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A recent study on human evolution and the settlement of the Τibetan plateau has raised new questions about settlement patterns on the roof of the world.

Life at high altitudes forced ancient Τibetans to undergo the fastest evolution ever seen in humans, according to a new study.

The most rapid genetic change showed up in the EPAS1 gene, which helps regulate the body’s response to a low-oxygen environment. One version, called an allele, of the EPAS1 gene changed in frequency from showing up in 9 percent of the Han Chinese to 87 percent of Τibetans.

Such genetic changes suggest Τibetan ancestors split off from the Han Chinese population about 2,750 years ago, researchers say. But only those most evolutionarily suited for life at high altitudes survived when they moved to the Τibetan Plateau.

This has caused a bit of discomfort among those who advocate for Τibetan independence, not to mention Chinese politicians a little miffed to learn that Han might not be biologically suited to settling the high-altitude plateau but here’s the thing…

The study, while certainly interesting from a human evolutionary science perspective, is meaningless in terms of the continuing dispute over the political status of Τibet.  There are many groups who are genetically similar but are considered different “ethnicities” or “nations.”  (An argument, if there ever needed to be another one, that ethnicity is hardly a stable signifier.)

Following this line of reasoning, the Economist’s Banyan blog briefly sketches China’s hysterical historical reasoning when it comes to the sensitive issue of national boundaries and territorial integrity:

When it comes to the contentious issue of China’s political and territorial claims on Τibet, the basis of its current repression rests not on a sense of common heritage or shared ancestors but on a sense of legitimacy based on territories historically controlled by the Qing dynasty. They were Manchus who ruled China from the mid-17th to early 20th centuries and expanded the country’s borders. The irony is that while the communists cling to the frontiers of the Qing empire, their official history condemns the Qing as feudal, foreign, imperialist and usurping.

Holding to the Qing frontiers calls for some curious historical nomenclature. Because ethnic Mongolians live within China’s borders today, Genghis Khan is given star billing as a “national minority”—yet he never set foot in what was then China, and his offspring conquered the place. In north-east China lie the archaeological remains of the Koguryo kingdom of 37BC-668AD, the fount of Korean culture and myth. Chinese historians claim them as Chinese. Scholars and others thus project current political imperatives on to the past, and the notion of “minorities” affirms one big, longstanding Chinese family.

As you can see from the number of inserted links, these are topics we’ve covered in this space before, though I take issue with “Chinese historians claim…” as being a little misleading.  Obviously there are a lot of historians from China, and not all take their marching orders from the Politburo.  Nevertheless, the Chinese government — and its academic surrogates — do frequently put forward historically suspect, if not downright weird, narratives which have little to do with historical research and everything to do with an ongoing project of CCP state building.

Where it get messy of course, is when historical precedent and political exigency collides. The DL is an old man and this incarnation will not be with us forever.  While the DL was (and is) one religious leader among many for Tibetans, the elevation of the DL to temporal power during the Qing and the current DL’s visibility as a charismatic soft-power superstar means the selection process for the next incarnation is sure to be hotly contested.  As Banyan notes:

In Τibet the narrative is enforced with a few blandishments and many shows of state power. Like the Qing dynasty, the communists invaded Τibet on a pretext. Like them, they control the Buddhist religion by claiming a right to select lamas.

Qing precedent, over two centuries old, matters. Emperor Qianlong sent a golden urn to Lhasa, in which the names of candidates proposed for reincarnation would be placed. Its later use was fitful. But in the mid-1990s the urn was brought into service again. With it the communists chose their own Ρanchen Lama, the Yellow Hat sect’s second-most-revered reincarnation. The [DL]’s earlier choice simply vanished. The boy, his family and the abbot who oversaw his selection have not been seen since. This month China’s atheist leaders, led by President Hu Jintao, used the occasion of the [DL]‘s 75th birthday to say bluntly that only they, with the golden urn, would approve the ageing man’s reincarnation.

There’s no question that the Qing Emperors became involved — some more directly than others — in the selection process for the DL, but that doesn’t mean that the emperors actually chose the DL.  Rather the ritual was a form of investiture whereby the Manchu court recognized the incarnation as named by Tibetan religious authorities. (A process that was far from pure or smooth.  Let’s just say that the shenanigans of Lama picking probably deserve their own post…)

In his influential, and not particularly partisan, history of modern Τibet, The Snow Lion and the Dragon, Melvyn Goldstein describes the connection between the DL and the Qing rulers as a priest-patron relationship which while serving an important political function also involved a spiritual bond that transcended politics.  Even the most cynical PRC Τibetologist would have a hard time describing the current government’s relationship with the Gelugpa Sect (of which the DL is the head) in such terms.

