans to learn from meaningful encounters, is possible. There is nothing inevitable about making Lhasa a mass destination of lurid theme parks, state owned and managed iconic sites of Tibetan identity, with Tibetans sidelined into minor roles. An ancient, sophisticated, highly literate culture is capable of managing its lands and tourism futures. Many treaties to which China is a signatory, as well as China’s own laws, guarantee the cultural rights of traditional knowledge holders, enabling them to speak for themselves, rather than being spoken for. In theory, the Tibetans, as a minority nationality, also have special rights. In practice, China no longer speaks of minority nationalities, only of ethnic groups to which individuals choose to belong, or not. In reality, despite the promise of tourism, Tibetan culture is now product, in the hands of Chinese entrepreneurs and central planners, its strengths ignored, its external manifestations trivialised and sensationalised, a commodity for mass tourist consumption. This is the process of creating China’s Tibet™.

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Mining and land rights of communities directly affected by mining are fraught topics worldwide, at a time when resource extraction companies are pushing ever deeper into remote areas in their insatiable quest for minerals and energy.

In Tibet, a  proliferation of mining, from medium to world scale, encroaches and disrupts community life in many areas all over the Tibetan Plateau, since Tibet is rich in minerals. There have been many protests against mining despoiling localities which until recently had been able to live traditionally,  which also means caring for sacred mountains and lakes, and the pilgrimage circuits which regularly bring people from afar to do the practices of mental purification as an active meditation done on foot.

In addition to the direct impacts of mining on local Tibetan communities, mining also generates much climate warming emissions, to be legitimised and offset by closing pastures and banning of grazing.  Most of the area of China designated as “restricted development zone” is in Tibet, including the richest grazing lands of the plateau. If such lands are now, under PES and REDD+ designated solely as watershed protection and carbon sequestration zones, then Tibetans will be denied the right to development, as will their children and grandchildren, as carbon sequestration contracts become a new kind of legal property that will increasingly override traditional property rights. In the name of Payment for Environmental Services, Tibetans will be paid by China, which in turn is paid by global treaty arrangements, to sit and do nothing, excluded from their land, with no prospects other than migrating to distant factory cities, while their land sits idle, growing grass which is counted as successful carbon capture. This depopulated land will be designated  a long term guarantee of pure water supply services to distant downstream users, at the opportunity cost to Tibetans of foregoing any development for the coming century, or even remaining in traditional mode of production on ancestral land.

The actuality of intensive mining of the rich Tibetan endowment of mineral wealth is concealed from the wider world, and the rest of China, not only by travel restrictions, censorship and the absence of much mining from official statistics; but also through an elaborate rhetoric which incorporates the active mines into “zones of restricted development”, around which “red lines” have been firmly drawn at the highest level, in order to protect “ecological environment” by banning almost all human activity, including the customary land use of the Tibetan pastoralists. This contemporary green governance discourse not only masks the exclusion of nomads from their pastures, it proclaims them to be voluntary “ecological migrants” who choose, for the greater good, to leave their lands so they will recover without human activity, from overgrazing, degradation and even desertification.  In the name of China’s global environmental citizenship, these depopulated lands, on paper off-limits to grazing and most definitely to intensive resource extraction enclaves, certify China as a responsible contributor to the global necessity of adapting to climate change by sequestering more carbon, protecting “fragile” watersheds, and rehabilitating degraded lands. China thus qualifies for not only global approbation from environmentalists but also concessions, in climate treaty negotiations, allowing China’s industrialisation and massive coal consumption to persist. As market-based global trading mechanisms that ostensibly reduce emissions caused by deforestation and land degradation (REDD), China may attract investment for these “restricted development zones”, which will relieve China of the burden of paying subsistence rations to displaced nomads to sit and do nothing, on the urban fringes of their former pastures. Similarly, as the concept of Payment for Environmental Services becomes increasingly operational, China can rebadge its practice of reducing pastoralists to utter dependence on state rations, as PES, yet again showing the world that China participates in the latest fashions in governance, is a good global citizen, even a model for the rest of the developing world to emulate.

Meanwhile, on the ground, the displaced pastoralists, not long ago proudly independent and active agents of productive and sustainable land management, are reduced to dependence, passivity and irrelevance. They sum up their circumstances, the anthropologists say, by saying they have become penned animals themselves. Yet, on the pastures from which they are increasingly excluded, the miners move in, often at the initiative of the local governments that also bear responsibility for environmental regulation and implementation of the nationally mandated program of tuimu huancao, closing pastures to grow more grass.

To the world, which has no access to the grasslands, this is presented as part of China’s drive to repair past mistaken conversion of sloping land to agriculture, excessive deforestation, land degradation and river catchment erosion. The world applauds, unaware of ground truth. It appears on paper that China is making great strides. Of the declared “red line restricted development zones” in China, more than half the area is on the Tibetan Plateau.

The great danger is that the exclusion of Tibetan farmers from valleys now allocated to hydro dam construction, and nomads from pasturelands, is not a temporary strategy to achieve remediation, it is a permanent exclusion, which will be enforceable not only by state decree but by the legal contractual obligations inherent in REDD, PES and in what China blandly calls “grain-to-green” programs, all of which necessitate the restriction or full exclusion of traditional farming and grazing, not only for the present generation, but for generations to come. For example, the emerging regulatory regime covering carbon sequestration imposes on traditional land managers the contractual obligation to grow more biomass by restricting customary agriculture or pasturing for at least one century, and this is written into the formal contracts that then have market value, and are purchased by factories in far distant countries to offset their ongoing pollution. Once signed, these contracts effectively prohibit traditional land use for the children, grandchildren and great grandchildren yet to be born, as well as the current generation. This effectively ends any prospect that the great grasslands of the Tibetan Plateau have a future, or opportunity to develop, based on growing the traditional livestock raising productivity. The right to development is thus denied. None of this has been explained to the nomads, who often choose to take up official inducements to move to new concrete housing on urban fringes, in the expectation that the move is temporary, reversible and negotiable, allowing a return of some or all family members to their customary lands to continue herding. Needless to say, none of the long term implications of this profound long term repurposing of land use has been explained to the nomads now leaving their land, nor has prior informed consent been obtained.

It would be far too simplistic to suggest that China has a grand strategy to displace the nomads of the Tibetan Plateau and Inner Mongolia (and elsewhere), based on an elaborate fiction of global green governance. Far from a calculated plan, the gradual emergence of the current situation must be traced. The history of successive policies for China’s great grasslands needs careful tracking, to see how the “tragedy of the commons” discourse came to dominate.

The nomads of Tibet, when given rare opportunity to voice their perception of issues such as degradation of the rangelands, have a very different view to the official scientists and official policy makers. To the nomads, maintaining a sustainable grazing economy that is both productive and cares for the land and biodiversity, is not difficult, as long as restrictions on mobility are lifted. They see no contradiction between grass and animals, as if the situation by definition is zero/sum.

State science, and the policies that stem from alarming scientific reports that as much as 90 per cent of the rangelands are degraded, are based on the foundational proposition that “there is a contradiction between grass and animals.” That formulation, phrased as a dialectic that demands a decisive solution, is found repeatedly in the basic assumptions of Chinese science on the grasslands. This denies that a grazing economy is possible, in which the long term survival of a healthy sward, and animal production. This crude formulation insists that the more animals you have, the less is the grass; and conversely, the fewer the number of grazing domestic animals, the more is the grass biomass. If this were true, then the grazing societies that have existed all over the world for thousands of years are all impossible. The corollary of this crude dialectic is that the benchmark for defining what constitutes degradation is anything less than the weight of biomass of grassland on which no grazing occurs at all. Thus any grazing, no matter how skilfully managed, is degradation. The goal of policy is now to restore pristine grassland wilderness, which, like rainforest, is in equilibrium only if humans are excluded.

Rangeland scientists around the world have been engaged with Chinese scientists, as have international anthropologists and other social scientists.  This has generated widely divergent views, so divergent it seems they are looking at different landscapes. As anthropologist and geographer Emily Yeh perceptively notes: “severe and pervasive degradation on China’s rangelands has become a kind of ‘received wisdom’, a narrative that blames local people for environmental degradation in the absence of adequate evidence, which is often used to justify certain interventions, and which is repeated so many times that it becomes common sense within certain scientific and policy communities. Discussing the ‘theory of Himalayan environmental degradation’, Blaikie and Muldavin trace the reproduction of perceived wisdom in China to disjunctures between epistemic communities of social and natural scientists, as well as between those working within the Chinese national context and other national contexts, who ‘write and read for different journals, speak different languages’, have different conceptualizations of sound research and effectively see different landscapes. Also examining the disjunctures between different epistemic communities, Williams argues that international, national and local scales of natural scientific practice work together to privilege non-local representations of nature, and that grassland science in Inner Mongolia ultimately functions to reproduce unequal social relations. Remarking on a different epistemic divide, Xu Jun (2010) makes an oblique reference to the highly politicized nature of resettlement policies implemented to remedy degradation. She notes, ‘western scholars are arguing about the various reasons or goals of China’s central government’s [policies, while] most Chinese scholars are paying more attention to the harsh living conditions of eco-immigrants’, a statement that points to the fraught politics of framing questions about rangeland management in China.”[1]

In these ways, industrial modernity is thrusting into remote communities, without any payment of royalties to those communities, investment in local education or health facilities, or training or local employment, or subcontracting of local supply to local communities. This is a familiar story worldwide, in indigenous communities unable to defend themselves effectively, even when they risk, and lose, their lives.



The accelerating depopulation of rural Tibet has been reported before, notably by Human Rights Watch, as long ago as 2007. Despite several subsequent reports, conferences and articles, there is no consensus as to whether this population movement is, as some say, entirely voluntary, or, as several assert, entirely coercive. The debate has focused narrowly on whether the nomads who move to urban fringes have provided their FPIC, free prior informed consent, which raises much debate as to whether the incentives, inducements and imposed quotas for leaving customary pastures are temporary or permanent, whether the  displaced nomads know in advance that they will seldom be legally permitted to return to livestock raising on customary lands, or whether their land tenure documents will be cancelled. Inevitably, national policy is implemented differently in the counties where the new policy of “closing pasture to grow grass” is actively implemented, so it is hard to achieve a comprehensive overview.

However, the narrow focus on FPIC neglects systemic issues common throughout China wherever rural land can become reclassified as a locus of development and modernity, whether as urban or industrial land, an enclave of resource extraction, or an area earning income for whoever controls it, by entering the global carbon trading market. Sargeson argues that the violence accompanying the frequent conversion of rural land to modern uses is systemic: “Violence authorizes development, because the rural spaces surrounding cities and towns are characterized as institutionally insecure, disorderly, economically under-productive and incompatible with modernity. It comprises development, because it involves the forced urban improvement of the nation, rural property, governance, people and livelihoods. Violence as development involves many different actors, purposefully engaged in a wide array of brutal, administrative, pedagogic and practical urbanizing tasks.”[2]

This provides a wider perspective. The question is no longer FPIC, but a state discourse that valorises social engineering, the displacement of rural populations declared surplus to the requirements of modernity, whose “wasted lives” to use Zygmunt Bauman’s term, are incidental collateral damage in the onrush of modernity, best displaced into ongoing mobility that results in their arrival at the gates of the factories and mines that displaced them, as the latest wave of low-paid workers, of low human quality, ready to staff the assembly lines of the world’s factory.

It is no accident that the legal status of rural Tibetan land, and the land tenure rights of the pastoralists, are institutionally insecure, granted and withdrawn by the state, at its discretion, because the conventional view among planners has long been that the pastoralists are “disorderly, economically under-productive and incompatible with modernity.”



This means the Tibetan pastoralists have common cause with villagers throughout China, whose land is forcibly appropriated, for urban and industrial use. It means violence should be understood as including more than physical intimidation; it is a systemic discourse of superior power, and the right of officials to declare local populations a hindrance to development, necessitating their removal. It is not just greedy property developers and corrupt cadres who overstep the legal ways of reclassifying rural land as urban; it is a system of disempowerment of farmers and herders, who are disadvantaged by being seen as recalcitrant, unruly, archaic obstacles to the imperative of modernity.

While the Tibetan pastoralists have much in common with China’s displaced farmers, there are major differences. Villagers can and do protest, often unsuccessfully, but sometimes they win, because they have been able to mobilise large number of people willing to face the might of the state’s repressive machine. Sometimes these protests are reported, generating sympathy within and beyond China, which may influence outcomes. Tibetan pastoralists, spread extensively across large areas, are seldom able to mobilise significant numbers. The areas from which pastoralists are excluded are now huge, and hard to defend. Current policy works incrementally, removing a few pastoralists at a time, rather than the total removal of a village in the path of development. The reasons for removing nomads are more various than for the enclosure of a farming village. While urban growth is a factor, a huge swathe of the Tibetan Plateau is now officially designated as “restricted development zone”, surrounded by “red lines” signifying permanent banning of legally permitted economic activity such as pastoralism, so that the land can be dedicated to green governance goals such as carbon capture, watershed protection and rehabilitation of land degradation.

