Then we heard sirens. Police and soldiers ran around with automatic weapons. An upended car was burning hard. Singh threaded carefully around shards of gla.s.s while we contemplated the flames and what they might mean. Another problem in translation. I realized "schoolchildren" was a mistake. Mr. Singh had meant "students."

The students of Punjab were on strike and rioting. I remembered the poster I'd seen in Delhi with its stylized yellow flames, their red tips punishing the air.

THIS s.p.a.cE RESERVED FOR INDIA'S MARTYRS.

3.

Roadblocks.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23, CHANDIGARH-NANGAL-UNA-KANGRA-DHARAMSALA The Hotel Sunbeam in Chandigarh was being remodeled. It seemed all of India was being remodeled, though at a maddeningly slow pace, chip by chip, stone by stone. The country was falling apart physically and politically at about the same rate it was being patched together, so the constant activity did not belie a feeling of stagnation. The Sunbeam, as a modernist building under the ambient influence of Le Corbusier, had started out ahead of the entropy game. But impermanence was catching up here, too. The second floor remained unfinished with untied wires and pipes poking out of the walls.

I milled around in the lobby with Mr. Singh and Shoshana Edelberg, a journalist covering the conference for National Public Radio. We heard loudspeakers from the roof of a low white munic.i.p.al building across the street. Edelberg ran out with her microphone and I followed. A harsh official voice barked orders. I joined the hotel staff, a few bellboys and the desk clerk, a tall man in a buff turban. He explained we were under curfew. Four young men had been shot by the police not far from the checkpoint. In protest, students had burned buses and cars all over town. A few moments later the rest of our caravan arrived. At the checkpoint the guards had told Tsangpo it was against regulations for foreigners to travel through the Punjab. But he persuaded them to let our group spend the night at the hotel.

Nathan Katz, a professor of religious studies who'd been traveling in India since 1969, had never felt more concerned. With the Sikh-Hindu conflict, the affirmative action riots, and the Hindu-Muslim conflict brewing to the north of us, India was under triple siege.

But no one showed any fear. Most of the travelers were people of immense faith, even if of different kinds. As a Buddhist pract.i.tioner, Marc Lieberman was convinced no harm would befall us because of our good intention: we were on our way to see the Dalai Lama. The Greenbergs' concern was more for halakhah halakhah, the Jewish path, than the Indian road.

The Greenbergs were not the only Jewish delegates who kept kosher, but as Blu explained later, "That night in Chandigarh I began to feel the first bit of isolation as a strictly kosher Jew. Everyone else ate downstairs. We had to eat alone in our room. Everybody else was keeping kosher, but not strictly. Their definition would include vegetarian food cooked in pots used for other things. We couldn't eat from anything cooked in pots because something cooked in an unkosher pot absorbs the nature of the pot. So there was nothing we could have at the Hotel Sunbeam.

"I had brought food and a kettle. Vacuum-packed chicken from Kew Gardens Hills. When Marc Lieberman came to the door with a message, I felt ridiculous. My daughter had packed my food. There I was in Chandigarh with a huge bottle of Heinz ketchup."

Next morning at breakfast, Blu did slip down to sit while the rest of us ate in the dimness of pre-dawn. Tsangpo wanted to set off early before the police could stop us. Still, we paused after our meal to join hands and Reb Zalman led us in a Hallel Hallel, a prayer of thanksgiving ordinarily reserved for remembering miracles. Maybe getting past a checkpoint where others had been killed was miracle enough. We sang the Hebrew to the tune of "Michael Rowed the Boat Ash.o.r.e." Tsangpo joined in, humming in a soft baritone and quickly learning the chorus of Hallelujah. Then we sat for a moment of silence.

We left Chandigarh without incident and followed the main route west through the native land of the Sikhs. At independence, this rich agricultural plain had been divided between Pakistan and India, as for centuries it had been divided between Muslim and Hindu. Five hundred years ago Guru Nanak, the founder of the Sikh religion, tried to heal this division, declaring, "G.o.d is neither Hindu nor Muslim." Apparently that had not settled the matter-the Punjab remains the scene of constant unrest, as we soon learned.

As our caravan pulled into the main square of Nangal, a town of ten thousand, a bus squarely blocked our path. A large crowd, mostly young people in their teens and twenties, milled about. More of Mr. Singh's "schoolchildren." There was a general sense of excitement in the air, like a cloud slowly condensing into storm. The protesters surrounded our caravan so that we could not move.

The sun was shining-a beautiful clear day. The town itself looked relatively prosperous with shops and restaurants lining the main square. We were more or less ignored, but I didn't think that would last for long.