As I wrote in the aftermath of the March 14th riots in Lhasa:

The Qing rulers, great patrons of Lamamism, consolidated their rule by maintaining cultural and religious ties with Τibet beyond mere military occupation. They also – generally but not always – ruled with a light touch, allowing relative autonomy in religious and cultural matters, which suited the situation quite well. The Qing Dynasty was, after all, a large, multi-ethnic empire and maintaining order and peace in outlying territories was the utmost concern.

The problem is that the PRC is a nation-state, and the demands a nation-state places on its people are different than those of an empire. It is not enough that Τibetans merely pay taxes and not revolt, they must also identify with the nation-state first and foremost, with other cultural and religious aspects secondary to the demands of modern state building. Empires want to be respected, nation-states want to be loved. That’s a sticky wicket the Qing never had to face.

It’s not surprising that when we look at the world’s hot spots we see the legacies of colonialism and decolonization. As empires give way to new forms of political organization, there is resistance and tension. Modern states attempt to preserve the territories bequeathed to them from empires of old, while former subject peoples seek greater autonomy and even independence.

Unfortunately, history is a poor arbiter of who gets what, and too often (as in the case of Τibet) history becomes warped and carved, tugged and torn, by states and separatists, to suit the political demands of a contemporary crisis.

There will be more written in the coming months and years on this controversial subject. But I will leave you with one last thought: The CCP has no idea how much they will miss this incarnation of the DL when he’s gone.  The 14th DL is their Arafat.

Think about it.  The Israeli government HATED Arafat, he was the bête noire for three generations of Israelis, but….they could work with him.  It was only after Arafat died that Israel realized just what it meant to deal with the Devil you know.  The CCP will soon learn a similar lesson.  Even if they rig the selection process, they can’t magically create legitimacy for their choice, and it will be nearly two decades before the 15th DL is ready for prime time anyway.  In the interim, forces held in check by the 14th DL’s relative moderation will bubble to the surface bringing to the fore leaders even less willing to work with Beijing.  And who knows, there may be equally charismatic figures waiting in the wings.

The CCP is gambling that with the 14th DL out of the way, the Τibetan independence movement loses its most important unifying figure.  But that ignores the diversity of the Τibetan plateau.  In many cases the DL is a DIVISIVE figure.  His proscription of a protector deity important to the Kham Region has led to a schism within the Gelugpa sect, one that continues to divide families, villages, and monasteries.  In fact, the most powerful recent force in unifying the fractious Tibetans has been the nearly universal disgust at CCP policies in Τibet, especially in the wake of the 2008 riots.  One reason the Karmapa Lama can be seen as a potential “successor” even though he represents the Kagyu and not the Gelugpa sect, is that the CCP may ironically be succeeding where the DL has failed in reducing sectarian tensions on the Plateau…simply by giving the people there a common foil.

History. Biology. Philology. Academia is often pressed into the service of politics, but as I noted two years ago, the increasingly shrill rhetoric of national unity has long since taken on a “Queen Gertrude watching the play” quality.  Whatever happens in the future, the question of Τibet will not solved by resorting to historical arguments or biological determinism.

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Perhaps no 20th century Chinese leader is as beloved inside China or respected abroad as much as Zhou Enlai (1898-1976). Even so, Zhou remains something of an enigma. He is revered for being a rock in the storm of mid-century Chinese politics, holding fast to his integrity and working to moderate the excesses of the Mao regime as best he could. (It was Zhou who told the Red Guards that the Forbidden City was off-limits in their destruction of all things “Old.”) And yet one wonders how Zhou could have watched as his closest friends and oldest allies, men such as Deng Xiaoping and Liu Shaoqi, along with their wives and families, were cast aside and made to suffer–quite cruelly in the case of the terminally ill Liu–to satisfy Mao’s revolutionary vision. What sorts of machinations and compromises were necessary to linger in power while those around him were being swept away?