Official statements support the necessity of coercion: “People seem to ignore the basic fact that everyone is actually a beneficiary of such policies. Without forced demolition, there is no urbanization in China; and without urbanization, there is no brand-new Chinese society. As a result, we can say that without demolition, there would be no new China.[3]  This was written by an official of a county in eastern China where three villagers had burned themselves to death in protest, generating publicity over the “Yihuang incident” of September 2010. The party paper, Global Times, then published, under the pseudonym  of Hui Chang, the argument of those county officials that nothing must get in the way of the onrush of urban modernity, as the Chinese state cannot just play the role of “nightwatchman” as the neoliberal governments of late capitalism can do, benignly watching over the workings of the market. “Hui Chang” argues that despite the Yihuang protests, self-immolations, and petitions to higher authorities, progress must go on, Yihuang GDP had doubled in five years and must continue to grow fast.  He writes: “Urban construction calls for lots of demolition, and local governments cannot afford to meet soaring compensation standards. Meanwhile, many farmers, stimulated by soaring land and house prices, dream of becoming millionaires overnight through land acquisition. Relocated households bypass the immediate leadership and appeal to higher authorities. In order to implement local development strategies, local governments find forced demolition the only choice. Yihuang’s incident will become part of the past in time. As long as local areas need development, forced demolition should be promoted.”[4]

The quest for a brand-new China now embraces not only rapid urbanization as the destiny of the rural populace, but also the construction of “ecological environment civilisation,” especially in Tibet, providing the world with proof of China’s green credentials. These emergent purposes, for which large tracts of land are officially designated, involve the creation of new kinds of value, that, by comparison, devalue traditional uses as unproductive. In the case of farmland that becomes urban land, the sharp rise in land value is often directly financed by state investment in economic stimulus and capital expenditure projects intended to accelerate urbanisation. The result is a steep jump in the value of the land in contention, a jump that justifies its expropriation as logical and necessary. The process is furthered by the reliance at local government level on revenues gained by reclassifying, expropriating and then selling newly urban land. That revenue stream not only enables the well connected to accumulate wealth, but provides much of the revenue local governments need in order to meet their obligations to provide education, health and other human services, as responsibility for such costly services has long been downshifted by central onto local government.

In Tibet, the area enclosed is far greater, the pace is slower, the opportunities for mobilising populations to resist are fewer, and media coverage is minimal. Rather than the sudden, overtly violent removal of village and villagers, a more typical sequence on the grasslands is the arrival of a team of officials who announce a quota of people, a fixed percentage of the population of what is legally a township but in practice is a scatter of nomadic households who may cluster over winter. The team announces that for the 15 per cent who are to leave, the state will provide housing, electricity, rations, perhaps even a school or a health aid post.  If the reasons for this policy are explained at all, it is presented as a temporary closure of pastures to allow the overgrazed areas to grow back. According to anthropologists who have done fieldwork in these areas, the families that opt to leave include the poor, who have too few animals to make a living, usually because of natural disaster, such as an unseasonal blizzard. Other families opting to migrate to the urban fringe have several in the family who are old and in need of access to medical care, or young children who may benefit from schooling. One the family has relocated, the able bodied adults often return to their pastures to continue livestock-raising, if official policy is not strictly enforced. Sometimes comparatively wealthy families make the move, while hiring poorer people to graze their large herds in various places. In these ways Tibetan pastoralists negotiate with the state, making provisional choices that are always open to renegotiation, much as they negotiate, and renegotiate, herd size, grazing strategies, risk management, shearing time etc.

So far, local government officials are usually willing to ignore these re negotiations. They are able to report to their superiors that they have met the quota, and that is all that is required for them to be eligible for promotion. If a head count is conducted, in the new settlement, where the residents are under the gaze of the police station that is always built, and numbers are down, there is always the explanation that some people are away, trading, or as urban construction labourers, rather than back on the range. In such ways, no-one loses face, and the state is declared to have achieved its objective of reducing grazing pressure.



Can this scenario be called violence? Compared to the screaming mothers we see, as heavy equipment trashes their village homes, clearly not. Yet the present moment on the rangeland has a wider context. If we look at the consistent trend of official policy and its implementation over several decades, it is clear what is the overall direction.

Since the state largely withdrew from the rangelands around 1980, with the collapse of the livestock production brigades and communes, the state has gradually returned, each time encroaching further on pastoralists choices; further limiting mobility; further allocating fixed, fenced, demarcated lands; further restricting herd size and family size;  further demanding that children be removed to distant boarding schools to be inculcated with the nationbullding ideology of the state. While there have been many policy announcements since the 1980s, they have had a consistent outcome, of making the pastoralists poorer, with fewer animals, less mobility, less land, more costs of production such as compulsory fencing, compulsory winter house construction, compulsory construction of winter herd shelters, compulsory fencing, ploughing, sowing and harvesting of fodder crops.

Some of these policies, in isolation, were well-meant, as ways of improving productivity, increasing the overwintering herd survival rate. But the cumulative effect was to shrink that land available for grazing, shrink herd size to or below subsistence survival level, and the result was overgrazing due to restrictions on nomadic mobility. These unintended outcomes of poorly planned policies in turn led to further restrictions, which invariably blamed overgrazing on nomad ignorance and indifference to grasslands that have always been the foundation of their entire way of life. This succession of state failures impoverished and immiserised the herders, while consistently blaming them for the negative outcomes, especially land degradation.



At the same time, in Qinghai province, senior cadres sought ways of attracting Beijing’s attention, and central financing. Qinghai, as a province, was created to separate the Tibetans and the Mongols, so its foundational mythos is that it is not really part of Tibet, even though it is topographically the northern half of the Tibetan Plateau and until quite recently populated mostly by Tibetans. In the 1950s and 1960s Qinghai served clear national purposes, for which it did receive central finance, for its role as a chain of prison camps for the regime’s enemies, and as part of the Third Front of military industrialisation, in preparation for the world war Mao expected. But by the late 1970s both of these sources of central finance dried up, and Qinghai was left behind, as coastal China surged ahead under Deng Xiaoping’s “opening up.”

The only ongoing opportunity for tapping into central fiscal largesse was dam building, capturing the waters of the Yellow River for hydro power to supply the fast industrialising cities of Xining, Qinghai’s capital, and, further downriver, Lanzhou, the capital of Gansu province. The Ministry of Water Resources grew in power in Qinghai, coming up with a winning slogan: “Qinghai is China’s number one water tower.” This became the key to winning more central money.

This slogan, repeated at every opportunity, gradually expanded to become “Tibet is China’s number one water tower” and even “Tibet is Asia’s water tower.” In the minds of central leaders the nomads of Qinghai, and the entire Tibetan Plateau, seemed to produce very little that was sent to market, while water downstream became increasingly scarce. As access to upstream water became more important, the unruly, unproductive, over-grazing herders became more marginal. By the late 1990s, at the highest level, it seemed a decisive choice was required, an either/or, zero/sum decision that firmly set the course for the long term future, to be implemented gradually, if only to avoid any repetition of the war of the late 1950s, in Qinghai’s pastoral areas, once the nomads discovered they were to be communised, losing all control and ownership of lands, herds and even personal property. It is only very recently that violence of “peaceful liberation” has been adequately documented.[5]



This is the wider context in which the present moment sits.  The trend is towards further enclosure and exclusion, towards declaring the pastoralist mode of production irrelevant to China’s brand-new urban future; while guaranteed access to upriver water sources in Tibet is increasingly crucial. The currently intermittent enforcement of the tuimu huancao policy of closing pastures to grow more grass may well intensify. Although China publicly denies there was a war on the grasslands, and that “liberation” was “peaceful”, in the memoirs published by retired military officers, and in the official county records and gazetteers, the memory persists  of the extreme violence needed to quell nomads facing catastrophic loss of agency. Everything points to a brand-new Tibetan countryside, in which pastoral livestock production, at best, continues only to raise animals until they are adult, whereupon they will be taken to peri-urban feedlots for fattening and slaughter. Livestock production on the range will be banned altogether in the  red line restricted development zones, in the name of China’s contribution to climate change adaptation and land rehabilitation, winning for China sufficient credit for taking climate action, thus allowing the world’s factory to continue to raise emissions.

It is in this wider picture that we can consider the present moment as violence, seldom overt, but pastoralists required to relocate to urban settlements understand quite clearly they cannot refuse.[6] Violence is structural, in this situation, in the power of the state to not only dispose of land rights, cancel land tenure certificates, and remove people, but also in the prejudicial depiction of those classified only as “herders” as an itinerant rural labour force of low human quality, little awareness or care for the consequences of their actions, occupying enormous territories for little purpose. It is the state that authors the master narrative, or dominant discourse, that marginalises the pastoralists; and assigns the construction of a new China to the party-state. This is systemic violence, steadily marginalising and impoverishing people, to the point where they have no option but to leave their degraded land.

The state is in no hurry to fully depopulate the “restricted development zones” of the Sanjiangyuan Three River Source Protected Area. There is little effective opposition, and the creation of a semi-urban underclass of welfare dependants is a burden on national and county finances. There are pull factors as well as push, that encourage pastoralists to seek urban amenities.  New highways make urban life tantalisingly close. Tibetan writer Tsering Wangmo Dhompa captures this: “Five decades ago it had taken Tashi close to twenty days to reach Xining on horseback from Kyegu. When jeeps began to cover the same distance in twelve hours, she thought it was by some divine machination. ‘Now I can take a plane from Xining and be in Kyegu in the time it takes me to make bread,’ she says in wonder.…… Each winter Tibetans flock to the city leaving only a caretaker to mind their homes in snowbound towns and villages….  On cold winter days the elders spend their days in the shopping centres. The new buildings are so toasty, she sighs.

“This is the city Tibetans flock to when their small towns cannot help them: the sick come for surgeries, businessmen replenish their goods, families purchase furniture for new homes, and newlyweds spend a month’s salary to capture their union in glossy photo albums in Xining.”

“Young men wear suits and though they are ill fitting and almost certain to be in shades of blue, the suit makes them walk with a song in their gait. A suit is a statement of style, and of money. A suit proclaims that a man has tasted a little other than that of the mountains, the rivers, outside their herds. A suit is part of the world they will inevitably meet.”[7]

This is the inexorable logic of urbanization, the concentration of services in centralised spaces, to which everyone is centripetally drawn. This concentration is always justified by the market logic of efficiency in locating facilities in the best endowed places, the corollary being that remote, scattered, extensive land users can never expect modern services, as the cost of extending them to remote areas can never be justified. For anything beyond the increasingly irrelevant practice of livestock rearing, the rural hinterland is by definition inefficient, lacking in scale and concentration, forever doomed to fall further behind the new cities of new China.

[1] Emily T. Yeh (2013) The politics of conservation in contemporary rural China, The Journal of Peasant Studies, 40:6, 1165-1188, 1176

[2] Sally Sargeson (2013) Violence as development: land expropriation and China’s urbanization, The Journal of Peasant Studies, 40:6, 1063-1085

[3] Hui, C. 2010. Forced demolition an inevitable pain in China’s urbanization. Global Times, 18 October. Available from

[5] Li Jianglin, When the Iron Bird flies in the Sky, Linking Publications, Taipei, 2012

Li Jianglin 2009 Do We Understand Tibet More than the Westerners? (Women bi xifang dui xizang geng liaojie ma?). Online access at

[6] “No One Has the Liberty to Refuse”: Tibetan Herders Forcibly Relocated in Gansu, Qinghai, Sichuan, and the Tibet Autonomous Region, Human Rights Watch, June 2007, 80p

[7] Tsering Wangmo Dhompa, A Home in Tibet, Penguin India, 2013, 161

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China is at odds with the world trend. Currently, under UN auspices, all major sectors and social forces, from big business to small NGOs, from indigenous communities to states, are engaged in defining Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) that will replace the Millennium Development Goals that expire in 2015. One major issue in this debate, and emergent consensus, is the future of the world’s farmlands and pastures. In March 2014 the Farmers Major Group in this UN process announced its priorities for the next global SDG commitments, to be adopted by all states. Their top goal is poverty eradication, to be achieved by farmers and pastoralists not only continuing to use their land but also to gain “universal access to resources (land, water, seeds, credit, infrastructure).”

The second priority for the world’s agriculture is food security, nutrition and sustainable agriculture systems.  This UN position paper calls for: “the promotion of agricultural extensification instead of intensification,” and for “adoption of food sovereignty as policy framework –farmers and their countries must be free to make agricultural policy decisions that best benefit them.”[1]

China is moving in the opposite direction, towards intensification that concentrates food production in enclaves on urban edges, while depopulating huge areas that have been managed both sustainably and productively for millennia. China is reducing Tibetan food security, generating reliance on distant sources for even basic foodstuffs, despite a long history of Tibetan self-reliance. At a time when food insecurity is a worldwide concern, exacerbated by China’s large-scale purchases of agricultural land in Africa, for monoculture crops to export to China for animal feed, China is deliberately undermining food security in Tibet. The loss of food security in Tibet is currently an issue that has attracted little attention, yet the pastoral regions of the Tibetan Plateau are actually one percent of the inhabited land area of the planet, and a loss of one per cent at a time of food insecurity and consequent poverty is a very backward step.

Extensification is a key concept. Throughout the 1990s, the European Community pushed for extensification, which deliberately seeks to make use of all land suited to food production and environmental protection, together, rather than have former agricultural land shrink as intensification of production also intensifies pollution, and leaves much land uncared for. Tibet’s traditional land use is extensive, with pastoralism actively pursued in almost all vegetated areas. China has assumed that extensive land use is a vestige of a less productive age, and that intensification, located in places of the greatest factor endowment, is the direction to go. This makes most of the Tibetan Plateau redundant.

Claude Beranger, research  director of France’s National Institute of Agronomic Research sums up the resurgence in extensification, pointing out that extensification results in lower output per unit of area, while productively occupying agricukltural land that otherwise would be abandoned. By accepting less output per hectare, without lessening total production, fewer expensive and environmentally damaging inputs are required, reducing environmental impacts. Extensified agriculture has been designed, in Europe, to include specific biodiversity conservation actions by the farmers, who qualify for assistance under Europe’s Common Agricultural Policy by acting to benefit the environment while maintaining extensive food production. This restores ecosystems and landscapes, through the active engagement of farmers, on land they know best, taking initiatives to preserve and protect water quality.

