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级别: 管理员
源地址: http://www.rangzen.net/2012/09/14/the-body-count-2/

中港台网友们: 译文发贴于说,还是不说看不见的西藏,两个网站。非常感谢更桑东智的翻译。
Cultures of memory are organized by round numbers, intervals of ten; but somehow the remembrance of the dead is easier when the numbers are not round, when the final digit is not a zero… [I]t is perhaps easier to think of 780,863 different people at Treblinka: where the three at the end might be Tamara and Itta Willenberg, whose clothes clung together after they were gassed, and Ruth Dorfman, who was able to cry with the man who cut her hair before she entered the gas chamber… Each of the 21,892 Polish prisoners of war shot by the NKVD in 1940 was in the midst of life. The two at the end might be Dobiesław Jakubowicz, the father who dreamed about his daughter, and Adam Solski, the husband who wrote of his wedding ring on the day that the bullet entered his brain. The Nazi and Soviet regimes turned people into numbers, some of which we can only estimate, some of which we can reconstruct with fair precision. It is for us as scholars to seek these numbers and to put them into perspective. It is for us as humanists to turn the numbers back into people. If we cannot do that, then Hitler and Stalin have shaped not only our world, but our humanity.
Timothy Snyder, Bloodlands.
This passage—it comes at the conclusion of Bloodlands— is worth bearing in mind, for it helps to restrain the cynical temptations of the sentiment (apocryphally attributed to Stalin) that while the death of one person might be a tragedy, the deaths of millions is a mere statistic. Ironically, that sentiment sometimes seems to have had greater sway among some of those concerned about Tibet’s modern fate than one might think, perhaps because the figure that the Tibetan political leadership adopted in the 1980s, 1.2 million Tibetan deaths over two to three decades (rounded down from a rougher, albeit little mentioned number), is the figure that is almost always cited. It is an anesthetizing number and it stands in spite of the fact that it was reached on the basis of the most unreliable and anecdotal methodology. Indeed it has been hard for any but the most uninformed partisans of the Tibetan cause to grant any credence to the number; more objective observers (including many who are unabashedly sympathetic to Tibet) have rejected it. The 1.2 million figure was largely derived from estimates made as a result of the first visits of Tibetan delegations from Dharamsala to Tibet beginning in 1979, particularly the first delegation, as well as interviews with Tibetans coming into exile. No one involved in the delegation visits had any demographic training, but more to the point, given the difficulties inherent in counting living people in a country to which one has full access, the impossibility of accurately counting—with or without the requisite training—the deceased over a period of several decades in a country to which one has highly limited access should have been obvious to all.
I mention this not to downplay the extent of the slaughter in Tibet (and let’s not mince words about what happened) but simply to posit that one cannot simply assign a figure without any serious attempt to establish a basis for it. To do so is to bring oneself to the point at which a million deaths do congeal into a mere statistic. Should the 1.2 million figure then be dismissed? Yes; not because something horrible did not transpire on the Tibetan Plateau, but because it has no reliable foundation. It is beyond dispute that there have been massive deaths in Tibet in the period between approximately 1950 and 1975. But 1.2 million? It is currently impossible to say. And by that I mean that while the actual number of deaths might be much less, it would still have to be very considerable. One simply cannot know the exact number without free access to Chinese records. But the fact that a large-scale slaughter took place ought to be unquestioned.
The matter of mass death in Tibet has rarely been raised within the PRC, at least officially, and then, only to rebut claims of such an occurrence. And for a number of years one has seen scant reference to it in official exile statements, perhaps partly a result of the United Front Work Department injunction several years ago (passed on, as we now know, directly to Lodi Gyari and ultimately enunciated by the Dalai Lama) that Tibetans must do nothing to embarrass the Chinese Government. (The degree of obsequiousness inherent in this is indeed revelatory.) But the traces of history don’t always comply with the wishes of the political class.
In May, just a few months ago, preparations were made for the start of a building project in Nang-chen county in the modern Yushu Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture in Qinghai Province, part of what was once the old kingdom of Nang-chen in Upper Khams. This is also the site of some of the instances of self-immolation, the act of protest that has been repeated again and again across Tibet and in exile over the last several years. As the ground was turned to start the construction of a house, something horrid—unexpected and uninvited—suddenly materialized. Human bones began emerging from below the soil. Lots of them, it was said.

