Why China is frightened of horses

As Beijing prepared for the Olympics, I set off for Rongwu, in the Chinese province of Qinghai, where last spring's Tibetan uprising started.

The roadblocks which had stopped journalists from reporting events have been dismantled, and we evaded the security forces by never staying more than one night in the same place.

The police and soldiers may have withdrawn, but we saw one monk who still had handcuff marks on his wrists. He was too scared to speak. Another told us that the abbot of Rongwu is released from custody during the daytime, but is still held by the police at night.

"They came with pistols and told us not to move and not to talk," said a monk, looking around nervously - the monasteries are full of spies. "We're very afraid. It happened to us before, so it could happen again."

On 11 February, on the hills above their monastery, monks from Rongwu held an incense-burning ceremony which - according to the Tibetan writer Woeser - was disrupted by the police.

Monks started shouting independence slogans and calling for the return of the Dalai Lama. Many were arrested, and unrest spread throughout the region, culminating in the 14 March riots in Lhasa and subsequent protests across the Tibetan parts of China.

The Chinese government blames what it calls the "Dalai clique", and continues to accuse the Dalai Lama of instigating violence, even while trying to appease international opinion by holding low-level talks with his aides.

The "working groups" took down pictures of the man Tibetan Buddhists revere, but in the monasteries we visited, the monks had put them back up again.

"The Communist Party doesn't believe in anything - not in God, nor ghosts, nor spirits - so why are they so afraid of a picture?" asked one.

"In my heart, the Dalai Lama is as precious as the stars and the moon in the sky," explained another. "Without him, the world would be dark. I'm willing to give up my life for him."

Chinese government officials frequently say that foreign critics do not understand the complexity of the historical relationship between China and Tibet, but the "patriotic education" campaign in Qinghai appears to have been crude, to say the least.

"The government handed out a survey, asking people to choose between 'A: Dalai Lama is good' and 'B: Dalai Lama is bad'. Many returned it blank," said one man. "It's hard to choose. If we choose A, we get into trouble with the government, but we can't choose B, because he's great."

More than anything, the Chinese government fears that Tibetans will air their grievances during the Olympic Games. The annual summer horse festivals have been banned - last August, a Tibetan called Ronggyal Adrak leapt on stage at the Litang Horse Festival demanding independence and the return of the Dalai Lama.

Tens of thousands of Tibetans gathering this year would mean an even greater potential for protest. Only small, local festivals are allowed.

At one, I watched half a dozen little boys gallop bareback across the grasslands, their horses decorated with the silky scarves known as hadas. They raced different horses through the day, watched by admiring families of Tibetans, the women wearing traditional, heavy, coral-and-turquoise necklaces, often over cheap, mass-produced Chinese T-shirts.

The modern world has impinged on the grasslands, with nearly as many motorbikes as horses at the festival. Roads are good, people eat packaged noodles as well as the traditional tsampa, mobile phones work even in nomadic summer pastures. The Beijing government, and many Han Chinese people, cannot understand why the Tibetans are not happy to see such progress.

A monk tried to explain: "The party secretary of the county came and called for a meeting. He said: 'Life is so good and you still rioted. It's your own fault.' I don't agree. We have our own thoughts. All Tibetans want our own country."

They're not going to get it: the Chinese government is too strong and too determined. But its project to make the Tibetan people reject the Dalai Lama is futile. You cannot force people to hate what they love more than anything.

At a recent meeting, a senior Chinese official grew angry about western reporting on Tibet. "We, the Chinese, are the victims!" he spat out angrily. "We are the victims of the Dalai Lama's campaign and the western media!"

It's hard to see a nuclear power with the largest army in the world as a victim - especially as 80 heads of state arrive to celebrate its big Olympic party - but the sentiment shows the Chinese government's defensiveness and feelings of vulnerability over Tibet.

The only hope is that one day China will be confident enough to relax and allow Tibetans genuine autonomy and to worship as they wish.

This article first appeared in the New Statesman

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