Beranger says: “Extensive farming or production systems can be more beneficial for the ecological environment than  intensive systems. They require fewer chemical inputs and thereby minimise the risks of land and water pollution. They also utilise more surface area for most types of production and thus avoid fallowing or abandoning of land, and land degradation by soil erosion.”[2]



China practices precisely the opposite, and argues that it thus follows objective “laws” of development at apply worldwide. An official White Paper issued in 2013 on “Development and Progress of Tibet” argues that: “The development and progress in Tibet is in accord with the rules for the development of human society, and reflects the mutual aspirations of the people of all ethnic groups in Tibet. It is the natural result of the overall development and progress of China as a whole. The development and progress of Tibet mirrors the victory of human society’ s enterprising spirit and creativity in the quest for justice and happiness, and has proved the inevitability of history. The development and progress in modern Tibet results from the innate logic of its social and historical environment, and has its roots in China’ s progress in a larger context. Its development is in line with the advance of world’ s modern civilization.”[3]

What is it that can be called a historic inevitability, obeying  the rules for development and the innate logic of social and historical environment? There is nothing inevitable about taking much of the most productive pasture of the Tibetan Plateau out of production, because a command and control economy decrees that water production supplants animal production, on the mistaken assumption that, to use a common Chinese phrase,” there is a contradiction between grass and animals.”[4]

There is nothing inevitable about an economy that is dominated by massive central subsidies designated for “leap-style development” of a province unable to raise even 10 per cent of its fiscal expenditure through its own revenues. The fast growth rate of the Tibet Autonomous Region has been driven by massive capital expenditure on industrial, extractive and urban infrastructure, while investing little in the pre-existing indigenous economy of farming grain and raising livestock. This centrally mandated force-fed fast growth is aptly defined by one of the few economists of contemporary Tibet, Andrew Fischer, as “Disempowered Development.”[5]

What China appears to mean by “the rules for the development of human society” is the  argument of economists that favour concentrating investment capital in those places best endowed with the key factors of production, notably land connected well with markets, requiring labour –a major factor of production- to move to where the capital is concentrating. That convention of economic efficiency is what Deng Xiaoping embraced when he called for some (the best endowed) to get rich first. That neoliberal orthodoxy, in sharp contrast to the Maoist redistributive command economy, is far from what has happened in Tibet. Tibet never quite abandoned the command economy, under direct control from Beijing. If anything, the decades of Deng’s “opening up” were in TAR the decades of an expensive nationbuilding infrastructure investment program that emplaced highways, railways, fuel pipelines, high voltage long distance electricity cabling, hydro power dams, extraction zones and urban construction; all financed by central leaders. This is not a “natural result”, nor “the inevitability of history.”

Fischer writes: “Subsidies have increased both in real per person values and as proportions of government expenditure and GDP. The TAR has nonetheless maintained its relatively privileged priority, to the extreme and somewhat perplexing extent that direct budgetary subsidies from the central government exceeded 100 percent of the GDP of the TAR for the first time in 2010. This was higher than even the heights of intensive subsidization during the Maoist period. The resurgent subsidies resuscitated growth in western China and especially in the TAR and Qinghai, where growth accelerated to very rapid, above national-average rates in the late 1990s. The speed of economic growth in the TAR and Qinghai over this period was phenomenal, even by Chinese standards. For instance, the nominal gross domestic product (GDP) of both provinces grew at a rate about one-third faster than the national economy from 1997 to 2010, even though the national experience has been perhaps the fastest (and definitely the largest) experience of sustained rapid economic growth the world has ever seen. Indeed, from 1997 to 2007 (the year before the outbreak of large-scale protests), the GDP of the TAR quadrupled, versus a tripling of the GDP of China as a whole. The pace of change has been astonishing, as has been the extent of subsidization driving this change.”[6]

“In essence, the argument of this book is that the intensified economic integration of Tibet into regional and national development strategies on these assimilationist terms has, in turn, intensified various dynamics of subordination and marginalization faced by Tibetans of all social strata and despite the evident material improvements in their living standards. These dynamics are partly—although not entirely—reflected by rapidly rising inequalities within Tibetan areas that have accompanied different phases of rapid growth, some aspects of which had reached levels much higher than anywhere else in China in the 2000s. Most activities outside traditional farming and herding (and the booming trade in caterpillar fungus) in the TAR and, to a lesser extent, in other Tibetan areas have been by and large the construct of subsidization policies. Even changes in the Tibetan rural areas have become increasingly dependent on subsidization, such as the subsidies driving investment into chicken production in rural parts of the TAR near heavily subsidized towns and cities. Hence, privilege and polarization are driven much more by the hierarchy of position within the flow of these subsidies. State-sector employees in the TAR benefited from among the highest salaries in China since the beginning of the Open the West Campaign, neck and neck with those of Beijing and Shanghai for several years, which has had nothing to do with productivity or overall prosperity considerations in the TAR.”[7]

“The TAR economy has been changing rapidly, but the local Tibetan population has been rendered very marginal as agents causing the change at the aggregate level, even if they reap some benefits. Their contribution to the indigenous village-based economy is huge, no doubt, but this economy has shrunk rapidly as a source of value relative to the rest of the economy, and much of the surging activity within the rural economy is subsidized by the government in any case. In this sense, the agency and “ownership” of development  is located largely outside of Tibetan hands and this situation has been accentuated as the economy becomes progressively less agrarian and rural. The resulting economic structure in Tibet—including the broader political economy structure of entitlements, incentives, compulsions, and distributive conflicts—is effectively very similar to that of a colonial-type economy. Indeed, the degree of aid dependence in the TAR is far greater than even the most aid-dependent countries of Africa, and the degree of disempowerment is more or less on par with that of an occupied region.”[8]

“The more pressing question is whether the integration of Tibetans into the emerging structural and institutional patterns of development in Tibet has accentuated their disempowerment in the governance of their home-land and in the “ownership” of their development, whether or not this necessarily results in some form of deprivation. In sum, within a context of continued political disempowerment of Tibetan locals, centrally directed development strategies since the mid-1990s have channeled massive amounts of subsidies and subsidized investments (relative to the local economy) through Han Chinese–dominated state structures, corporations, and other entities based outside the Tibetan areas, thereby accentuating the already highly externalized orientation of wealth flows in the local economy. This has resulted in a socio-economic structure that increasingly and disproportionately rewards a small upper stratum servicing and/or operationalizing the development strategies, which have remained excessively hinged on decision making in Beijing) to a far greater extent than any other region in China. The upper stratum includes a small minority of Tibetans and a large proportion of non-Tibetan migrants, concentrated mostly in urban areas and well positioned to access the flows of wealth as they pass through the region with increasing velocity. Whether or not the ongoing outcomes are intended to be discriminatory, these structural and institutional dynamics effectively accentuate the discriminatory, assimilationist, and disempowering characteristics of development.”[9]

Nonetheless, China’s official view is that benevolent statist interventions have worked wonders. The 2013 White Paper on Development and Progress in Tibet states: “Over the past 60-odd years, Tibet has finished a course of historical journey that would normally take several centuries or even a millennium for the human society to complete. It has written a spectacular chapter in the history of mankind. At present, Tibet presents a picture mixing traditional and modern elements, featuring economic and political progress, cultural prosperity, social harmony, sound ecosystem and a happy and healthy life for the local people. We may gain valuable enlightenment from Tibet’ s extraordinary journey. Tibet’s development can’t be separated from the choosing of a right path. Over the past 60-odd years, by adhering to the path of socialism in the arms of the Chinese nation, the people of all ethnic groups in Tibet have become masters of their own country, society and fate, and Tibet has made the dramatic change from a place of poverty and backwardness to one of prosperity and civilization.”

These issues are seldom discussed.

A tragedy fast unfolding across Tibet. The wider world, lulled by China’s discourse of environmental good citizenship, fails to discern the crippling impacts on Tibetan communities which have a 9000-year history of sustainably managing a pastoral grazing economy.

China is doubly advantaged by the situation in Tibet; and the Tibetans doubly disadvantaged. At a national and international level China represents itself a  an exemplary global citizen, protecting fragile ecosystems with firm red lines that prohibit human activity so as to capture carbon, rehabilitate degraded lands and  protect watersheds. At a subnational level Chinese mining companies despoil Tibet with growing intensity and environmental damage, unseen, unknown to the wider world, especially in depopulated areas where there are no longer Tibetan communities to protest these illegal encroachments. China also claims the resettlement of Tibetan pastoralists will increase their (cash) incomes, succeeding in alleviating poverty, and thus fulfilling the economic and social rights of Tibetans.

The Tibetans are doubly disadvantaged. The world understands them as “ecological migrants” who have chosen to leave behind poverty and remoteness, entering history and the modern urban job market. The reality is dependence, anomie and even despair leading to public protest suicide; while the world applauds China’s commitment to PES, REDD, carbon capture etc. In reality Tibet loses self-sufficiency in producing even the most staple of foods, deepening dependence on China  and exacerbating food insecurity. Grazing bans Tibetans were told would be for a few years now turn out to be permanent, depopulating huge areas, often the best pasturelands of the plateau, creating space for miners to move in, resulting in further degradation.

[2] C Beranger, Sustainable Agriculture: Extensive systems and extensification,

[3] Information Office of the State Council of the People’s Republic of China; Development and Progress of Tibet, October 2013,

[4] Du Xiaojuan and Cheng Ji-min;Analysis of Formation Causes of Grassland Degradation in Damxung County of Tibet and Its Exploitation and Utilization; Journal of Anhui Agricultural Sciences , 2007

BAO Fenglan A STUDY OF THE COUNTERMEASURES OF OPTIMIZING ANIMAL HUSBANDRY STRUCTURE OF INNER MONGOLIA; Journal of Inner Mongolia Normal University (Philosophy & Social Science) 2005-06

[5] Andrew Fischer, The Disempowered Development of Tibet in China: a study in the economics of marginalization, Rowman & Littlefield, 2013

[6] Fischer, 5

[7] Fischer, 11, 12

[8] Fischer, 24

[9] Fischer, 28-9

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The previous blogpost revealed the vision of the official custodians of China’s Yellow River to build a huge inland shipway, capable of allowing shiops as big as 50,000 tonnes, as far inland as 3300 kms, to the foot of the Tibetan Plateau; all made possible by diverting nearly all of Tibet’s rivers to the Yellow River.

To call this vision of planetary geo-engineering ambitious is an understatement. See the previous blogpost for the details.

But will it ever be built? Here is one preliminary analysis:




There are grandiose projects, products of the edifice complex that so attracts politicians seeking  in posterity  fame that will long outlive them. Then there are super grandiose projects that look terrific on paper, solving all known problems plus a few more that nobody knew were problematic. Then there are the truly megalomaniac projects that, in one go, conquer nature, stamp the imprint of the engineer on the land, make the deserts bloom and dust storms that shame Beijing to magically disappear, and even more magically, turn the entire 3300 kilometres of the Yellow River from the sea up to Lanzhou into a Suez Canal plied by ships up to 50,000 tonnes.

Fortunately, this plan will never be constructed, for myriad reasons. Here are eight of them.

ONE:      The age of super mega projects in China is fortunately past, or at least passing. The engineers no longer dominate the CCP Politburo Standing Committee, as they did up to 2012. Although China’s leaders are addicted to massive infrastructure spends, as economic stimulus and a way of funnelling capital to their favourite State owned enterprises, this one is just too big. China’s central leaders do talk of growing the remote western provinces so they can catch up, but in practice, the remote provinces get left behind, and Beijing has little enthusiasm for “backward” areas which, according to economic orthodoxy, can best get rich by most folks migrating to the bigger or even mid level cities.

As China enters a period in which labour is no longer the cheapest in the world, hidden debt is rising, and governments can no longer spend as freely as they did until recently, the pressure is on to shift spending away from infrastructure, financed by state borrowings, in favour of domestic consumption, by raising incomes of ordinary folk.

TWO:                     Then there is the highly factionalised competition within China between powerful individuals and their power bases. One competition is between the southern China powerhouse of economic growth, and the water-short north, the original home of Chinese civilisation.

The staggeringly ambitious plan promoted by the Yellow River Water Conservancy (YRWC), a powerful official regulatory agency, to turn their river into a navigable canal for big ships, is a proposal that dwarfs even the Three Gorges Dam in size and expense, and even dwarfs the fantasies of the hydraulic engineers to harness the putative hydropower potential of the Yarlung Tsangpo (Brahmaputra) of southern Tibet as it turns sharply through the Himalayas, plunging with great force through the greatest canyon on earth. That project could theoretically generate even more electricity than the Three Gorges dam, but damming the Yarlung Tsangpo great gorge (in several places), in extremely remote, precipitous jungle and raging mountain torrents, would cost far more then the disappointing Three Gorges dam. Yangtze water users will be unimpressed.

THREE:                  Amazingly, the Yellow River Conservancy’s Great Western Line project requires that all those Tibetan dams be built, solely to provide the electricity to pump water uphill, and over thousands of kilometres. Of the many audacious aspects of the Great Western Line, none is bolder than its decisive move to scrap the basis of all past mega project plans to capture and divert the rivers of Tibet, all of which relied on finding routes to let gravity take the water to where downstream China most needs it. This dependence on the law of gravity is now dismissed, with plans to pump no less than 150 billion cubic metres (m3) of water  out of Tibetan rivers and pump not only to downstream China but also all over the deserts and drylands of Xinjiang, Gansu and Inner Mongolia.