The past had come calling in the form of a mass grave. And the past was unconcerned about embarrassing the Chinese Government.
The images are clear, the local explanations were whispered: it was where monks and laypeople had been massacred in 1958, a bloody, terrible year in Eastern Tibet.
Elsewhere in Yushu, in the grasslands near Dpal-thang, the commencement of another construction project for houses brought more of the same: three mass burial pits filled with human remains. But not everything had decomposed, it was said. There were remnants of the clothes that the victims were wearing when they were thrown in: both lay clothing and monastic robes. The long hair of some of the dead was also still there. According to elders these pits were from 1958 too, with bodies added as a result of later famine deaths around 1960. Several trucks were needed to take the remains away.
The 20th century has left no dearth of mass graves: Babi Yar, Katyn, Srebrenica: the list is long. And it seems that for almost 70 years the unearthing of one more mass interment site has elicited still more reflections on brutality, guilt, human frailty, hatred, totalitarianism, etc. But even as it is argued that the history of the bloody 20th century must be honestly recorded and taught to future generations in hopes that an awareness of what happened will lessen the possibility of it reoccurring, there is manifestly an unspoken understanding in some rather wide circles that China ought not to be harassed by its past—especially its past in Tibet. And the fact that this is harmful, not least to people in China who are expected, one supposes, to be defended against the pernicious effects of liberal thought, seems to elicit little concern. Indeed, the polite thing seems to be to leave them undisturbed within a political culture that, quite apart from everything else it does, mandates the veneration of one of the 20th century’s major mass murderers.
Given such attitudes, it’s not surprising to find dissembling reactions—denial—to assertions of mass slaughter in Tibet. In place of intense criticism or condemnation of the Chinese authorities, who have for decades refused to open up records relating to what took place in Tibet, (let alone of those whom the records would likely implicate in the savagery) there is a sort of indulgence that one might call the Chinese dispensation: the actions of China are to be seen as something akin to natural phenomena for which little or no moral judgment or critique is imaginable. It is the other actors who should be judged. This can involve the selective use of available (and problematic) Chinese statistics as well as the ascription of much, if not most, of the population loss in Tibet to migration and exile. And there is also the common, droning refrain that accounts from Tibetan exiles are exaggerated and can’t be trusted. Instead of seeking to work through exaggerations to find underlying truths, this rhetorical device is deployed to dismiss, tout court, testimony from those who have fled Tibet. Hence this sentence (from the pen of Barry Sautman): “The [1.2 million] figure is not based on eyewitness accounts or access to state statistics, and refugee reports have often been skewed to please exile authorities.” Well, at least it implies the existence of Chinese records on the subject. Still, if passed over too quickly a reader might not fully take in that the criticism contained in it is directed not at China for preventing access to those records but at Tibetans for not using them: records to which neither they nor any serious researchers are allowed access! And then there’s the schizophrenia of: a) removing from consideration any accounts (including those by eyewitnesses) reported in exile because they are ‘skewed’ and then, having done so; b) saying Tibetans don’t have “eyewitness” accounts… Of course, the utter unreliability of the 1.2 million figure is not an issue of real contention among serious observers: Human Rights Watch already in 1988 termed it unverifiable. But this is not the same as dismissing (as Sautman does) the fact of mass killings in Tibet in the first decades of rule by the PRC.
