Ploughing through mountains where only the superhuman dare, my people carried the future of a nation on their backs. No god extended a hand, no other race stood behind us. My people worked wonders to give me this day to pen down my feelings. I carry within me the gratefulness owed to the Buddha of Compassion and the unbreakable thread of the Dharma that binds us all together. Faith was all we had, and the fire within melted all frostbites. We were not born into comfort, but into resilience tempered by wind, carved by silence, and raised by prayers murmured under breath.
My grandmother was born to roam the vast grasslands, a daughter of the wind, shaped by the earth. She had to dig roads, not chasing glory, but chasing survival, working through blistered days and sleepless nights to feed four children on her own. There was no applause, no medals, no photograph to immortalize her effort. There was only wind, tenacity, and the stubborn determination to see her children live one more day. My father, a baby, skin against her spine, breathing in her struggle before he even knew a word. He grew up in a world where his mother’s silence spoke louder than any speech I will ever write. That silence was not emptiness; it was full, dense with meaning. It told stories of loss, of migration, of exile, and of perseverance. His lullabies were sung by storms, his toys were stones, his laughter grew between cracks of uncertainty. And yet he grew. Strong. Still. Silent. Holding within him the unspoken promise to never let his mother’s pain be in vain.
They did not ask for pity, they did not ask for praise or tributes. All they wanted was a way forward—one road, one chance, one breath. They lived for a tomorrow they might never see, yet believed in anyway. That kind of faith doesn’t come easy. It is born from watching the world change and still choosing not to bend. And now look: I sit here with a pen, my spine straight, my hands soft. I never carried rocks, but I carry their story, and that story carries me. Their pain did not stop with them, but neither did their strength. It passed down like water, like prayers whispered through generations. Each sentence I write is soaked in the sacrifices they made. Each word I choose is held by hands I never held, but who held me through history. I did not ask for this life, but I would never trade it for another. This name, this blood, this pain—it is all mine. And in it, I find purpose.
Today, I owe my voice to those who had none. I owe my peace to those who slept beside gunshots and landslides. I owe my freedom to people who were never free, but whose spirits were never chained. I carry my grandmother’s silence, my father’s hope, my mother’s unspoken strength, and my country that is not on the map but is carved into my bones. My nation was stolen, but never erased. It lives in our language, in our butter lamps, in the wrinkles of our elders and the songs that echo across cold mountain passes. My people did not lift mountains so I could walk small. They did not dig roads with blistered hands, raise children on broken land, just for us to forget. They dreamed of a future where their children would not bow their heads. And so, I do not bow. I rise with their memory as my spine and their dreams as my compass. So I remember. With every breath, I remember. With every step forward, I carry backward with me the weight of dreams deferred and dignity denied. I am not just one voice; I am an echo of a thousand silences, a prayer still burning in the wind. I was not made for comfort; I was made to continue.
Sometimes I wonder what dreams they gave up so I could have mine. What laughter they swallowed so I could breathe freely. What warmth they went without so I could write in the light. And in this light, I write not to mourn but to honor. Not to ask for sympathy but to demand remembrance. My story is not mine alone. It is stitched from the fabric of a thousand lives—some gone, some broken, all brave. I know now that identity is not about flags or documents. It is about memory. It is about the smell of tsampa, the sound of the murmur of prayers, the tear that falls during an anthem. It is the sacred knowledge that you belong to a people who never gave up on each other. Every morning I wake up, I remind myself: I am a continuation. I am their answer to pain. I am their return. I carry their stories, their whispered prayers, and the quiet bravery they wore like armor. It’s a weight I gladly bear because within it is the heartbeat of resilience, a strength passed quietly from one generation to the next, unspoken but understood. Each morning when I rise, their sacrifices stand alongside me. Their silence speaks louder than any words ever could, reminding me that survival itself is an act of defiance. I am not simply writing words; I am carrying forward their legacy, breathing life into dreams they were denied. So here I stand, not just me but the living echo of countless voices who whispered hope into darkness. My life is their answer, my voice their victory. And no matter how far I walk, how much I write, or how deeply I breathe—I know this journey isn’t mine alone. I am theirs, and they are mine, forever bound by a story the world tried to erase but never could. We remain, rooted in courage, shaped by resilience, quietly unstoppable.
I am alive and growing in the free world under the shadow of unwavering guidance, compassion, and leadership of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. My education, my identity, and my ability to speak freely for the Tibetan cause are all rooted in the path he has carved for us in exile. Though fewer than 1.5 million Tibetans live outside Tibet, we continue to strive for justice, peace, and the preservation of our rich culture, all inspired by His Holiness’s tireless efforts and spiritual strength. I offer my deepest gratitude to His Holiness on his 90th birthday, whose vision and selfless service have become the light in our darkest times and the reason we still have hope.
Note: Tibet Times have translated this article in Tibetan, click on the below link to read: https://tibettimes.net/2025/08/05/244705/
Tenzin Kunga is working as a Program Officer at the Youth Empowerment Support Plus (YES+) division under the Department of Home, Central Tibetan Administration.
His work focuses on creating meaningful opportunities for Tibetan youth through internships, skill development, and livelihood programs in the exile situation. He is deeply passionate about community service and committed to contributing toward a stronger, more self-reliant Tibetan society.
Kunga has had his schooling from Tibetan school Dharamsala, Rajghat Besant School under the Krishnamurti Foundation in Varanasi and Upper Tibetan Children’s Village in Dharamshala. He has a Bachelor’s degree in Journalism from Delhi University, followed by a Master’s in International Relations from Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU).