Even Adolf Hitler, who had dreams of comprehensively reshaping the entire landscape of conquered eastern Europe to make it fit for incoming German farmers[1], never dreamt on this scale.

FOUR: THE YANGTZE FACTION:                  Fortunately, China is now unlikely to embrace this super mega project, if only because China’s factionalism and powerful vested interest will  put it on the back burner until it can be forgotten. The cluster of powerful provinces along the Yangtze increasingly resist any further diversion of water from their river to the north. Already two massive south-to-north water transfer canals have been built, in eastern and central China, draining the Yangtze to benefit the middle and lower Yellow River. These enormous canals are due to begin operating in 2014, after almost a decade of construction and a much longer period of planning and political juggling. Although the Yangtze is a much bigger river than the Yellow, powerful provinces such as Sichuan upriver, Shanghai  and Zhejiang downriver are no longer willing to see further diversions, as China’s water use further intensifies, both as an industrial/agricultural input and as a sewer for wastes.

FIVE: FLOODS AND SHIPS FLOOATING ABOVE THE LAND:                              Even the YRWC proponents of the Great Western Line resort frequently to hyperbole when faced with the absurdity of a plan to make the Yellow River a shipway. The Yellow River is yellow because of the enormous amount of silt it carries from upstream Tibet to the lowlands where, as the river slows (and is ruthlessly extracted for human use), it slows, dumping its silt, clogging the river, making it much more prone to spill and flood in the wetter months. This tendency to flood is what gave the Yellow River its classic label, of China’s Sorrow. The response, over several dynasties, was to mobilise massive human labour forces to build up the banks, to such an extent that in places the bed of the Yellow River is above the surrounding landscape, hemmed in by massive banks that need constant repair. The idea that this could now be made into a canal carrying 50,000 ton ships, when the Yangtze and Three Gorges Dam have already failed to attract heavy shipping, is ludicrous.

SIX: WHO STANDS TO BENEFIT:                  The reality is that the richer, downriver provinces that most need water and have the greatest political weight, will benefit the least; while the poorest upriver provinces will benefit most. The days are long gone when China’s central government can simply allocate a massive redistribution of wealth away from the best endowed provinces towards the poorest. Under the prevalent neoliberalism, such nation-building extravaganzas are no longer in fashion, nor is there finance for them, or the political will to command such allocations. All the YRWC can say is a flowery phrase: “it will make Qinghai, Xinjiang, and Tibet take a giant step towards parity with central China, as if the “golden coastline” of Southeast China was extended all the way into the belly of the deep West.”

SEVEN: COST/BENEFIT;                  As for the cost of this vision of making the deserts bloom, even its boosters know that any careful cost/benefit analysis will throw it out the window: “If we can bear those operating costs, then the plan described above is feasible.” Such appeals to arduous struggle fail these days to cut much ice, especially at a time when paramount leader Xi Jinping is trying to rein in profligate spending as a relic of a bygone era. In the opulent lives of China’s elite, calls to eat bitterness and sacrifice for the long term benefit of remote desert provinces no longer gets much traction.

EIGHT: ALTERNATIVE STRATEGIES FOR ASSIMILATING THE FAR WEST:                     Nor is it the case that China has only infrastructure and more infrastructure as its only strategy for assimilating remote border regions into the Chinese economy. That may have been the case until quite recently, especially in Tibet, where China struggled to find industries that could generate wealth, and lots of employment for politically reliable immigrant Chinese. But decades of massive capital expenditure on infrastructure are at last paying off, in Tibet, in massive new and highly profitable copper/gold/silver mines and in mass Chinese domestic tourism. Justifying megaprojects as essential nationbuilding is no longer as persuasive an argument as it was, when (state-subsidised) industries can also achieve the goal of integration and also make a profit, thus stimulating Han Chinese employment..

So there is a host of reasons why the pharaonic project is unlikely to ever happen. One can never definitively rule out the appeal of the edifice complex, for central leaders wanting fame in posterity; but this is a proposal whose time, if ever, was decades ago, not now. The last time China could mobilise the entire resources of the country in this way was when it designated much of the Tibetan Plateau part of the Third Front, to build China’s nuclear weapons and military industries deep in innermost China, to protect against the menacing US Navy and the Soviet revisionists. That began in the late 1950s and ran for around 20 years before fizzling.

The engineers who cooked up this project, with impressive detail on the technicalities of locks, dams and pumps, and no mention of costs, have actually rolled two projects into one. Their starting point is the possibility, at least on paper, that it is possible to intercept, dam and divert, almost every major river of eastern Tibet, and send the water north. The quantum of water that could be made available to northern China is staggering, in fact so much that it is hard to think how it could all be used, as well as how to store the highly seasonal, monsoonal influx long enough to supply water downstream round the year, especially in winter, when it is most needed in a Yellow River that sometimes dries up altogether in the cold months. Such plans have been dreamt up before.

Where this plan breaks new ground is in its disregard of the laws of gravity, using massive hydropower plants on the same Tibetan rivers, to pump their waters far away and up. Its second audacity is the vision of big ships, up to 50,000 tons, sailing up and down the Yellow River. The same rhetoric drove the Three Gorges Dam on a much bigger river, the Yangtze, which was also supposed to attract big ships deep inland. What has instead happened is a boom in rail construction, including long-haul and high-speed lines that connect inland, upland western China not only with the coast, but also with Europe. Not only is it possible for Hewlett Packard, for example, to manufacture computers far inland in Chongqing, but  they can then be despatched to European markets overland, by rail, faster than sending them downriver and across the oceans.

For the Yellow River Water Conservancy, the romance of steaming up and down China’s primal river remains eternal, but days of inland shipping, likening the Yellow River to the Rhine and the Mississippi, are beyond grasp. No doubt the YRWC will dream on, but Tibetans need not assume, as some do, that just because one influential arm of the state endorses a fantastical megaproject, it will automatically happen.

[1] David Blackbourn, The Conquest of Nature: Water, Landscape and the Making of Modern Germany, Pimlico, 2007, 225, 252-3, 270-3

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A major official agency, the Yellow River Water Conservancy, has grandiose plans to dam all the major rivers of Tibet, and pump massive amounts of water (using hydropower generated in Tibet) uphill to the Yellow River of northern China.

First, here is how the officials of the Yellow River Water Conservancy (YRWC) define their latest epic plan, followed by an analysis of whether this pharaonic project will ever be built.

TITLE: Preliminary Research on the Feasibility of the “Datongdao” Project for Yellow River Shipping


Development of the Yellow River for Navigation and its Necessity


For a long time, people have been much more concerned with the exploitation of water resources than with the development of marine shipping. The Northwest of our country is dry, with little rainfall, and has a great need for water. There are vast areas of wilderness waiting for development, which really means they are waiting for large quantities of water to be brought in, because once they have water, the desert can become green, and only on that foundation can development begin. So people are very interested in projects to bring water from the South to the North. With regard to the extremely challenging idea called the “Western Line”, many tempting plans have been proposed for large-scale water relocation. People have grasped the importance of water resources, but there is another important point still missing — marine transportation and shipping. The Yangtze River (Chang Jiang) has the best conditions for marine shipping of any river in the world, and can carry a greater volume of goods than any other river, but its utilization is not up to the standard of the Mississippi and Rhine, the other 2 great shipping waterways of the world. The Three Gorges project should have provided the best opportunity for full and efficient use of the Chang Jiang’s shipping potential, but at that time, development proceeded under the principle of “power generation first, marine shipping second”, and so the project never lived up to its potential to promote marine shipping. There is a limit to what electric generation can do for our country, but the river’s capacity to carry goods can keep growing and growing as the riverbed is excavated deeper, so the potential long-term economic benefits are very great. Even under the limits imposed by the current condition of the Chang Jiang, the Chang Jiang river basin area accounts for a solid 45% of China’s GDP, and stands firmly as the main economic development axis of the entire country. If it can be said that survival and ecology are tightly linked to water resource management, then development and becoming strong and prosperous are even more tightly linked to the development of marine shipping.



The key characteristics of marine shipping are high capacity and low cost, and it is suitable for the transportation of energy sources, minerals, heavy chemical products, heavy equipment, grain, livestock, and other large goods. This is most clearly seen with ocean shipping. Since China opened up for economic development, the fast development of the Southeast coast clearly proves the advantage conferred by marine shipping. The Yellow River basin, and the Northwest provinces, which are closely linked to it, have rich energy and mineral resources, and enormous potential for production of agricultural and animal products. It is an ideal area for large-scale marine shipping of heavy goods, and has potential far exceeding the Chang Jiang. Developing Yellow River shipping, and especially opening it up to the ocean for navigation of ships exceeding 10,000 tons, is a fabulous prospect which the Yellow River basin could only dream of for centuries past. Therefore, opening up navigation of the Yellow River, and especially enabling ocean navigation for super-heavy class vessels, is of great necessity, and the day when it comes true is the day when the Yellow River basin and the Northwest will spread their wings and fly.



Continued improvements in quantity eventually result in a revolution in quality. As quantity increases, quality also improves, and qualitative improvements open the way for even greater improvements in quantity. The huge scale and vast area of the Yellow River corridor are an opportunity for a qualitative leap, and the economic and societal benefits which navigation of that corridor could bring, and what it would mean for the entire country, are of incomparable value, almost beyond words. Therefore, for continued high growth rates in China’s economy, expanding domestic demand, faster societal transformation, and sustainable development, opening up the Yellow River waterway could provide an enormous driving force forward, and is of the utmost strategic meaning.




The Necessity of Construction of the “Western Line” Water Diversion Project



As humans make ever greater use of water resources, and as the world’s climate grows ever warmer, the importance of strategic planning in water resource management is ever more prominent. In the next 30-50 years, as renewable energy sources come into widescale use, the importance of energy to societal and economic development will gradually give way to the greater importance of water resources for societal and economic development and human survival.


China has total water reserves of 2.8 trillion cubic meters, which is 4th in the world. But per capita water reserves are only 2300 cubic meters, which is 1/4 of the world average, and comes in 121th place. China is therefore among the 13 most water-poor countries in the world. Of China’s more than 600 cities, more than 400 are in short supply of water, and more than 200 have severe water shortages. More than that, China’s North-South distribution of water is severely skewed. 44.3% of the population live in the North, and 59.6% of arable land is in the North, but the North has only 14.5% of China’s water resources, with average per capita water reserves of 747 cubic meters, 1/3 of the national average. Among the North’s water supplies, the Yellow River, Huai River, and Hai Luan River are most prominent. The river basins of those 3 account for about 30% of both national agricultural output and GDP, but they possess only 7.2% of the country’s water. As water supplies become tighter each day, water quality degrades, plant ecology deteriorates, and the land is subject to desertification. This has developed into the harsh reality we now see of dust storms. Ongoing water shortages in the North have already become a great obstacle restricting economic and societal development, and severely threaten sustainable economic growth for the people.



The Great Western Line water diversion project is the groundwork for the Yellow River shipping waterway project, and without it, there is no room to even talk about opening up the Yellow River for marine shipping. That is because the Yellow River has only 50 billion cubic meters of flow per year, not even enough for human consumption and industrial use. During dry periods, the probability is great that the Yellow River could even run dry, and not have enough water flow to float ships. The Yellow River shipping waterway project can provide full utilization of the Western Line water diversion project; with it, much more efficient use can be made of the water diverted into the Yellow River basin. Without it, it will be very hard to “digest” the high capital expenses incurred by the Western Line project and its long period for break-even on investment. The Western Line project can provide a foundation, and the Yellow River shipping waterway project can make it worthwhile. The 2 projects are tied together as one; without the other, neither of them could achieve its potential.



Aside from providing the water needed for marine navigation, the Western Line project can also provide much-needed water resources. To the dry Northwest, that is highly desirable and seemingly unattainable. Only with large quantities of water, the Northwest can improve its soil, check the expansion of deserts, and finally rein in the raging dust storms. The trend of “local improvements in human habitat, but ongoing degradation as a whole” can be turned back, the poverty and backwardness of the West can be changed, the ever-growing gap between rich and poor can be shrunk, the ongoing sluggishness of domestic consumer demand can be improved, and economic development can be expedited. Therefore, the Western Line project, as challenging as it is and as long the distances which must be crossed between river basins are, is utterly imperative and must be carried out.


Overall Situation of Yellow River Navigation


The Yellow River shipping waterway, with the assistance of the Western Line water diversion project, will use the existing Yellow River riverway, and will open up navigation from the Bohai Sea to Lanzhou. The riverbed of the Yellow River will be excavated and dredged, to permit passage of 50,000-ton class vessels from the mouth of the Yellow River to Lanzhou, and with that, it will become the greatest “golden” waterway of the world. The main Yellow River shipping route will be 3300 kilometers in length, from Dongying at the mouth of the Yellow River into the Bohai Sea, all the way to the upstream area of Lanzhou. It will pass through Shandong, Henan, Shaanxi, Shanxi, Inner Mongolia, Ningxia, and Gansu, a total of 7 provinces, providing access for 50,000-ton class ships. The shipping route along the Wei River (渭河)a tributary of the Yellow River, will extend for 388 kilometers, from Tongguan at the mouth of the Wei, to the midstream area of Xianyang, for passage of 50,000-ton class ships. The shipping route along the Yiluo River, another tributary, will extend 50 kilometers, from the mouth of the Yiluo to Luoyang, for passage of 50,000-ton class ships. The shipping route along the Fen River, yet another tributary, will extend 600 kilometers, from Hejin at the mouth of the Fen, to the upstream area of Taiyuan, for passage of 50,000-ton class ships. The Datong shipping route, from the Qingshui River, to Datong, and on to Tongzhou, will extend for 1000 kilometers, from the upper reaches of the Qingshui River, in the middle of the Yellow River, along the Sanggan River, through the Guanting water reservoir, to Tongzhou District in Beijing. It will pass through Datong, and connect to the northern stretch of the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal in Tongzhou, allowing passage of 1000-ton class vessels. On the lower reaches of the Yellow River, the Wei River (卫河)and Majia River secondary shipping routes on the North bank, as well as the Jialu River and Huiji River secondary shipping routes on the South bank, will all connect to the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal, for passage of 1000-ton class vessels. The Beijing-Hangzhou Canal is 1700 kilometers in length, and can carry 10,000-ton class vessels. At its Northern reaches, it permits passage through Tianjin and into the Bohai Sea, whereas at its Southern end, it reaches Hangzhou, and permits passage out into the East Sea. As such, the entire marine shipping network will on one hand reach up to the Bohai Sea, on the other down to the East Sea, and going inwards, all the way to the heart of the West, forming a super-network which will encompass half the country.