The memoirs of Nag-tshang Nu-blo, published in Dharamsala in 2008, would seem to be a candidate for the sort of disparagement just described. In passages that one might imagine types like Sautman (or certainly Tom Grunfeld, for that matter) viewing as typical of exaggerated exile accounts the author writes about what he saw in the Yushu area (the region from which our pictures, above, come) in the blighted year of 1958 both before his father was killed and then afterwards, when he was imprisoned:
As we rode alongside the river, we began to smell something rotten… A little further on, the bodies of dead men lay scattered on both sides of the river. They were naked and dark blue… I had lost my fear of dead bodies. Further on were the bodies of many dead children lying alone, and mothers and children holding each other. In that area altogether there were around twenty six or seven corpses. Looking at their hair one could see that most of them were women and children…There was a higher and a lower shelf on the mountainside… Father and Lochu were sitting on the higher shelf. “Oh, the Protector bear witness!” everyone said when we got there, so great was our amazement. The ground was completely covered by the corpses of men, women, monks, yaks and horses… Wherever I looked there was death…
Finally captured, he arrived at the town of Chu-dmar-leb and the prison that had been set up there:
We could hear nothing but the sound of our footsteps as we walked through the town… After we got through the gate, we saw a tall wall in front of us… The troops were taking the prisoners forward line by line, but when they approached the center of the wall they seemed to disappear… I thought, “That’s very strange—what’s going on here?”… When we reached the middle of the wall, a Chinese soldier raised a trapdoor which covered a deep hole, from the ground. A terrible smell came out of the darkness. The troops ordered the prisoners to jump down into the hole one by one. I could hear them landing on the ground beneath. From inside the hole I could hear people crying in pain… “How terrible, it’s a child!” someone down below said, and he reached his arms up and carried me down…
When I got into the open air I was astonished to see that the yard was full of hundreds of prisoners… Looking around I could see other holes, and they seemed to have dead bodies lying close to them too…
“There are 2,300 male prisoners,” Dragpa said,”and 1,600 females,” Cooks always know exactly how many prisoners there are…Each morning the bodies of those who had died as a result of the Chinese soldiers’ cruelty were carried out of the main gate. Two prisoners used to tie them to a pole and carry the bodies, hanging beneath the pole, to the disposal point outside the wall…
This account does seem typical. It recounts death and suffering on a scale that is not unfamiliar to those who have looked at some of the works on life under Chinese rule published in Dharamsala. But it is different: it is not the testimony of an exile; it is an autobiographical story written inside Tibet by a retired official describing what he saw as a child. Born in 1948, Nag-tshang Nu-blo was plucked from the prison pit just mentioned and sent to be educated within the system. He eventually made a career for himself as a police and judicial officer, ultimately rising to be deputy county head in Chu-dmar-leb, the site of the prison pit in which he had been held as a child.  The book was published in Amdo dialect in Xining in 2006 and only afterwards rendered into standard modern literary Tibetan for the Dharamsala edition. (I have here taken the liberty of quoting from the as-yet unpublished English translation that was made from the original Amdo text. One hopes that it finds a publisher soon; the author and the translators who have worked so hard on it deserve at least that much.) Try as one might, it’s hard to conceive of a means of dismissing Nag-tshang Nu-blo’s testimony as something “skewed to please exile authorities.”
There are other ways in which the suppressed history of the slaughter breaks through the barrier of silence that the Chinese authorities have imposed on it. Here is a page from a 1999 article from the Beijing-based Tibetological journal Krung-go’i Bod-kyi shes-rig:

