Terri

I see clouds as Chinese temples and elephants, but once saw them as clouds. Shadows cast on the wall are not shadows but monsters. Places that seemed so big to me as a child now don’t seem so big. The perspective I learned in art class, and the perspective I have on religion. Perspective is everything. What you see and how you interpret it. There perspective of this room, and my perspective on life. How the shade on a face can easily change its shape. How the world looks upside down, or from the top of a mountain. Big, small, insignificant, important, confusing, and clear. Reflection is the perspective of a landscape wrinkled in water.

Ella

I am empty?
I am empty.
I am empty not in the sense of nothingness, but rather I am empty in the sense of everything. My being connects to that of everything, every atom that surrounds me constantly. I am everywhere, yet I am nowhere. I should never question who I am. Instead I should just be. Don’t think of where I am. Don’t think of where I am going. Don’t think of what I have done, or where I have gone. Think thoughts constantly. Think and think until my mind is blank. Think thoughts of prayer wheels, and of old weathered Ladakhi faces. Think of yaks, and of the Himalayas reaching far into the sky. Think until I can think no more. Think until I am empty of thoughts rushing through my head.
Emptiness. Emptiness. Emptiness.
I do not feel empty.
I feel full.
Maybe, I am full of emptiness.

Terri

Morning is my favorite time of day here. The curtains in our room open, letting the early morning rays of sun set on the floor. The laughing and shouting of the Ladakhi girls echo through the hallways. Each morning I am greeted with great enthusiasm, the smiles of everyone around me are surprising. A cup of milk tea is exactly what I want, and every morning it is waiting in the kitchen. A place of constant motion, where everything moves in a rhythm.
The sharp mountains that surround us in every direction tear into the clear and heavenly skies. A landscape, that defines in every way, this place. Remote, and vibrantly alive at the same time. In English we were asked to write about what Ladakh is, although it is not hard to describe Ladakh in all of its beauty, it is hard to explain what isn’t of importance here. Each moment of every day seems like something that needs to be recorded, that every conversation should be remembered. What has stood out for me the most so far is what I chose to write about.
There is unbelievable warmth, even in the frigid snow covered months of winter. Where the smiles and greeting of those you pass in the streets are filled with sincerity. Where the remote villages are speckled in valleys amidst the unforgiving mountains. Ladakh is a place where you become accustomed to the reward of tea after each feat, no matter how simple. Where relaxing all day is hardly a waste of time, in fact time has little meaning. The way that people dace through their days, and chores are done with a grace that is unknown to me. Where the silence is entertaining and laughing comes naturally. Ladakh is a place of reflection, while at the same time a place of emptiness
What I have learned so far about Buddhism is the concept of emptiness. The idea that nothingness is infact everything. For everything is interconnected in a way that makes everything, something and nothing at the same time. Emptiness is the realizing that you do not exist independently. The idea of nothingness is something I have pondered from a young age, something that we have talked about in class and something that I think about, especially when I gaze up at the stars. I’m not sure how it is possible that nothingness exists, or is that the point? That nothing is in fact everything, and the simplicity of that idea is perhaps why it is so difficult to understand.