Overall Situation of Water Diversion Project


The Western Line water diversion project, will draw 150 billion cubic meters of water from 6 rivers: the Brahmaputra, the Nu River, the Lancang River, the Jinsha River, the Yalong River, and the Dadu River. The water will be sent to the Maqu Daguaiwan super-reservoir on the upper stretches of the Yellow River. Out of that water, 50 billion cubic meters will pass through man-made canals, sending 10 billion cubic meters to Qaidam Basin in Qinghai Province, 30 billion cubic meters to the Taklimakan Desert in Tarim Basin in Xinjiang Province, and 10 billion cubic meters to Lop Nur. The remaining 100 billion cubic meters will flow out along with the existing waterflow of the Yellow River, allowing many hydropower stations serving Lanzhou to operate at full capacity, as well as providing 50 billion cubic meters for diversion along the river branch at Qilihe District of Lanzhou. Those 50 billion will be carried by man-made canals, through the Hexi Corridor, sending 10 billion cubic meters to the Turpan Basin in Xinjiang, another 10 billion to the Junggar Basin, and 30 billion to boost the laggard waterflow of the Shiyang River, Hei River, and other rivers. The balance of 50 billion cubic meters will flow through the Yellow River to the ocean, boosting the river’s water level to permit navigation.



Construction Plan for the Shipping Waterway


The construction can be divided into 2 phases: phase 1 will include tributary river projects, discharge channel projects, tributary shipping waterway projects, shipping canal projects, and water-supply canal projects; phase 2 will include the main shipping waterway project, water locks, reservoir, widening of the Beijing-Hangzhou canal, and water-supply canals into the Northwest.



Tributary projects: These projects will start from the highest class of tributary rivers. First, simple, temporary dams will be built to shut off the entrances of the level-3 tributaries and their large and small gullies [1], and they will be drained of water. Then, the riverbed will be dredged, and the slopes on either side of the river will be graded. Since gentle slopes are advantagous for preventing soil erosion, a 15-degree slope is best. Then, simple, temporary dams will be constructed on the level-2 tributaries and their large and small gullies, and the same procedure as above will be followed. Last will be the level-1 tributaries and their large and small gullies, with the same procedure again. As these projects progress to the lower-class tributaries, the amount of water to be drained will be larger and larger, so if it proves necessary, low-lying land can be found for excavation of temporary drainage reservoirs, or the water can be discharged through canals into other rivers.



Discharge Channel projects: The Wei River (卫河)and Majia River, on the north bank of the lower reaches of the Yellow River, will be blocked off with temporary dams. Then the base of the trapezoidal cross-section of their entire riverbeds will be widened to a minimum of 100 meters, with a minimum depth of 9 meters, a normal water level of 6 meters, 15-degree slopes on each side, and an average downhill slope of 0.04% or less. The Jialu River, Huiji River, and other similar tributaries on the south bank will be dealt with in exactly the same way.



The discharge channels on the north bank will be situated at the mouth of the Fen River, and will flow through man-made channels to the Wei River (卫河), Majia River, etc. The discharge channels on the south bank will be situated at the mouth of the Qinhe, and will flow into the Jialu River, Huiji River, etc. The trapezoidal cross-section of the discharge channels will be 150 meters wide at the base, at least 9 meters in depth, with a normal water level of 6 meters, a 15-20 degree slope on either side, and an average downhill slope of 0.04% or less.



The discharge channel for the Wei River (渭河)can make use of the existing Luo River; man-made channels will conduct water from the mouth of the Wei River to the middle reaches of the Luo River, and further down, other man-made channels will connect the Luo River to the discharge channels on the south bank. The trapezoidal cross-section of these channels will be 20 meters wide at the base, at least 9 meters in depth, with a normal water level of 6 meters, and a 40 degree slope on either side. There is no need to pay special attention to the downhill slope.



The discharge channel in the upriver area of Lanzhou will conduct water through Lanzhou, along the West side of the Yellow River, through Jingtai County, and into the Hexi Corridor. At Wuwei it will flow into the Shiyang River. This channel will help in transporting water through the Hexi Corridor to Xinjiang.



Shipping Canal projects: Upstream from the temporary dams at the mouths of the Wei (渭河) and Yiluo Rivers, a large dam with water locks will be constructed, whereas upstream from Xianyang and Luoyang, dams extending down below ground level will be constructed. The trapezoidal cross-section of the riverway will be at least 400 meters at the base, with a depth of no less than 18 meters, a normal water level of 15 meters, and a slope of 20-25 degrees at the sides, as well as an average downhill slope of 0.04% or less. The trapezoidal cross-sections of other tributary rivers will be decided based on whether they will be opened for shipping, and if so, what the class of ships sailing on them will be.



Canal projects: The canal from the Qingshui River, through Datong, and on to Tongzhou will have a dam with water locks at the entrance of the Qingshui. Another dam with water locks will be located at the exit of the Guanting water reservoir. The trapezoidal cross-section and slope will be the same as the discharge channels on the north and south sides of the lower stretches of the Yellow River.



Channels for Diversion of Water for Human Use: The discharge channel upstream from Lanzhou, also known as the Northwest Channel, will have a branch which will carry water for human use, stretching from Jingtai, along the Yellow River on its Northwest side, to Hohhot.



After the phase 1 projects are completed, the temporary dams for the Wei River, Majia River, Jialu River, and Huiji River, as well as other discharge channels, will be dismantled. All the temporary dams constructed at the mouths of level-1 tributaries will remain. The discharge channel on the upstream side of Lanzhou will be opened up. At the exit of the Northwest Channel, near Lanzhou, a temporary dam will be built on the side toward the downstream side of the Yellow River. The portion of the channel cut off by the dam will be drained. The water can be used locally, or if it is too much, it can be diverted into the desert and used for irrigation.



Main Corridor project: At the mouth of the Yellow River, going out into the sea, a temporary dam will be built. On the downstream side of the temporary dam at Lanzhou, a dam extending below ground level will be built. The trapezoidal cross-section of the dry river bed will be at least 500 meters at the base, with a maximum depth of no less than 18 meters, normal water level of 15 meters, sides with slope of 20-25 degrees, and downhill slope same as the shipping channels. In the canyons of the upper and middle stretches of the Yellow River, the natural features of the terrain and its green cover can be maintained, but the depth and width of the channel must be made to reach the desired dimensions.



The entrance of the Wei River (渭河) water-supply channel will be directly across from the exit of the Lanzhou Northwest Channel.



Water-lock projects: Three dams extending below ground level, with water locks, will be constructed on the dry riverbed at Heishanxia [2], Tuoketuo, and Yumenkou. They will divide the drained riverbed into 4 sections, from Lanzhou-Heishanxia, Heishanxia-Tuoketuo, Tuoketuo-Yumenkou, and Yumenkou-Dongying. All three dams will have multiple locks, including one pair for 50,000-ton class ships, one pair for 20,000-ton class ships, one pair for 10,000-ton class ships, two pairs for 5000-ton class ships, and two pairs for 1000-ton class ships. The chamber inside the 50,000-ton class locks will have effective measurements of 300 by 50 by 12 [3]. The width of the water-lock dams will be about 800 meters laterally, and 1500 meters in the longitudinal direction [4].



Water reservoir projects: At the Maqu Daguaiwan area, there will be a water reservoir with a capacity of 150 billion cubic meters. On the inner side of the Daguaiwan area dikes will be built, and will connect with the mountains surrounding the area to form a vast reservoir 30 kilometers wide, 90 kilometers long, and 60 meters deep. The cofferdam dikes built around the reservoir will be trapezoidal in cross-section, with a 45 degree incline on the inner side, and a 30 degree incline on the outer side, running for a total length of 240 kilometers, at least 184 meters thick at the base, 60 meters tall, and at least 20 meters thick at the peak. The reservoir outlet will be on the downstream side of the Maqu Daguaiwan area. The dikes will be constructed using gabions, with geomembrane on the inner side, and filled with earth dug up on site.



Widening of the Beijing-Hangzhou Canal project: When the elevated riverbed of the Yellow River comes down to ground level [5], and connects with the Beijing-Hangzhou canal, the original capacity of the canal to carry vessels up to 1000 tons will make for a severe mismatch with the 50,000 ton vessel capacity of the Yellow River. Therefore, the capacity of the canal can be increased to carry 10,000 ton vessels, and the elevated portion of the canal in Shandong can be lowered to the same elevation as the connections with the Yellow and Yangze rivers. As the entire course is made flat and level, it will also be deepened and widened. The trapezoidal cross-section of the canal will be at least 300 meters at the base, at least 15 meters deep, with a normal water level of 12 meters, and a 20-25 degree slope on the sides. The average downhill slope of the canal will be decided by the relative elevation of the Yellow River and Yangze River riverbeds. If the slope is excessive, then the construction of water locks must be considered.



At the point where the main Yellow River shipping channel exits to the sea at Dongying, the bottom will be dredged to a depth of at least 25 meters. In the gulf port at the mouth of the Yellow River, the depth to which the mooring berths will be dredged will be decided according to the depth which the ships require.



After the phase 2 projects complete, all the tributary and main riverbed temporary dams will be dismantled. The bypass channels running along the Wei River and Yiluo River will be taken out of commission, but can be left in place in case they are useful in the future. The discharge channels on the north and south sides of the lower reaches of the Yellow River will be kept and will serve as secondary river channels. The primary river channel on the lower end of the Yellow River will become its primary shipping channel, and the secondary river channels will become secondary shipping channels. The primary and secondary Yellow River shipping channels, along with the Qingshui-Datong-Tongzhou canal and the Beijing-Hangzhou canals will all connect for passage of shipping traffic, and will form the backbone [6] of the new marine shipping network.



The discharge channels chosen for use during the Yellow River shipping channel project, are all preexisting riverways, which will greatly reduce the work to be done and the amount of movement required. The discharge channels used on the upper stretches of the Yellow River, however, do include some man-made channels for diversion of water to the Hexi Corridor. These discharge channels will not require too much work, will not occupy too much space, and will not require many people to be relocated.



Since the average downhill slope of the Yellow River riverbed is as high as 0.46%, the limited water volume available cannot maintain the required depth when descending such a steep slope. If we were to limit the average slope to no more than 0.06%, the height of each big dam with water-locks would have to be extended as high as 400 meters, or more. If that was the case, the work required to build each dam, and the technical difficulty involved, as well as the work involved in building dikes on either side of the riverway, would be greatly increased. The enormous dams and dikes, protruding hundreds of meters from the ground, would form huge barriers, as well as being a safety hazard. While our plan does involve a certain degree of height to the dams, we solve the problem primarily by making the base of the dams extend down below ground level, thus increasing the difference between water level behind and in front of the dam, and making it possible to flatten out the slope of the riverbed. The height of those huge 400-meter dams will mostly be *below* ground level, greatly mitigating the safety hazard, and reducing the technical difficulty of construction. This way, the above-ground height of both dams and dikes can be kept within reasonable limits.



Plan for the Water Diversion Project




150 billion cubic meters of water are to be drawn from the Brahmaputra, the Nu River, the Lancang River, the Jinsha River, the Yalong River, and the Dadu River, and be diverted to the upper Yellow River. Of that amount, 50 billion cubic meters will be taken from the Brahmaputra, approximately 30% of its yearly flow of 165.4 billion cubic meters; the Nu River will contribute 24 billion cubic meters, roughly 35% of its yearly flow of 74 billion cubic meters; from the Lancang River, 26 billion cubic meters, roughly 35% of its yearly flow of 74 billion cubic meters; from the Jinsha River, 28 billion cubic meters, roughly 20% of its yearly flow of 143 billion cubic meters; from the Yalong River, 12 billion cubic meters, roughly 20% of its yearly flow of 60.4 billion cubic meters; and from the Dadu River, 10 billion cubic meters, roughly 20% of its yearly flow of 50 billion cubic meters.



The water outlet on the Brahmaputra will be the point where the level-2 tributaries Palongzangbu and Yigongzangbu flow into the (level-1 tributary) Layue River. The diverted water will flow east along the Sichuan-Tibet Highway, from Mibo to Bashe, and will join the channel for water diverted from the Nu River. The merged channel will continue flowing along the Sichuan-Tibet Highway, from Xiaya to Changdu, and will merge with the channel carrying diverted water from the Lancang River. The channel, now carrying water from 3 rivers, will continue along the highway, from Jiangda to Dege, and will then merge with the channel carrying water from the Jinsha River. The merged channel will will continue along the highway, past Que’er Mountain, through Manigange to Ganmu, and will then merge with the channel carrying water from the Yalong River. Now carrying water from 5 rivers, the merged channel will continue along the same highway, through Huhuo, to Lianghekou, on the Dajin River, a tributary of the Dadu River. There, it will merge with the water diverted from the Dadu River, and will turn north, flowing along the Aba Highway, through Rangtang and Aba. It will continue flowing to the upper Yellow River, and will cross over the Yellow River and flow into the Maqu Daguaiwan reservoir.