It is drawn from an article describing the traditional economic structures and conditions that prevailed at Lab-dgon monastery in Yushu. (The map below indicates the location of Lab-dgon in relation to Chu-dmar-leb and Yushu town [or Skye-rgu-mdo], the administrative center of the prefecture.) It provides information on the various bla-brang or residence establishments within the monastery and after discussing some of the major ones describes the others, mentioning prominent monks associated with them. It is likely that neither the author nor those who vetted and edited the article realized what this rather dry account shows. Indeed, most readers will likely read through the information without much reflection. But if one pauses and lets one’s eyes pass over the page (and for this a reading knowledge of Tibetan is not needed) one begins to see the past bleeding onto the paper: every one of the monastic leaders mentioned here who was alive in 1958 died in that year, just like those whose corpses littered parts of the landscape through which Nag-tshang Nu-blo travelled.

Making the business of ignoring accounts and statements about mass slaughter in Tibet yet more difficult is another image. As early as the 1980s the collated and analyzed results of China’s first reasonably reliable census data, the data derived from the 1982 census, began to present pictures that were not immediately obvious from the raw data. And again, it was something quite ghastly: the Tibetan Plateau, in 1982, had a widespread imbalance between males and females, an imbalance that can really only be explained by violent struggle. Across the entire PRC the Tibetan Plateau stands out in red as the largest expanse of territory in which the number of women so consistently outstripped that of men. And there among the red is Yushu:
It is at this point that denial of the reality of mass killings in Tibet has to be seen for the malevolent thing that it is. Like many of the denials of other mass killings it is not simply a result of someone’s detached dissent over statistical methodology. It is ultimately rooted in a political agenda. Yes, there is no public access to relevant Chinese records; yes, refugee accounts can be exaggerated; yes, the figures coming out of Dharamsala have no reliable statistical basis: all of this is true. But the fact that there is a gory and horrible truth behind the accounts that we do have is clear.
The People’s Republic of China—for decades a highly bureaucratized state, after all—cannot but harbor in its myriad archives the data that would allow people to know once and for all the contours of mass death in Tibet in the 1950s and 1960s. That access to such records is denied to the outside world by that state speaks eloquently about what may be learned from their contents. That some would focus disproportionately on the clumsy Tibetan attempts at gauging the statistical extent of the tragedy, rather than on the adamant refusal of the Chinese authorities to open their records and archives to outside scrutiny, and see the Tibetan effort as the malignant obstacle to answering the question of how many perished, speaks eloquently of their own rank biases.
In the end, it is the records held by China that need to see the light of day. It is not enough to know, whether from direct personal accounts or indirect references in other sources, that something horrid and brutal took place in Tibet. It is necessary, surely, to make every attempt to know how many perished in the course of that brutality. But let’s go back to the comments I cited at the outset: it is equally necessary to make every attempt to see that as many of those who perished are known as people, not as mere statistics. To do otherwise would indeed be to allow mass murderers to shape our humanity.
We may rightly wonder, when the records are finally opened, where we should place ’Jam-dbyangs ye-shes bsod-nams mchog-grub. He was the third A-brtan incarnation in Lab-dgon and his name is clear on the page from Krung-go’i Bod-kyi shes-rig. During his lifetime he did much to propagate the dharma in Amdo, we are told; he, like his predecessor, served and taught at one of Lab-dgon’s branch monasteries, gathering a considerable following. And then, at the age of 24, in the year 1958, there was nothing more.
He was dead.
The Body Count, 10.0 out of 10 based on 1 rating Popularity: 39%

级别: 管理员
只看该作者 沙发  发表于: 2012-09-29
唯色注:这是一篇相当重要的文章。对于历史;对于图伯特(西藏);也对于中国。当然,更对于人性(这话尤其要对某些刻意罔顾事实、被大屠杀凶手改变人性的所谓学者大声强调)。感谢真正的学者Elliot Sperling,感谢译者更桑东智。需要说明的是,我在从译者的网站“说,还是不说?”转载这篇译文时,也添加了两个注解,见符号为【】内的注解,为的是便于阅读中的理解。另外,文章中的黑体字部分,为我添加。读到最后一段的最后一行“后来,在1958年,在他24岁的年纪上,一切戛然而止。他死了”,悲愤难当……
The Body Count

作者:艾略特•史伯岭(Elliot Sperling)

艾略特•史伯岭(Elliot Sperling)  
人们通常用十个数间隔的整数来组织记忆。但不知何故,对于死亡数字,如果不是整数,如果结尾的数字不是零,反而更容易让人铭记……在特雷布林卡(Treblinka)丧生的人数780,863或许容易让人想起:末尾的数字3或许就是塔玛拉(Tamara)和伊塔•维伦伯格(Itta Willenberg),在被毒气致死后,他们的衣服还紧紧缠绕在一起;或许还有露丝•多芙曼(Ruth Dorfman),在走进毒气室前,她还能和为她剪掉头发的男人一起痛哭……在1940年,被苏联内务部(NKVD)枪杀的21,892名波兰战俘都正值壮年。末尾的数字2或许就是杜别斯瓦•雅库布维茨(Dobiesław Jakubowicz),一位对女儿魂牵梦萦的父亲;或许就是亚当•索罗斯基(Adam Solski),一位在子弹射进头颅的当天还在日记中描写自己婚戒的丈夫。纳粹和苏联政府把活生生的人变成了数字,对于这些数字,有些我们只能通过估计和猜测去追想,而有些则能够相当精确地还原。作为学者,我们有责任追寻这些数字并进行分析思考;作为人道主义者,我们有责任将这些数字还原为人物。如果我们不能这样做,那么希特勒和斯大林改变的就不仅仅是这个世界,还改变了我们的人性。——提摩西•斯奈德《血色大地》(Timothy Snyder, Bloodlands)[译注1]



发生在图伯特的集体死亡事件在中华人民共和国境内极少被提及,至少在官方层面一直如此,而且即使提到也只是为了否认曾经发生过这样的事件。在许多年里,人们在流亡政府的官方报告中也很少见到相关记载,或许这部分是由于(中国)统战部所下达的一道禁令:博巴不许做任何让中国政府难堪的事情(随着时间推移,我们现在知道这道禁令是统战部直接对洛地•嘉日[Lodi Gyari][译注2]下达的,最终由达赖喇嘛正式宣布)。这中间所包含的(对中国政府的)奴颜婢膝的程度着实发人深省。然而,历史留下的蛛丝马迹并不总能符合政治领袖们的意愿。