Ashleen Buchanan

March 6, 2008

The past 31 days I have spent cradled 11,500 feet above the sea, nestled between the Indus River and the surrounding mountains that tower around me. In the evening the wind blows heavy on the plastic of the greenhouse outside my window. It beats down like a thunderstorm beginning to explode. I lay awake reading Shalimar the Clown listening to the dogs howling in the distance. In the deep of the night I often awake and stumble through the darkness, neglecting my headlamp, and trusting my footing on the cool stone steps that lead outside. The cool air hits my face and brushes through my knotted hair. I look up at the stars that sprinkle the black sky. I find the bright star known as Sirius, the black dog who follows Orion as he hunts through the heavens. As Sirius followed Orion he has followed me from the back yard of my home in Vermont to here on the shore of the Indus.
Each day here has been fulfilling to say the least. No matter what I find myself doing I never feel time has been wasted. In the evenings we watch movies occasionally. This past evening we watched Cry of the Snow Lion, a documentary about the current situation in Tibet with the Chinese invasion. 1952 –incidentally caused tension between China and India which lead to the 1962 Sino-Indian border conflict -- the Karakoram pass was closed thus beginning the severe oppression placed on the Buddhist nuns and monks by the Chinese government primarily in Lasa, Tibet. The pressure became so immense that in 1958, the Dalai Lama was forced to take refuge in Dharmsala, India, where he remains to this day. Beginning on March 10 there will be huge march from Dharmsala to Lasa in protest for Free Tibet. Though they may not ever be able to pass through to Tibet I feel the message remains strong.
Splattered throughout the weeks we have been traveling about to different monasteries. At each I feel I have stepped into a surrealistic world filled with blue-faced daemons, with wild eyes and golden crowns. In each Buddhist temple I am surrounded by psychedelic images of violence, sex and enlightenment. On February 20th we attended a Tibetan New Years Festival at the Matho Monastery. I crammed my way in between the masses and nestled snuggly with one rib rubbing sharply on cement and my other rib being kneed continually by the full weight of a grown man who kept smiling at me and saying “julley”, in between gasp for air I would politely sputter “julley”. As I sat there I was reminded of Frida Khalo’s depictions of La Dia de los Muertos because of the many skulls and vivid colors. Then I watch the Buddhist monks come in and dance unenthusiastically to a monotonous beat waiting to see the famous oracles jump from atop buildings blind-folded and slice their tongues with swords. I felt my lungs begin to collapse and was quite positive the oracles would never make their grand entrance. I decided it was time to make an escape and find some chow mien. It is experiences like that, which I will not soon forget.
After we returned from our five-day trek on the first of March it seemed so many aesthetics of SECMOL had changed; most of the snow on the western peaks had melted, the weather had certainly began getting warming, clearly forgoing spring and the ice rink had melted. I will remember the ice rink most fondly because before the trek I had played goalie for the Vermonsters (the VIS team) in our hockey match against the Rough and Tuffs (the Secmol Boys Team) we, to my great disappointment, lost, but only by the two penalty shots in over time.
The days pass all too quickly here at Secmol, but each day is never wasted. I find myself learning continually, whether about the Kashmir conflict that remains today referring to the autonomously of the Jammu and Kashmir region. Or the Lu spirits that, according to Ladakhi folklore, cause women become twisted and stiff. Though of course they never really bother the tourists. One day woman who has studied Amchi medicine, came to speak to us and told us about how she reads your sickness through your pulse and tells you whether you have anger, jealousy, hatred or maybe a bit of bile. On the more laid back days I’ll often find myself gossiping with the SECMOL girls about dating via text messaging. The first month has already flown by and there are only two to go but each day I awake and take a deep breath, look through my window at the sun coming through the opaque plastic and think to myself “maybe we won’t have sku for dinner tonight.”

Duncan

We have now been in Ladakh for one month and two days. I have never felt so at home in a place so far away from New England. Ladakh is a world of its own. It has its own language, trees, mountains, culture and especially its own people. The world that exists here is one of not only tradition but also of innovation and advancement. Yes, the slow permeation of the stench of westernization is also apparent, but life here is so simple it almost isn’t real to me. The people here use anything and everything they can to support themselves and their families. Its separation from the rest of the world is so apparent in the smiles of the people, the ancient flow of the Indus River, and the immaculate beauty of the Himalaya.
Buddhism has made its eternal mark on this society, which is almost entirely based on the Buddhist way of life. Ever since the second spreading of Buddhism to Ladakh around 200 BC by the Indian King Asoka it has been the way of life for over one thousand years in Ladakh. On the last day of our previous trek in the Sham region we stopped to visit Tamisgong monastery, where the treaty of Tamisgong was signed in 1684 setting the boundary between Ladakh and Tibet, which still exist today. To be in intimate contact with such rich history is something that can be surreal to the senses. It is very hard to appreciate how much history and how many stories are engraved into the stones and the cliffs.
The Leh palace, which was built during the Namgyal Dynasty, Ladakh’s most prominent Buddhist reign, has come to be a very familiar sight. It is built on a brown cliff overlooking Leh and it has become an almost weekly experience to look up to it walking into the Internet café or the bakery we ravage for cookies and sweets. Now only a museum, the Leh palace is an artifact left by Ladakh’s golden dynasty. We have yet to explore it, but I hope it is in our future.
Two other events, which will remain in my memory for a long time, are the festivals we explored in February. The Stok festival and Matho Nagrang are Buddhist festivals which are centered on dances of the Buddhist tradition. Stok is more focused around the story telling of Buddhist life through dances, each dance representing a different stage of life. The entrancing nature of the colors and the simple natural movements of the monks were incredible, but only for a few hours. The next three hours seemed to never end, and were extremely repetitive. It is hard appreciate the tradition if you are an outsider, and foreign to the culture. Matho Nagrang was a sea of the social spectrum of Ladakh, and was much more popular. On one end of the spectrum were teenagers with western clothes and Pepsi, there for the sole purposed of the social scene. On the other end were Ladakh’s elder generations, there because they believed in the Buddhist traditions, and they were meaningful to them. This festival’s main attractions were the monks who were called oracles, and who supposedly could cut themselves with swords and leap from rooftop to rooftop blindfolded. These and other such salient features of Ladakhi culture are things we are lucky to literally be able to touch and feel their beauty.
Life here is a test. It has tested my ability to live in a place where I need to throw myself into the world, and assimilate myself in a way I have never needed to do before. I have adapted, and this place has morphed into home. It is the new family I’ve joined here, my intense happiness when the sun shines and the sky is cloudless, and even the five radios all playing simultaneously that makes feel this way. Something here makes me feel at home in a whole new way I’ve never experienced. It may not be better than home, but it is just as meaningful.