Previous proposals for the Western Line water diversion project, have generally recommended using natural (downhill) water flow to transport the water, so as to reduce the operating costs of water diversion. However, this would make the technical difficulty of the project very great. It would mean building highly elevated reservoirs, and excavating long, deep tunnels for the water to flow through. If we take a different perspective, and abandon the idea of natural water flow, instead using external electric power to pump the water, that extreme technical difficulty can be avoided, though the operating costs will of course be much greater. If we can bear those operating costs, then the plan described above is feasible. The difference between the Datongdao water project and most other water projects, is that the economic and social benefits to be reaped are far greater. Most water projects take a long time to recoup the construction costs, or even never recoup them at all. In contrast, the Datongdao project has enormous meaning; in effect, it can turn Henan province, Shanxi province, Shaanxi province, Inner Mongolia, Ningxia province, Gansu province, and Anhui province into “coastal” provinces. At the same time, it will make Qinghai, Xinjiang, and Tibet take a giant step towards parity with central China, as if the “golden coastline” of Southeast China was extended all the way into the belly of the deep West. So the Datongdao project can pay back all the capital expenses of the entire project, it can compensate for all the damages caused, and it can pay for the high operating expenses of electric pumping. Therefore, there is no reason why this project cannot proceed by use of electric pumping for water transport, thus easily avoiding the difficulty of building elevated reservoirs and deep, long-distance tunnels. Besides, the enormous power generation capacity which the Brahmaputra Daguaiwan power station will provide, will do much to relieve the strain on the existing power network.



If electric pumping is used all along the entire water diversion course, then there is no need to worry about altitude and levelness when choosing the route to be taken, so a route which takes the pipes along a public highway will be simplest and most convenient for construction. The volume of the reservoirs and channels for diverted water will not be an issue for water delivery, so construction of reservoirs at the water inlets and outlets will not be required. In the high mountains and deep valleys of the Southwest, there will be no need to build dams or dig long, deep tunnels, and the need to build roads for transporting construction supplies into remote areas will be greatly alleviated. Basically, all the tricky technical parts of the Datongdao and Western Line projects will disappear. With no high-altitude reservoirs, no deep tunnels, and pipes and channels running along public highways, the quantity, difficulty, and expense of construction work will be slashed. The investment capital required to set up water pipes and channels, and the high operating expenses of pumping the water, can all be carried by the enormous economic and social dividends provided by marine shipping. The electric power generated will be seasonal, which is disadvantageous for any other use; but for water diversion, it’s perfect. When the rivers are high, the hydroelectric power stations will produce at full capacity, just when the pumps need the most power. When the rivers are at moderate level, the hydroelectric stations will generate a moderate amount of power, and the power consumption of the pumps will also be moderate. When the rivers are low, water will not be diverted. Any hydroelectric power generated during the low season, as well as any excess power during the high season, will be given to Tibet.



The great canyon of the Brahmaputra forms a “U” shape facing toward the Northeast. The water reservoir which is to be built on the Brahmaputra will be toward the end of one branch of the “U”, at Paiqu town. That part of the canyon has yearly water flow of 68 billion cubic meters. The dam will be 50 meters high, and will pass 40 billion cubic meters through the generator turbines each year. The generator station itself will be located close to the other branch of the “U”, will have a capacity of 35,000 megawatts, and will connect to the reservoir through a sloped tunnel 30 meters in diameter and several kilometers long. The top and bottom of the tunnel will have a 2.2 kilometer difference in elevation, and will pass enough water to generate 150 million megawatt-hours per year.



The power used for pumping the diverted water could be brought in from elsewhere, or could be transmitted from the Brahmaputra power station. Ideally, the power generated from the diverted rivers would be used to cover the power needs of the whole diversion project, though this would increase the required investment and difficulty of construction. Even if it is deemed necessary to buy power from elsewhere, the economic benefits of the Datongdao project are still enough to pay for its operating expenses. Of course, if building the new power stations proves too difficult to do right away, the project could initially run on purchased electricity, and when the time is right, the Brahmaputra power station could be built. Or, if China’s level of engineering and construction expertise advances in the future, maybe converting the water diversion channels over to use natural water flow rather than pumps would become feasible.



Research Needed on Key Technological Questions for Shipping Channels




Through simulation and experimentation, the required downhill slope of the main shipping corridor sections, tributary shipping channels, and canals, as well as the height of the dams, and the dimensions, structure, and number of water locks can be determined.



Generally, a single set of water locks can raise a ship by 30-35 meters. To raise a ship over 400 meters, it will have to sequentially traverse more than 10 sets of locks. That will make the size of the big water-lock dams in the longitudinal direction exceed several kilometers. If we limit the number of locks to be traversed to cross a single dam to 5, then each set of locks will have to elevate ships by close to 100 meters, which would require a major breakthrough in water-lock design.



Geological analysis and experimentation will be required on the sites slated for construction of big water-lock dams. Through design modelling, the structure and dimensions of the dams can be determined (with a goal of achieving over 100 years of useable lifetime).



After calculating the steady-state water flow through the Lanzhou dam, the size of valves required and hoists for actuating the valves can be calculated. Estimates of the water level in the shipping corridors and below the Lanzhou dam will be made, and the design of the PLC programs for real-time control of water flow in and out of the water locks will be determined.



Likewise, according to the steady-state water flow through the Qingshui-Datong-Tongzhou canal dam, the size of valves and value actuators required will be calculated. Estimated water levels will inform the design of the PLC programs for control of water locks.



Likewise, calculations will be made for the Wei River (渭河) dam, the other tributary shipping channels, and the channels to Qinghai and the Hexi Corridor.



After soil study on the sites for reservoirs, the type of dike construction required to prevent leakage, and the dimensions of the dikes will be decided.



Research Needed on Key Technological Questions for Water Diversion




According to the cross-section and flow required through each of the water inlets on the source rivers, the design of the equipment for drawing water and the PLC programs for adjusting and controlling pump output will be determined.



Likewise, the cross-section and flow through the channel into the Brahmaputra hydroelectric station will determine the valves and valve actuators to be used, as well as the design of the PLC programs for controlling and adjusting water flow.



Regarding the 30-meter diameter, 40 kilometer long tunnel or pipe for sending water from the reservoir to the hydroelectric station, study is needed to see how to reduce leakage, to provide more electric power (at the cost of higher construction capital).



To control flow and reduce energy wastage, the water from each source river will go through its own set of intake pipes before flowing into the main pipe. The number and diameter of the intake pipes will be determined according to the desired volume of water to be drawn from each river. Likewise, according to the volume which each set of intake pipes adds to the flow in the main pipes, the number of main pipes and their diameter at each section will be determined.



Other Relevant Questions




The section from Lanzhou-Heishanxia is 290 kilometers long, with a drop of 280 meters, for an average slope of 0.96%. To reduce that slope to 0.06%, the drop must be reduced by 263 meters. If the dam at the bottom of this section is 150 meters high, the base of the dam at the top must be 113 meters below the ground. For Heishanxia-Tuoketuo, the distance is 950 kilometers with a drop of 250 meters, for a slope of 0.26%. To reduce that to 0.055%, the drop must be reduced by 198 meters. If the dam at the bottom is at ground level, the base of the dam at the top must be 198 meters below ground. For Tuoketuo-Yumenkou, the distance is 720 kilometers, drop is 610 meters, making a slope of 0.85%. To reduce slope to 0.045%, the drop must be reduced 578 meters. If the dam at the bottom is 150 meters tall, the base of the dam at the top must be 428 meters below ground. Yumenkou-Dongying is a distance of 1340 kilometers, with a drop of 340 meters, for a slope of 0.28%. To reduce the slope to 0.04%, the drop must be reduced by 328 meters. The outlet of this section will be at sea level, so the base of the dam at the top must extend 328 meters below ground. In these 4 sections, the greatest difference in water level across a dam is 478 meters; if that difference must be traversed through 5 sequential sets of water-locks, then each set of locks must have doors more than 100 meters tall. There is no way that such doors could be manufactured in a single piece and transported from elsewhere; they can only be built in place.



The elevation of the Qingshui River is about 500 meters, and the water level in the Guanting reservoir will be over 400 meters. So the slope of the channel leading to the reservoir will be rather shallow. At the entrance of the Qingshui from the Yellow River, a dam with water-locks, several tens of meters high, can be built. After the reservoir, the channel leading to Tongzhou is rather steeply sloped, so a dam with water-locks and 400+ meters difference in water level across the dam will be needed.



These dams which extend down into the ground, will require excavation of a vastly greater amount of earth, with a corresponding increase in construction cost. But on the other hand, those deep reservoirs will not require as much land area, reducing the number of residents who will have to be relocated.



When excavation for the dams reaches a certain depth, the earth will turn to bedrock, and further excavation will be much more difficult. To overcome this difficulty, we can do research and development of equipment for cutting away bedrock, as well as equipment for suspending and moving loads on cables drawn across the river in mid-air.



If the water level of the Fen River is too low, water can be drawn from the source of the Sanggan River (where the Datong canal is) and supplied to the Fen River. That water can flow through the Qingshui River, into the Fen River, and back into the main flow at the exit of the Fen River.



The shipping channel will pass through canyons in the Lanzhou-Heishanxia and Tuoketuo-Yumenkou sections. If the sides of the canyons are structurally sound, they can be left as is (with their green cover), and do not need to be widened. However, the base of the channel must be at least 150 meters wide.



The water-supply channel running from the Wei River (渭河) can use natural, downhill water flow. The tunnel required for this channel may be as much as 50 kilometers long.



Because the slope of the 4 sections of the main shipping channel will intersect with ground level (starting below ground level and moving above ground level), to stay out of the way of the 10,000-plus ton ships passing through, some cross-river structures can pass directly at ground level, some must cross over at a certain minimum height, and some may cross over underneath the river bottom.



Suppliers for large water locks, icebreaker ships, rock cutting equipment, and cross-river cable cars must be searched out and selected. If necessary, R&D of this equipment can be done specially for the Yellow River project.



Because the reservoir for diverted water will be on the upper Yellow River, and the volume of water to be diverted will vary with the seasons, water diversion will primarily be concentrated from May to November. This means that the required pump power and pipe capacity will be more than double what it would have been if the water diversion was evenly spread over the whole year.



Because this project will convey water at high pressure over long distances, equipment for real-time detection and reporting of water leaks will be needed. Also, in case of sudden pressure spikes caused by mechanical breakdown, real-time pressure monitoring and automatic pressure blow-off valves will be needed.



Suppliers must be selected for water pipes and pumps.



Influence on the Environment




Because of the large, high-volume reservoir on the upper Yellow River, other reservoirs will not be needed at the water inlets and outlets for water diversion. The dam at the Brahmaputra power station will be less than 50 meters high, and not excessively large, so the chances of causing a geological disaster is small. Even if a geological disaster was to occur, it would be unlikely to cause disastrous consequences. The water transmission pipes will be running along rivers and highways, not through long underground tunnels, so even if struck by a major earthquake, they would not be a threat to human life.



The limits imposed by geography on the routing of water transmission pipes, means that aside from the Brahmaputra, the water outlets and points for drawing water will mostly be at the upper reaches or the sources of the supply rivers. The water will be drawn in stages. On the condition that river ecology should kept fairly good, we will try to avoid laying excessively long pipes or using too much energy [7]. The water drawn from the Jinsha River, Yalong River, and Dadu River will be 20% of their yearly flow. On each river, water will be drawn at 2 points, one “water outlet” and one “water-drawing cross section” [8], each point taking 10% of the river’s flow. The water flow required to maintain healthy river ecology is 50% of this cross-section flow [9]. The water drawn from the Nu River and Lancang River will be 35% of their yearly flow, and will be drawn using 1 “water outlet” and 2 “water-drawing cross sections”, each point taking 11.7% of the river’s flow. The ecological water quantity will be 50% of this cross-section flow. The water drawn from the Brahmaputra will be 30% of its yearly flow. The proportion of water drawn at the Layue He water outlet, as well as the proportion diverted through the electric turbines will both be 60%, with ecological water flow of 40%. Basically, this conforms with accepted norms for ecological water flow, and will have only limited impact on the river ecology.



Building the reservoir for diverted water on the upper Yellow River will mean there is no need to build large reservoirs on the supply rivers. The technical difficulty of building a reservoir is the same no matter where you put it, but the upper Yellow River area is broad and open, and easy to access. This is much better than building a reservoir in the mountains and gorges where few people live, and where fault zones are closely concentrated.



Aside from the power station, the supply rivers will have no dams and no reservoirs, causing only limited damage to plant and animal life. This will make it possible to maintain the original ecology fairly well. The impact on ecology and the environment will be reduced to its lowest possible limit.



Benefits of the Projects




Overall Benefits of Marine Shipping




Currently, the Yangze River basin accounts for 45% of China’s GDP. The Yellow River basin’s contribution to GDP is only 20% of the Yangze River basin. But after the Yellow River shipping corridor opens up wide, the Yellow River area has room for development far exceeding that of the Yangze River area. It has rich energy and mineral resources, vast areas of arable land, ample sunshine, unique tourism resources, and the potential for a booming cruise industry. All this potential can be fully set loose by the Datongdao project. If we set 2030 as a baseline for completion, we estimate that in the first 10 years after completion, GDP would grow by 14%; in the 2nd and 3rd 10-year periods, GDP growth would slow down by 2%; and in the 4th and 5th 10-year periods, it would again slow down by 1.5%. If the project is not carried out, during the same time period, we estimate that GDP growth in the 1st 10 years would be 7%, dropping by 0.5% for each 10-year period following that. Under these 2 projections, over that 50-year period, tax revenues would differ by 20% of current GDP (social discount rate of 7%), and financial benefits would differ by 5% of current GDP [10].