20世纪的世界从来不缺乏这样的乱葬坑:巴比雅(Babi Yar)、卡廷(Katyn)、斯雷布雷尼察(Srebrenica)——我们可以列出长长的一份名单。有差不多七十年的时间,每一个新的乱葬场的发现还总能引发人们对残暴、罪恶、人类的弱点、怨恨以及极权主义等等的更多反思。人们一直在讨论必须忠实地记录20世纪的血腥历史并以此教育后代,寄希望于他们了解过去发生的事情从而降低悲剧重演的可能性。但即便在这样的讨论中,也明显有范围相当广泛的人存在一种心照不宣的认知——不要拿中国的过去,尤其不要拿中国过去在图伯特的所作所为去惹恼中国。或许正如某些人所想象的那样,尤其对于那些似乎对自由主义思想的毒害“严阵以待”的中国人而言揭露历史事实是一件有害无益的事情,而且也不会引起太多关注。而事实上,让中国人以“躲进小楼成一统,不管春夏与秋冬”的方式继续生活在既有的政治文化里,从而让他们继续顶礼膜拜20世纪最大的大屠杀凶手似乎也是一件合乎礼节的事情。

基于这样的观点,出现任何掩盖和否认在图伯特曾经发生的大屠杀的行为便也不足为奇了。于是,对于在几十年里拒绝公开在图伯特所作所为(更不用说那些可能涉及暴行的有关记录)的中国政府不仅没有进行严厉的批评或谴责,甚至还出现了某种或可以称为“中国式赦免”的纵容:中国在图伯特所做的一切类似于某种自然现象,根本无需经受任何道德评判。而需要接受评判的只是其他一些因素,这其中可能包括选择性地使用公开的(甚至是值得质疑的)中国政府统计数据,以及将图伯特地区的人口减少大部分(如果不是绝大部分的话)归因于人口迁移和流亡。还有一种普遍的、不思进取的抵触情绪:来自流亡政府的记录是夸张而不可信的。不是去追寻夸张背后的真相,而是简单地把这样的夸张作为理由用来否认流亡博巴所提供的证据。因而便出现了下面这样的文字(出自沙伯力[译注3]笔下):“(120万)这个数字既非来自目击者的记述也非取自中国的官方统计数字,而流亡者的报告则时常为了取悦于流亡政府而歪曲事实。”好了,这段话至少暗示了在这个问题上确实存在中国官方记录。而浮光掠影的读者或许不会完全理解沙伯力文字中所包含的批评并非指向中国对有关资料的封锁而是指责博巴没有利用这些官方记载,而这些资料是图伯特方面和任何严肃的研究者都无法获得的。这是一种精神分裂症式的观点:首先是对流亡社会的任何记述都不予理会,因为这些记述都是“歪曲事实”的;在这样做了之后又说图伯特方面没有任何“目击者”证词……当然,严肃的研究者对于120万这个数字的不可靠性是不存在真正的争议的:人权观察组织(Human Rights Watch)早在1988年就认为这个数字无法核实。但是,这不同于(沙伯力之流)对中国统治图伯特的头几十年发生大屠杀的事实视而不见。

纳仓怒罗(Nag-tshang Nu-blo)于2008年在达兰萨拉出版的回忆录[译注4]似乎也属于上文中所描述的那种遭人轻视的记述。回忆录的一些章节中,作者描写了1958这个毁灭之年在玉树地区(上文中的照片便来自这一地区)所看到的一切,他的父亲在这一年被杀害,而他自己也在这一年沦为阶下之囚。人们可以想象,诸如沙伯力之流(在这个问题上当然还包括谭•戈伦夫[译注5])一定会将这些文字视为典型的流亡者的夸大其辞:
这确实看上去是一份很典型的记述。这部回忆录所叙述的死亡与苦难,对于那些曾经读过达兰萨拉出版的有关中国统治下的生活的作品的人来说,应该并不陌生。但这却又是一份非同寻常的文件:它不是一份流亡者的证词,它是一本自传,作者是生活在图伯特境内的一名退休官员,记录了作者还是个孩子的时候所看到的东西。纳仓怒罗(Nag-tshang Nu-blo)生于1948年,他后来被从上文提到的监狱里挑选出来并送到中共体制内的学校接受教育。他做过警察、法院干部并最终被提拔为曲麻莱县副县长,正是他幼年时被关押的那座监狱所在地。2006年,这本书在青海西宁以安多方言出版,不久之后被转换成现代标准博伊(即“藏文”)在达兰萨拉发行。(我在此冒昧引用的文字来自尚未出版的英文译本,英文译本根据的是此书最初的安多方言版本。希望能有出版商尽快让英文版得以面世。付出艰辛努力的作者和译者们至少应该得到这样的机会。)若想把纳仓怒罗的证词贬低为“歪曲事实,取悦流亡政府”,肯定是一件枉费心机的事情。