Life At SECMOL -- by Dylan

My life at SECMOL is an interesting one, one I’ve been longing for ever since I joined the public school system. This school is run by the students; anything we want done we do ourselves. This is exactly what I needed, because I was tired of being herded like a sheep at my school back home. The things I learn here relate to things I can see outside the class room window, so I feel that I’m learning with a purpose. I also learn a lot about the Ladakhi culture, as well as traditions.
I wake up to a bell ringing just outside my room, a call for the Ladakhi student’s to class. I lay in bed for however long suites me, and then roll onto the floor, where I begin my stretches. From here I meander my way to the community kitchen, and fill up my glass jar with some green tea. I am now left with about a half hour until breakfast, in which I often read, or loiter in the kitchen. I enjoy a different breakfast every morning, and then I collect the necessary books for the days classes. I stop in the bathroom, and join my fellow teeth brushing students. I then continue my way to the classroom, settle down cross-legged on the floor, and anticipate the next few hours of education.
In my science class, with my Viking teacher Daniela (alias Gailstrong), I’m studying the comparison between ancient methods of farming in Ladakh and the new methods brought about by modern technology. I had an interview with the head officer of the department of Horticulture, and I have several more lined up with other higher-ups. In my ‘History of Ladakh’ class, I am studying the roots of conflict in Kashmir, as well as routes to peace. I am also doing a project in this class, where I am going to have to lead a discussion on the conflict over modern technology being introduced into farming. In my English class, we’ve been writing journalist pieces on different Buddhist celebrations we have witnessed in the last several weeks. I am doing a final project in this class as well, were I have to write a final piece on my agricultural studies from my other two classes.
I have learned a lot about farming here, and the methods aren’t completely different to those in VT. Depending on different villages’ elevation, they plow in different times, but usually around early April. The whole family helps for this process, because most Ladakhis use animals to plow, which is a much longer process then with a tractor. The plow is of the same design as the one we hook up to a tractor on my farm. After the field is plowed, they whole family helps to plant. Most families grow barley, and vegetables, and many are now growing apricots. Irrigation is very interesting, and most fields are propagated by the Indus river through gutters that channel the water to the fields. In the last twenty years there has been a major increase in farmers using chemical pesticides and fertilizers. However, many use home made organic pesticides, and almost all use ‘humanure’ from their composting toilets.
Harvest season is usually around August or October. The apricots are put in jars with sugar, and stored in a cold cellar. The families also store onions, potatoes, barley, cabbage, and other vegetables in the store room.
After we drink tea at around 11:30, everyone on campus is assigned a job from our student elected coordinator, Dolma. The jobs differ every day, depending on what needs to be done. Some of us work in the greenhouses, some of us build stone walls, and the unlucky ones have to clean out the composting toilets. Work hour is one of my favorite parts of the day, because you can see all 30 some odd students going to and fro’ working on this and that. It really gives you the sense of a working community.
After work hour, we all do our responsibilities for a half hour. Our responsibilities are assigned to us; each one of us has something different to do for a period two months. I was put in charge of the garage, and all tools inside. This means I have to go campus several times a week, searching for tools people borrowed and forgot to return. I also have the task of putting handles on all the tools with out one. This week I made two axe handles, and thee pick axe handles. This is my favorite part about the job, because it reminds me of working in my school shop back home, making axe handles for my forestry class. Other responsibilities include working in the green house, the school store, the library, and many others.
Lunch is sometimes good, sometimes not. Either way I eat, and get on with my day. For most of the afternoon I do my homework, or take part in soccer or cricket games. At 6:00 most days we have conversation class, where we talk about various things with the Ladakhi students to improve their English. After an hour of conversing, us VIS students have Ladakhi language class, where we learn to speak simple, yet necessary phrases.
After language class we all go to dinner, where we sit cross legged in one room, a real community. After we eat, someone has to get up and talk about whatever they want, for however long they want, and are then asked many questions. Most Ladakhis talk about their villages, and some VIS students have talked about traveling, and snow boarding. Dinner is often followed by a movie, or sometimes various activities, that help everyone get to know each other better.
In short, my life at SECMOL is similar to my life at home, only I’m much more involved with everything that goes on around me.