If GDP growth in the Yellow River area was to drop by 1.5% in the 3rd 10-year period, and again in the 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th, and if we estimate GDP growth in the Yangze River area at 7%, dropping 0.5% every 10 years, then in 32 years, the Yellow River could equal the Yangze River in economic output. Each would account for 30% of GDP, forming 2 pillars of the national economy. After another 38 years, the 2 areas would differ by a ratio of 2:1. In other words, by 2062 the Yellow River basin and Yangze River basin could each account for 30% of GDP, and by 2100, the Yellow River basin could exceed the Yangze River basin by a factor of 2, accounting for 45% of GDP, and forming the greatest axis of economic development in the entire country.



Ecological Benefits




The diverted water combined with the natural water flow of the Yellow River will total about 105 billion cubic meters per year. The water will be allocated as follows: To satisfy the needs of marine navigation on the Wei River (渭河), 10 billion cubic meters will be divided off and sent to the source of the Wei River; 5 billion cubic meters will go to the Jilantai desert lake; 20 billion cubic meters will be used to promote the growth of plant cover on the Loess Plateau, 10 billion of that going to the Ansaiwangyao Reservoir, and the other 10 billion to both Haotongyinchagan Nur (desert lake) in the Maowusu drylands, and Hongjiannao (desert lake) in the Kubuqi Desert; 10 billion cubic meters will go to areas along the Yellow River itself, 5 billion of that to Wuliangsuhai in the Hetao area, 3 billion to Liangchengdaihai, and 2 billion to Huangqihai in the area of Chahar Right Front Banner Tugui Town [11]; 5 billion cubic meters will flow into the Qingshui He-Datong-Tongzhou canal; and the original 30 billion cubic meters plus 50 billion more will be available for domestic and industrial use for residents of the Yellow River basin. The remaining 5 billion cubic meters, plus 10 billion more which will flow from the Wei River back into the Yellow River, will promote the ecological health of the Yellow River delta, and will finally flow out into the Bohai Sea. The amount of water available for human consumption and industrial use along the Yellow River will be increased by 20 billion cubic meters, and that for ecological use will be increased by 30 billion cubic meters.



The Datongdao is not only a massive shipping corridor, but also a huge ecological protection area. The ecological protection plan will be formed alongside the marine shipping corridor project plan, and will be carried out in parallel, harmoniously, with a goal of ensuring that the positive environmental impact will far outstrip any negative effects. Central China will benefit from a new and impregnable “green wall” [12]. A new “Great Wall of water” will be built, and for all of China, the trend of “localized improvements in living environment, but ongoing degradation as a whole” will be completely turned around.



20 billion cubic meters of the diverted water will be used for large-scale expansion of the grasslands and forests of the Loess Plateau. After several decades, the Loess Plateau will return to the warm and rainy climate, lush vegetation, and vast primeval forests of 6000 years ago.



100 billion cubic meters of diverted water will be used for large-scale conversion of deserts to healthy land, effectively arresting the ongoing spread of dust and sand storms. The areas which give rise to sand storms will be both shrunk and surrounded, and the deserts will turn into an oasis, until the source of sand storms has been completely rooted out.



In China, the cost of environmental pollution and ecological damage was calculated in the mid-90’s as 8% of GDP. The World Bank proposed a figure of 13% instead, whereas the whitepaper “Environmental Protection in China (1995-2005)” took it to be 10%. According to calculations by the China Academy of Science, the cost of environmental damage has already risen to 15% of GDP. If we take 10% of GDP as an estimate, and further estimate that the environmental improvements brought by the Datongdao project will reduce those damages by 1/3, the environmental value of the project will be 3.3% of GDP. If we use China’s 2010 GDP of 40 trillion RMB for the purpose of estimation, the environmental value of the project works out to 1.3 trillion RMB.



Power Generation Benefits




In areas, the project will increase power generation capacity. After water diversion, 100 billion cubic meters of water will be available for hydroelectric stations from Maqu all the way to Lanzhou, including those already built, those under construction, and those yet to come.



In other areas, the project will reduce generation capacity. Power stations already built, under construction, and yet to come on the Nu River and Lancang River will suffer a 35% reduction in capacity, and 20% for those on the Yalong River, Dadu River, and Jinsha River. The total loss in power generation will equal that produced by stations on the main riverway of the Yellow River, below Lanzhou, before water diversion.



With 2030 as a baseline year for completion, 20% of the difference between the increases and decreases, when projected over a 50-year period, will go to increasing national tax revenues (social discount rate of 7%). The 10% of pure profit will go to financial benefits. Of course, if the decreases exceed the increases, then the power generation benefits will turn into power generation losses.



Tourism Benefits




Tourism benefits will mainly come from 2 sources; first will be increased tourism in the Yellow River basin, especially a booming leisure cruise industry, and second will be increased tourism in the great Northwest. Right now, the yearly rate of growth in the Chinese tourism industry is 10%. With 2030 as a baseline year for completion, if the project is not carried out, tourism growth in the 1st 10-year period will be 8%, decreasing by 0.5% each 10 years after that; whereas if the project is carried out, tourism growth in the 1st 10 years will be 14%, decreasing by 1% each 10 years after that. Projecting through a 50-year period, 20% of the difference will go to increasing national tax revenues (7% social discount rate), and 8% pure profit will go to financial benefits.



Exploration of Related Questions




Regarding the citizens displced by the project, either their land can be bought out, new towns can be built for them in other locations, or they can be encouraged to immigrate to other areas, etc. Some can work in the new shipping and tourist industries, can be employed to work on ecological improvement projects along the river, or can share in the ongoing development of the Northwest and the Yellow River basin.



The discharge channels will mostly run along the course of existing rivers, and will take up little land and result in the displacement of only a few people. Resettling those people will not pose a problem. Those employed as farmers can continue working in the agricultural sector, which will experience great growth from the Datongdao project. They will become modern agricultural workers. In the aftermath of the project, rapid economic development will ensue in both the Yellow River basin and the Northwest, opening up plenty of work opportunities for all who work in other industries.



As large quantities of water are diverted into the Tibetan and Qinghai plateau, including the Three Rivers Conservation Area, the Norgay Conservation Area, and the Mount Hengduan Biodiversity Protection Area, the whole area will become much more suitable for human habitation, and will become a good place for displaced citizens to move in to.



The water diversion project involves 3 rivers which cross national borders, namely, the Brahmaputra, the Nu River, and the Lancang River. Development and exploitation of these rivers will raise the question of environmental impact on other countries. Because these rivers experience a heavy flow of water during the wet season, the countries downstream are often struck by floods. And water diversion will be carried out during the wet season. During the dry season, water will not be diverted. This will help to alleviate flooding in the downstream countries during the wet season, and during the dry season, the water available for their use will not be reduced. Actually, with such a great disparity between the wet and dry seasons, exploitation of the rivers for water diversion or for hydroelectric generation will produce very different effects on the downstream nations. If the water flow was even year-round, it would remain even under both water diversion and hydroelectric generation; it’s just that the flow would be less under water diversion. With variable flow, the hydroelectric dams could store water up to a certain point in the wet season, but after that, they would have to open up the watergates and let the water flow past, resulting in floods downstream. Conversely, during the dry season, the dams would have to hold back the water flow to maintain their reservoir level, resulting in a conflict of interest with the people downstream who need that water. In contrast, water diversion does not conflict with the interests of others in any way; when the water levels are high, water will be diverted, evening out the flow downstream, and when water levels are low, water will not be diverted, so if there are droughts downstream, that will have nothing to do with the water diversion project. The greater the variability in water flow, the better water diversion looks. Regarding the downstream countries, often beset by floods, not only will water diversion not cause a loss of water in the dry season, but it will alleviate or even put an end to the damage inflicted on them by floods.



The environmental benefits the project will bring to the Yellow River and other recipients of water, will far outstrip any environmental damage caused to the supply rivers and the Yangze. According to the principle of diminishing marginal utility [13], when the supply of some good increases, the utility derived from its use will also increase, but after a certain level of supply is surpassed, the marginal increase in utility derived from further increases in supply will diminish. If 50 billion cubic meters of water was added to the Yangze, which already possesses 1 trillion, it wouldn’t do much good, or if 50 billion were taken away, it wouldn’t cause any great loss either. In contrast, adding 50 billion cubic meters to the Yellow River, which only had 50 billion cubic meters of flow to start with, will result in huge benefits. Besides, because the water will be drawn in stages, along with other innovative measures designed to reduce the impact on the supply waterways, any damage caused will be very limited. The value of that water to the Yellow River basin, will be orders of magnitude greater than its value in the Yangze River basin.



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China says it is doing the Earth a service by banning grazing, and the Tibetan nomads who graze their herds on the grasslands of eastern Tibet, the most fertile pasturelands of the Tibetan Plateau.

The ending of nomadic livelihoods is justified, China says, as the best, and only, way of rehabilitating rangelands that are degrading. The science of ecology is used to justify widespread removal and nullification of land rights, and the closing down of a way of life that sustained the whole Tibetan civilisation for thousands of years.

This use of ecology as justification for social engineering and exclusion, largely goes unchallenged. Environmentalists generally applaud China for increasing the size of its protected areas, nature reserves, rehabilitation zones, carbon sequestration areas; without looking a bit more closely at what actually happens on the ground, in the name of these lofty goals.






Presentation by Gabriel Lafitte,         #gltibet    +613 59623434


Ecology is a relatively new science, an attempt at encompassing and uniting the many narrowly specialised sciences that proceed by isolating atomistic fragments of complex realities, to identify their nature, causes and effects. The driving idea behind the new science of ecology was that we must be able to integrate all the atomistic knowledge into a whole, a big picture, if we are to act skilfully in the world, to maintain biodiversity, respect nature and yet maintain productivity for human use.

Ecology is focussed on ecosystems. By definition, an ecosystem is an enduring assemblage of plants, animals, soils, climate and many other factors, that over time is in equilibrium. The fact that a definable associated population of plants and animals exists in a specified area is itself a priori proof of equilibrium. Thus, also by definition, disequilibrium threatens that ecosystem. These days the disequilibrium that most immediately comes to mind is global climate warming.

When ecology took off, in the 1960s, these assumptions were necessary, if there was ever to be a science of wholes and parts, not just of isolated units that might or might not add up. As man’s mastery over nature accelerated, it seemed essential that we have some way of capturing, in words and numbers, what nature is, how it all hangs together. But those assumptions turn out to be unworkable; and hard to  make useful, since the amount of data required to capture the dynamics of even a simple ecosystem is so huge that there has hardly ever been the resources, time and money, to do it. So the promise of ecology remains largely unfulfilled. Sixty years of the science of ecology has led only to frustration that no ecosystem has been meaningfully mapped; the dynamics of a living, interdependent system are just too great to capture numerically or comprehend.

The impulse to seeing the environment as a connected whole with interlinked parts drove the introduction of ecology and still does. But in practice it has never been effected—the reductionist simplification of looking for ‘causes’ is too deeply embedded in sciences’ knowledge practices.

This doesn’t mean ecology has fallen. As an idea, and an ideal, it remains potent, perhaps more so now than ever, again because we now grapple with the human power to change the planetary climate, and every ecosystem on the planet. This seems especially so for Tibet, where warming is happening faster than anywhere except at the poles.

Ecology, and Tibet as part of China, are the same age, both created after WWII. It was only when the Tibetan Plateau was incorporated into China in the late 1950s that modern scientific categories and concepts were applied to Tibet. Until then, the traditional Tibetan sciences, of the medicinal properties of plants and ores, metallurgy and of experimental investigation of the nature of the mind, sufficed.



The entry of modern science, including the science of ecology, was part of China’s proof to the world of its claim to Tibet. China was civilising Tibet, erasing a blank spot on the scientific map, bringing to the world of science one of the last untaxonomised, uncategorised of inhabited lands. This was part of Tibet entering history, entering the path of development and progress, leaving behind its feudal darkness, isolation, stagnation and ignorance. The figure of Mr.Science had been depicted as China’s saviour, China’s entry into modernity, for generations, and now China would introduce Mr. Science to Tibet too.

By far the most important scientists who crisscrossed Tibet, sometimes in large expeditions, starting in the 1950s, were the geologists. To this day, if one looks up scientific publications on the Tibetan Plateau, whether in Chinese or other languages, most of it is geology. This is understandable, since Tibet is the most dramatic of continental collisions, still ongoing. But China’s geologists were mainly interested in locating economic deposits of minerals, confirming China’s long-held belief that the ores of Tibet could enrich a revolutionary China determined to overtake the UK in steel production, as fast as possible.

The geologists were praised as exemplary, model workers, sacrificing lives of comfort to work in the badlands of China’s far west, as guerrillas of the era of socialist construction, to definitively locate those deposits. So exemplary were these warriors of socialist construction, so willing to eat bitterness and endure hardship, they became idealised role models held up to the youth of the Cultural Revolution as the fearless pioneers to emulate.

It took decades, but the geological guerrillas did find those ores, firstly chromite and oil, then massive deposits of copper, gold and silver together, right on the continental collision lines, on the banks of Tibet’s great rivers, which were formed by the collision of the Indian and Eurasian continents. Gradually they proved the Tibetan Plateau is indeed a mineraliferous province, to be exploited just at the time the world’s factory relocated inland, to the foot of the Tibetan Plateau, needing raw materials not so readily sourced from abroad.

