The Woman in the Park

You saw the little boy with the huge, chubby cheeks smiling on his way to school. You saw the old grandmother in her traditional yak-fur chupa walking ever-so-slowly-but-surely up the hill as she devoutly circumambulates the compound belonging to the Dalai Lama. You were floored when you heard of their resilience, touched when you observed their compassion for other human beings. You assumed that, although living in-exile as refugees, Tibetans were doing alright. You figured their faith in Buddhist teachings and the leadership of His Holiness was enough.

But were you there in the park that day? Did you see that young Tibetan woman, with her shirt open and nothing underneath? Did you see how her eyes stared blankly ahead as she led the man into the bushes, around the corner where no one could see? Could you smell her desperation, feel her pain?

There is a definite dark side to the Tibetan refugee community in India. In the tourist places, they have constructed a beautiful façade to please foreigners, keep them coming back, keep them spending money. And whereas the little boy with the chubby cheeks and the circumambulating grandmother are real, so is that young woman in the park. The only difference is that they’ve managed to tuck her away into some nameless ghetto, hoping that no one will see.

Not to say that no one tried to help her. I am told she was once the ‘top girl’ in town – beautiful, friendly, smart and desired. And somehow she fell prey to the dark side, perhaps due to her memories of some childhood trauma, forced to leave her home and cross the Himalayas on foot. Maybe she was a political prisoner, tortured for months in a Chinese prison. I can only guess. But she began to drink. And soon, she needed to find a way to pay for the steady stream of whiskey her body learned to require and desire. I’m told that the local monasteries and nunneries tried to help her. A women’s group brought her to a rehabilitation center. Her husband tried to convince her that she could come home and start over again, fresh, and with complete forgiveness.

But there she was, in the park that day. She led the faceless man into the bushes as I watched.

This is the reason I am here. This is the reason Tibet Women’s Soccer came into existence. I cannot do anything to help that woman. But I can do everything in my power to make sure that the next time a young Tibetan girl has to face the demons of her past, she will have the voice to express it, the confidence to process it, and the community to lean on as she does.

Thank you to everyone who has supported this project. The deeper I get into this community, the more I realize how hugely important it is to empower its women. I am doing my best, with the help of many other volunteers, to reach as many Tibetan girls as quickly as possible.

This winter we held our first-ever (I say this because due to its massive success, we will surely be holding one annually) girls’ soccer camp. For one month we brought three girls from each of 9 Tibetan boarding schools to a beautiful campus in the shadows of the Himalayas. Each morning we began at 7am with either yoga, pilates or running. After breakfast we did various group activities having to do with trust, leadership, health, gender equality or communication in a classroom. Each afternoon we played soccer for two hours. Each night we slept soundly.

I could write volumes about the different activities we did. I could spend years describing each girl’s face, telling you her story.  I could recount every goal scored, every teary-eyes injury. But I think I will leave it at this:

On the second to last day of our month together, I could hear the girls getting up in the morning. I knew immediately something was off. I didn’t hear any giggles. No one was singing. I went downstairs to check on them. Where were the smiles? No one could look me in the eye. Not one girl said ‘good morning.’

At first I feared something had happened – a fight between the girls, a misunderstanding about something I might have said at practice the day before. But then it hit me. They were sad. Really sad.

That evening I called them up onto the roof of the hostel. I made them promise not to talk – not a single whisper. I told them that we are a family now. They are my daughters, I am their mother. They can’t ever forget. They can’t ever disappear. They have to call me, invite me to their weddings, let me hold their babies. Family is forever. I tied a blue string to each of their wrists, and handed a candle to each girl. They passed the flame around in a circle until every candle was lit. I told them that when they felt ready, they could leave their lit candle and walk silently to bed. It took twenty minutes for the first girl to leave. I could hear the sobs as they walked down the steps towards their bunk rooms. As the last girl finally stood up and left, I felt a huge relief. We had all separated on our own terms, when each felt ready. And I would always be ‘there on the roof’ for them. I stayed a few more minutes in the candlelight alone.

The next day we split the girls into two teams and played an exhibition match in front of an impressive audience of key members of the community. When the final whistle blew, hysterical sobbing ensued. I was shocked, actually. This was not the misty-eyed goodbye I might have seen back home. This was undeniable, unhindered emotion. The camp meant something to those girls that I don’t think I will ever understand.

Now the girls have returned to their home schools, and as I write this, the first official girls’ soccer teams are being formed and starting their first practice sessions, led by coaches we trained last November.  Before too long, they’ll be ready for their first formal competitions.

Thank you to all the volunteers, donors and well-wishers who have made this happen. It is truly beautiful, and I am absolutely honored to have the privilege of being involved in it. Lives have already been altered forever.

More soon… we’re just getting started!