Toben

The mountains that shoot up on either side of the river valley are tinged with pink and gold. Below, the Indus is still immersed in shadow, it’s ever flowing waters pushing on into Pakistan. Perched on the cliffs above the river, the SECMOL campus is just beginning to stir. Just above the subterranean kitchen is a long building with plastic green houses attached to the south facing side. These green houses keep the inner rooms warm during the day and night. Inside one room are two beds, and next to mine, a small black wrist watch begins to beep repeatedly. The digital numbers read 7:30. Not without a groan, I fumble for the button that will stop the alarm. Then I sit up. “Dylan.” But my attempt to awake my roommate is drowned by the loud ringing of the breakfast bell. Ishey, the cook, has already been up for hours. After about half-an-hour, I am sitting with all of my fellow Americans, still trying to blink the sleep out of their eyes, mixed together with the bright eyed and eager Ladakhi students, all smiles.
As I look around, the scene of chatting teenagers reminds me of the pattern I have fallen into. What may have been strange at first now seems so natural. This community, holy in its youth, sacred in its willingness to learn, reminds me of the Sangha. During my time in Ladakh I have learned much about this revered society, founded by one of histories most famous princes: Siddhartha Gotama, the man who would become the Buddha. The Sangha is the community of disciples that flocked to the Buddha’s teachings. Sangha means ‘society’ in Pali, an ancient language of India, the birth place of the enlightened one. When the Buddha began to spread his teachings of the eightfold path and the four noble truths around 450 years BCE, many people were willing to strip them selves of worldly possessions, living a simple existence of scholarly worship and meditation.
Pulling my thoughts back to the present, I find that I have absentmindedly finished my meal. Now the four or five monk-like academics immediately surrounding me are preparing to “gamble away” their dishes, a tradition at every meal. I quickly throw my empty bowl and spoon onto the growing pile and put my fist behind my back. The game is rock-paper-scissors. “One, Two, Three!”, we all a shout, and then reveal our weapon, either a rock-like fist, a pair of sharp finger-scissors, or a thick crushing sheet of palm. Sometimes we play with variations, using a fist and a thumb as the “mountain”, which is climbed by the “little man” (a pinkie finger). The “little man” is chopped in half by the “sickle”, (the longest three fingers) but the “sickle” can’t cut the mountain. In any case, today my rock as crushed the scissors of my foes, so I am free to go back out into the now bright morning.
The day continues as it will, with classes, and then a work period. During this solid hour the entire community comes together to help maintain the campus with odd jobs, anything from collecting stones from the near-by desert, or mucking the composting toilets. I stop for a moment and rest on my shovel. All around me, foreigners and locals alike work side by side, and once again I allow my self to imagine the Sangha. This ancient society comprised of boys as young as eight and elders as old as seventy all work together to haul water and keep their monasteries in order. These large buildings run both as religious centers and places of learning, as well as hostels for the monks. In Ladakh, it is a common sight to see monks standing in lines, passing stones and the traditional lamp oil. Since the monasteries in the Himalayan mountains are traditionally built on high ridge lines in impressive locations, it is quite a walk to reach the top.
If Buddhism is the soul of Ladakh, then the Sangha, called the lama in these icy fortresses, is the heart, pumping the knowledge and teaching to even the highest peaks. Even in the remotest places the flashing colors (red, green, blue, yellow, white) of prayer flags can be seen fluttering in the wind.
Shaking my head and smiling, I settle back into the routine. There is homework to be done, desert hills to explore, a tasty lunch, probably rice and daal. Soon it will be dinner, and then, a nightly activity. Before the day is done, any visitors to SECMOL would be able to see a room full of teenagers, singing and frolicking. It wouldn’t take much imagination to see a room full of devoted monks, prancing about in reverie, wearing traditional dress and masks. Festival and celebration has been a part of Tibetan Buddhism since time eternal.
Finally exhausted, my roommate and I stumble back into our incensce room. All over campus, a hush has fallen. It is nighttime at SECMOL. The moon rises above glistening Himalayan peaks, just as it has done for so long. Even this sight has become part of the routine, but even though it is a comfort to me, just like every other part of the day, it’s beauty will continue to mystify me forever. I drift off, my thoughts on prayer wheels and my Ladakhi friends, my Sangha.