被查禁的大屠杀历史还会通过其他一些渠道突破中国当局强行设置的障碍与缄默。下面这张图片是北京出版的藏学刊物《中国藏学》(Krung-go’i Bod-kyi shes-rig)1999年某期的一篇文章中的一页:

这一页文字所出自的那篇文章,描述了过去在玉树地区拉布寺(Lab-dgon monastery)占主流的传统经济结构和经济条件。(下面的这幅地图显示了拉布寺与曲麻莱以及玉树州府所在地结古镇的地理位置关系。)文章提供了这个寺院中不同拉章[译注6]的相关信息,按主次顺序分别讨论描述了各个拉章的情况,并提到了与这些拉章相关的一些高僧的情况。无论是作者还是负责审阅、编辑这篇文章的人都很可能没有意识到文章中这些枯燥的记录所透露出的信息。事实上,绝大部分读者浏览完文章后也不会做太多思考。但是,如果稍作停顿,将目光扫过页面(无需博伊即藏文的阅读知识便可做到),我们便会发现那一段血淋淋的往昔开始浮出纸面:文章提到的当时还在世的寺院领袖都无一例外的死于1958年,就如同在纳仓怒罗走过的地方所看到的那些散布各处的死者一样。





我们不妨设想,当有朝一日这些档案资料大白于天下的时候,我们应该会在其中找到“嘉央益西索南确珠”(Jam-dbyangs ye-shes bsod-nams mchog-grub)。他是拉布寺的第三世阿丁朱古,他的名字在《中国藏学》的那一页文章上清晰可见。据我们所知,他生前在安多地区致力于弘扬佛法;和他的前世一样,他在拉布寺的一个属寺驻锡传法,信徒众多。后来,在1958年,在他24岁的年纪上,一切戛然而止。他死了。


[译注1] 提摩西·斯奈德(Timothy Snyder),出生于1969年,1997年获得英国牛津大学历史学博士学位,现为美国耶鲁大学历史学教授。《血色大地》(Bloodlands)是一部研究二战前后德国和苏联两国之间若干小国人民遭受集体屠杀的历史专著。有兴趣的中国读者可以从亚马逊网站购得此书的英文精装版。

[译注2]洛地•嘉日(Lodi Gyaltsen Gyari)曾担任达赖喇嘛特使和西藏流亡政府驻美总代表,多次代表达赖喇嘛与中国方面会晤,曾经担任国际声援西藏运动董事会执行主席。

[译注3] 沙伯力(Barry Sautman)是一位政治学家、律师,就职于香港科技大学,主要研究方向为中国种族政治和中非关系。他有关图伯特事件的一些观点可参见他的论文《殖民主义、种族灭绝与图伯特》(“Colonialism, Genocide, and Tibet”,http://blog.hiddenharmonies.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/Sautman-2006-Colonialism-Genocide-Tibet.pdf

[译注4]纳仓•怒罗的回忆录,藏文原著《纳仓男孩的童年》 于2007年6月由作者自费在西宁出版,中文版书名为《那年,世时翻转:一个西藏人的童年回忆》,于2011年由台湾雪域出版社出版。更加详细的情况请参见唯色女士博客中的有关介绍(http://woeser.middle-way.net/2011/03/blog-post_16.html)。

[译注5]谭·戈伦夫(Tom Grunfeld) 美国纽约州立大学帝州学院(State University of New York Empire State college)历史学教授,毕业于伦敦大学东方与非洲研究院和纽约大学。他的代表作为《现代西藏的诞生》(The Making of Modern Tibet)。

[译注6] 拉章,博伊(藏文)的音译,直译的意思为“佛的宫殿”,通常指寺院中朱古(汉语称“活佛”)的宅邸。


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