Is our lasting image of Zhou Enlai to be the smooth, urbane diplomat showing up for talks in Geneva in a tailored-suit, silk tie, and a fedora, exchanging quips about the French Revolution? Or will it be the Zhou Enlai standing on top of Tiananmen with a red armband and a little red book, screeching in a high-pitched hysterical frenzy, “Long Live Chairman Mao!” as hordes of fanatical teenagers chant in the square and the Chairman looks on in approval?

Perhaps my favorite image of Zhou is footage from Richard Nixon’s visit to China in 1972. As the US President blathered on about ‘friendship and mutual respect,’ the jaded premier shifted in his chair, unable to contain a mighty yawn.  Zhou’s work with Kissinger was done and in the books. That had been the important part.

Or, perhaps, he was simply tired.

After all, it was during that summer that Zhou was diagnosed with bladder cancer. While he maintained a rigorous schedule of duties (Mao himself was far too ill to appear in public), Zhou in his mid-seventies must have sensed that the end was coming soon. In 1975, as the cancer spread, he sought to rehabilitate his long-time political ally Deng Xiaoping from exile.

It is telling that in their final political acts, both Mao and Zhou brought forth their chosen successors. For Mao, it was Hua Guofeng: stable, solid, unwilling to deviate from any course set by the Great Helmsman. Mao was not going to tolerate the emergence of any Krushchevs in China after he was gone.

Zhou backed Deng Xiaoping, whose pragmatic policies of modernization and economic development would steer China on a radically different course. Perhaps it is Zhou’s ultimate legacy that it would be his own ally, the diminutive Deng, and not any lackey of Mao’s, who would ultimately lead China into the new era.

But in the early days of 1976, the future direction of the PRC was far from certain. On January 8, Zhou Enlai finally succumbed to the cancer that had ravaged his body for four years. Upon hearing the news, the country went into a state of deep mourning, an outpouring of emotion that surprised many while angering an important few. From Mao there was only silence. There were no condolences sent to Zhou’s widow (the equally talented Deng Yingchao) and the Chairman was conspicuously absent from the state funeral held a week later. In fact, Mao had not seen Zhou in many months. The Chairman was sick and, more than that, was increasingly surrounded by a cabal of sycophants in league with Mao’s wife, Jiang Qing.*

While Jiang Qing disliked Zhou, she loathed Deng Xiaoping, and it was Deng who delivered the eulogy at the funeral. It was Deng who praised Zhou for his warm heart, his hard work, and his plain and simple lifestyle. Not the sort of rhetoric to inspire controversy, but Jiang Qing and those around Mao considered Deng’s laudatory remarks to be thinly veiled criticism of Mao. In all probability, she was right.

April 4, 1976, was the eve of Qingming, the annual festival to remember the dead. Thousands of ordinary Chinese, from all walks of life, went to Tiananmen Square to place wreaths, posters, banners, flowers, and placards at the base of the Monument to the People’s Heroes–all in honor of Zhou Enlai. The pavement was covered with remembrances, both a vast display of grief and a not-so-subtle jab at those who remained in power. 1976 marked ten years of Cultural Revolution, the people were tired, and with the death of Zhou they felt they had lost one of the only leaders who truly cared for them.

The next day, thousands returned to find the square empty. No flowers. No posters. No wreaths. Nothing. It had all been swept away in the middle of the night. Such an order could only have come from the highest levels, and the people’s grief turned to indignation and then to anger. 100,000 Beijing residents turned out in the square, ignoring increasingly shrill orders for them to disperse.

As the crowd grew disorderly, mourners started invading nearby government offices, overturning vehicles, lighting fires, and threatening police. Other demonstrators raised signs and banners reading “The Era of Qin Shihuangdi is Over.”

(Qin Shihuangdi of course was the first emperor of China, whose rule could be described as organized brutality in the service of unity and uniformity. Naturally he was, by Mao’s own admission, something of a role model.)

Jiang Qing and her gang watched the situation with a mixture of outrage and fear. On April 6th, she  emerged from Mao’s bedchamber, her face aglow with vengeance and glee, shouting: “It is done! It is done! It has been declared a ‘counter-revolutionary demonstration!’”

With that, loudspeakers once again blared forth, demanding that people to leave the square. Most heeded the orders, but a determined few remained behind. On the night of April 6, a company of uniformed police officers backed by a “worker’s militia” of non-uniformed thugs moved in. Officially 388 people were arrested though other reports have the number much higher. Those seized were hauled before a mass tribunal held on the grounds of Peking University, and there they were sentenced to imprisonment, hard labor, or worse.

Among the lead