While geology flourished, so did other sciences, all of them basic to creating a new economy of intensified productivity. In the first 52 years of China’s Tibet, to 1991, not one book was published by Chinese scientists about ecology in Tibet, but there were many books of taxonomy, identifying and categorising the thousands of unfamiliar species of Tibet. The first volume on vegetation of Tibet was published in 1966, supplanting the traditional materia medica texts identifying Tibetan plants of medicinal use. Nothing further was published while China’s Cultural Revolution focused instead on denouncing everything old and educated, speaking bitterness against all old knowledge. But in 1983 a volume on the fungi of Tibet was published, and the first of the five volumes of the Tibetan Flora. The Linnean task of categorising the plants of Tibet had been basically conquered. Further, in 1985 Tibetan Bryophytes was published, and next year Tibetan Lichens, with Tibetan Diatoms in 1990, also Tibetan Economic Plants.  For fauna, there was a similar emphasis on economic animals, specifically on the insects that might attack new crops and scientific agriculture. As early as 1981 the first volume of Tibetan Insects was published, followed in 1984 by Locusts in Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, Tibetan Aquatic Invertebrates in 1983, as well as Records of Tibetan Birds. In 1986 came Tibetan Mammals and in 1987 Tibetan Amphibians and Reptiles. In all of these, the emphasis was on how to recognise each species. The assignation of Greek and Latin names for all that lives in this Tibetan terra incognita remained paramount.

By the 1990s, it became possible to start thinking ecologically, as well as taxonomically; to consider the wholes made up of the taxonomised parts. 1995, for example, saw not only the publication of Tibet’s Fish and Fish Resources, but also Study on Tibet Plateau’s Forest Ecology. This first title on ecology focused on the readily identifiable vegetation classes and communities of eastern Tibet, stratified by altitude into distinct zones, a phenomenon noted a century and a half earlier by Joseph Hooker, who chose to botanise the Himalayas precisely because all vegetation classes, from tropical to arctic, could be conveniently found on a single ascent. The availability of Tibet’s forests, in catchments above the headwaters of the Yangtze, was convenient also for China’s loggers, so much so that Study on Tibet Plateau’s Forest Ecology came out only after three or more decades of ruthless exploitation of Tibetan forests, and only three years before exploitation was officially halted, by decree, to conserve watersheds and protect downstream Yangtze users from floods.

These books, all in Chinese, pioneered the insertion of global science into Tibet, and laid the foundations for today’s intensive extractive economy, but also today’s concern with the Tibetan Plateau as a unit, as a unique island in the sky, so big and high that even the jetstream diverts around it, differently in summer and winter. The Tibetan Plateau gradually emerges from the torrent of detail, as a singularity, standing out in every way from its surrounds, as a spectrum of ecosystems ranging from remnants of subtropical forest to alpine desert, from humid southeast to arid northwest.

Yet even now, in 2014, it is hard to speak of the ecology of Tibet, because knowledge of Tibet, which is close to two percent of the planetary land surface, remains fundamentally fragmented, patchy, skewed towards economic payoffs, neglectful  of the human uses and stewardship of the vast plateau and its millennia of sustainable human curation. The number of scientific reports of Tibet continues to grow, but mostly they are narrower and narrower in focus.



At the same time, efforts to synthesize available data into much bigger pictures are having remarkable results. Climate science is a prime example. Only quite recently was it possible to connect knowledge of regional climate systems, generating a dawning awareness that the entire planet has a single climate system, of great complexity, still not well understood, with many variables, interdependencies and forcings. But the bottom line is that the planetary climate should be understood as a system, and moreover, a system that can be changed by human interventions. That’s ecology on a grand scale.

Likewise, it has only recently dawned on biogeographers that the collision of India with Eurasia, and the uplift of the Tibetan Plateau, happening at a particular phase in the evolution of life, had a profound effect on the biodiversity of the entire northern hemisphere, including even North America. There is growing evidence that the creation of the Tibetan Plateau not only initiated the monsoonal climate of Asia, and widespread warming;  but also initiated much later a global cooling, which led to the dispersal of Tibet’s cold climate plants and animals across a much colder Eurasia. So Tibet, known today as the source of Asia’s rivers, is also the source of Asia’s climate, and of the biota, plants and animals, of much of the northern hemisphere.

If the Tibetan Plateau was scientifically unknown until the middle of the 20th century, this cannot be said of the surrounding lands, of both India and China. The prior scientising of both China and India has had a profound impact on how Tibet, the blank canvas to be filled, was conceived as a scientific object. In India, long before the science of ecology was born, the British took great interest in forests and mountains, rivers and jungles, beasts and birds, and proceeded to survey this jewel in their crown. The Great Trigonometrical Survey of India went on to surreptitiously triangulate Tibet as well, setting the scene quite literally for the British invasion of 1904.

British categories, later to become foundational to the science of ecology, were inscribed as hard, exclusive concepts. Forests were to be preserved, by excluding the natives, who were to be fenced out and punished if caught inside the fence. The idea of inhabited forests best protected by their inhabitants was alien to British scientific thinking, a basic mistake now being repeated by China, as it excludes forest dwellers from rehabilitating decimated forests, and closes pastures in the name of protecting watersheds.



Thus we come, inevitably, from the state of ecology to an ecology of the state. India under the British Raj, revolutionary China embracing Mr. Science, and contemporary Tibet would seem to have little in common, separated not only in space but by two or more centuries of scientific change. Yet all share some basics, including a panoptic, urban, imperial gaze that, everywhere it gazes upon, sees lack, stress, disequilibrium, threat, danger, and crisis.

This remote gaze justifies strong statist interventions, and the creation of regulatory regimes single-mindedly focused on rectifying the dangerous disequilibrium identified by the scientific gaze. Thus villagers are locked out of their forests, and today Tibetan pastoralists en masse are excluded from their pastures and officially designated as “ecological migrants”, as if the nullification of their land tenure security and livelihoods is voluntary. Although the science of ecology aims at holistic inclusiveness, this has eluded both the ecologists and the policymakers, who revert to exclusive, narrowly focused policies that attempt to solve one narrowly defined problem by creating others.

Just as the British Raj knew little and cared little about the lives of India’s forest villagers, so China today knows little about the lives, practices, biodiversity conservation work and sustainable land management strategies of the Tibetan pastoral nomads. What China doesn’t see is nine thousand years of skilful nomadic use of pastures with a light touch, always moving on well before the grasses are overgrazed. What China does see, often by satellite observations from 400 kms up in space, is that the rangelands are degrading, which may (in largely unspecified ways) threaten downstream China’s water supplies. Hence the sedentarization policy, since 2003, of tuimu huancao,  closing pastures to grow more grass. Implementation of this policy, ostensibly for ecological rehabilitation, has resulted in the exclusion of hundreds of thousands of nomads, who now lead useless, dependent lives on urban fringes, with no skills for entry into the modern cash wage economy.

The exclusive, either/or logic that so often drives administrators to solve problems by further exclusions might seem a betrayal of the holistic vision of ecology. Yet ecology, as a science, from its beginnings, has treated the human presence as external to the natural ecosystem. This is the fatal flaw of ecology. At the heart of ecology is the romantic assumption that a “natural ecosystem” is wild, free, uncontaminated by human presence. This has tainted China’s perception of the vast grasslands it has struggled to govern since mid 20th century. China’s grassland scientists continue to speak of “the contradiction between grass and animals.” Taking the form of a classic Marxist dialectic that demands resolution, this utterly simplistic proposition asserts the inevitable incompatibility of ecosystem health and grazing by domestic animals. The more animals, the less grass; and vice versa, the fewer animals, the more the grass grows. As a proposition, this moronic oversimplification denies the very possibility of a grazing economy, even though pastoralism is a major rural way of life on every continent.



When China says the rangelands are degrading, it means that anything less than the amount of grass that would grow in the absence of domestic animal grazing. As soon as cattle or sheep appear, by definition the rangeland is degrading. This implicit assumption is seldom made clear. It is a romantic, either/or assumption, that grassland must be similar to a rainforest wilderness, untouched by human hand or the animals of the herders, lest its pristine purity be degraded.

This toxic assumption now justifies China’s civilising mission as protector of Tibet’s ecological environment; protecting the pristine watersheds of China’s great rivers against the degrading, ignorant, greedy grazing practices of Tibetan herders, who are blamed for the degradation caused by concentrating herds behind compulsorily fenced winter pastures, with no guaranteed access to summer pastures, nomadic mobility much reduced by decree.

The ecology of the state takes us away from the specifics of China in Tibet, or Britain in India, to a wider consideration of how the modern state, with its claims to exclusive sovereign jurisdiction within its defined territory, insists on problematizing its domain, then solving those problems administratively. The project cycle begins with identifying and defining the problem, and concludes with independent certification that the official solution was indeed effective. This elaborate process of policy making and implementation has become so familiar we no longer imagine how it could be otherwise. The ecology of the state includes a wide array of diagnostic technologies to define problems, with a preference for remote generation of data collected by geostationary satellites, uncluttered by local contested knowledges. Having objectively diagnosed the problem, the state these days has a huge menu of interventions, ranging from direct state action through to state financing of market based solutions of such complexity that tracking outcomes is increasingly difficult.

Tibet will soon become part of this new world of Payment for Environmental Services (PES), with compulsorily retired nomads dependent on officially supplied subsistence rations now deemed to be recipients of PES and/or REDD+[1] compensation payments that, in turn, legitimate China’s ongoing consumption of more polluting coal than the rest of the world put together. Tibet will be integrated into the global mechanisms of offsets, compensation and payments that, for a modest fee, enable the most heavily polluting and resource intensive of industries to keep going.

China is keen to embrace these market-based mechanisms that get the heaviest of industries off the hook, and enable business as usual, while climate globally continues to warm, nowhere more so, in the inhabited world, than in Tibet. China is also keen to claim moral leadership in global ecological responsibility by excluding pastoralists from their pastures because of the officially designated “fragile ecology” of the most productive pasturelands of eastern Tibet.  The ecology of the state is the mindset of an official class that thinks like a state, classifying eastern Tibet exclusively as a “fragile ecology” which has no purpose now other than as a region for growing grass. In such ways the ecology of the state trumps the state of the ecology.

It wasn’t always thus, nor need it be so. Those who think like a state have so normalised the exclusion of the nomads, as the inevitable solution to a problem of the state’s making; that we easily forget there are other ways of looking at the grasslands, ways that are much more local, richly detailed, intimate and specific.



Once we start looking through the eyes of Tibetan pastoralists, everything changes. Their holistic perspective includes the human presence, from the start, as benign or malign, depending on good or bad motivations, skilful or unskilful grazing practices. The traditional way of preventing degradation was mobility. In pastoral societies worldwide, mobility is essential to both productivity and sustainability. However mobility was quickly curtailed by those who, in China, think like a state which must be able to enumerate, locate and at all times keep under observation its citizens. Mobile pastoralists evade visibility and scrutiny, making the task of the state much more difficult. Civilisation begins, in a classic Chinese formulation, with penning the animals, bringing feed to them; while the uncivilised wander hither and thither with their animals, effectively leading lives little better than that of the animals they herd. This core distinction, and the “contradiction between grass and animals” continue to afflict the ecology of the Chinese state.

Ecology, as a science, does have a place for the instrumental indigenous knowledge of ethnobotany, grazing strategies, risk management and land use practices, as adjuncts to the scientific generation of data and models of ecosystems. But the Tibetans have a more profoundly holistic approach, arising out of millennia of extensive land use, primarily as gatherers of whatever nature provides. It is time we heard more from those Tibetan voices, if we are to better understand the state of the ecology of Tibet, and come to grips with the hold the ecology of the state has on what we define as possible and desirable.

Those Tibetan voices are now speaking up more than ever, telling us that traditional pastoralism was sustainable, not so much by maintaining Tibetan grassland ecosystems in equilibrium, but by accepting the reality of disequilibrium on a plateau so high, cold, arid and unpredictable that the genius of the nomads was their ability to live, not despite uncertainty, but because of it. Their flexibility, moving herds only short distances seasonally in good years, but great distances in bad years, was a way of living off uncertainty, making extensive use of the entire plateau with a light touch.

If we are ever to fulfil the promise of the science of ecology, we need a more robust holisitic approach, that is not grounded in the scientific quest for singular, data-defined causes. It is the scientific preoccupation with causes that has made ecology a disappointingly unfruitful science, fixated on the ideal that singular causes can and must be found and defined.

The robust holism of the Tibetan pastoral nomads is an obvious alternative to the impoverished state of ecology, and the punitive ecologies of the state that result from simplistic science. The nomads of Tibet look upon the pasture, the animals and themselves, knowing what goes with what, what can be done, and what the limits are, when to move on, without being obsessed with causes, drivers, dynamics, models of equilibrium, etc. The nomads share with the lamas an emphasis on skilful action in the present, based on mindful inclusiveness, without separating subject and object. Like the lamas, their emphasis is on motivation, acting with a good heart, and on being alive to the constantly shifting realities of the moment. Like the lamas, they are far less interested in aetiology, origins, causes, drivers that remain hidden from view and extremely difficult to discern with any confidence.  The lamas always say that good causes lead to good results; bad causes to bad results, and that’s as far as we need to take it. They tell us it is fruitless to dwell on finding specific causes for the problems of this moment, what matters is to respond to problems constructively.

The robust holism of Tibet’s traditional land managers –the nomads and farmers- is a major topic, for another time.




[1] REDD+ is the abbreviation for Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Degradation, now with a plus sign added to signify an ever widening scope. It is a UN program.



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