Nathan Katz was told, "You'd better go back," and he heard "more than a little threat in their voices. I didn't feel they were likely to attack us, but I also felt we'd better get out of there. Tsangpo and Marc Lieberman had the brilliant idea to hire one of the leaders to get us to the back roads to Una. I felt skittish. I was spooked."

Marc Lieberman paid the student leader twenty bucks. "It was a winwin situation. He got his demonstration and the money, and we got out of town." The young man hopped into the lead car and took us out via the back roads of Nangal.

But we were now off the main route to Dharamsala. Soon the road petered out altogether where a bridge was under construction. We rattled across a gravelly creek bed and up the slope of the bank. On the other side two boys, no older than thirteen or fourteen, had set some boulders in the road. Marc Lieberman saw this as "a dharma situation: how do you deal with obstacles? Just go through." But his driver was too cautious and stopped. Money changed hands and they moved on. When our turn came, Mr. Singh was furious. He yelled at the boys in Punjabi, but they simply yelled back. I thought, Animosity does not eradicate animosity. Paul and I felt twenty rupees ($1.20) was a decent bribe to offer considering that political principles were involved. Another consideration was not receiving a rock through our windshield. The deal was struck, but Mr. Singh, anxious to maintain his dignity, insisted that the boys roll the boulders aside themselves. Then he floored the gas. The Amba.s.sador shuddered and in a cloud of dust we left politics in the Punjab behind.

From now on we would be rising to higher things, as the landscape would teach us. We began a steep ascent through spectacular hill country. Paul had the good luck Torah in his lap. Equanimity, plus a bribe, had triumphed over animosity.

We approached the foothills of the Himalayas, the Indian state of Himachal Pradesh, a green land of orchards, goats, and sheep. On the winding switchbacks and narrow lanes, we soon learned new facets of Mr. Singh's driving talents as he made his way through a flock of sheep.

The road skimmed cliffs, spanned impressive gorges on very narrow bridges, then climbed rapidly the last few miles to the old capital, Kangra.

We stopped at a small shop for chai chai, the local tea mixed with milk, heavily sweetened and spiced with cloves. Across the way in an openair schoolhouse, Tibetan children sat cross-legged on a porch learning their lessons. In the late afternoon chill the teacup warmed my fingers.

Kangra is no more than a block and a half of shops by the side of the steep grade to Dharamsala, but the town is the home of a civilization dating back to when Jews were slaves in Egypt.

We were anxious to arrive before nightfall. The road wound up and down another 23 kilometers before entering the narrow streets of Dharamsala. Our drivers had the same view of pedestrians as sheep: drive right toward them with no sign of giving way, honking the whole time. Even young children were practiced at leaping aside at a moment's notice, flattening themselves against buildings as we barreled past.

The town is laid out vertically, its streets no more than paved switchbacks. Lower Dharamsala is largely Indian with a bazaar, post office, and administrative buildings. Upper Dharamsala, which includes the Tibetan enclave known as McLeod Ganj, has a more impressive natural setting. Pine trees and cedars fill in the slopes, and the narrow road opens out onto magnificent views of the Kangra valley. To the east, a sheer wall of gray granite-the Dhaula Dhar range-towers with a supernatural presence.

At five thousand feet, the site appears refreshingly lofty, but for the Tibetans coming down from more than twice that height, life in India was actually a terrible descent into exile. Many suffered low alt.i.tude sickness. But back in 1959 the Dalai Lama's chief concern was the implication of his geographical isolation for the Tibetan cause. The difficulties of our trip underlined that point.

Compared to the glories of Lhasa-which once boasted some of the tallest buildings in the world-Dharamsala was a simple hill station, a vacation spot for British bureaucrats of the Raj. The Tibetan leader had moved from a great palace, the Potala, to a modest cottage.

But over the past thirty years the energetic and industrious Tibetans have built up their settlement in the neighborhood of McLeod Ganj, establishing shops and residences, as well as monasteries; an orphanage (the Tibetan Children's Village); a comprehensive library and archive of Tibetan culture; and Thekchen Choeling, or "Island of the Mahayana Teaching," an area that includes the main temple, the Dalai Lama's residence and compound, the Namgyal monastery, and the Inst.i.tute of Buddhist Dialectics, a monks' debating school.

The Dalai Lama's large family has been helpful in these projects. His older sister, the late Tsering Dolma, first ran the nursery that became the Tibetan Children's Village, and she was succeeded by his younger sister, Jetsun Pema. His mother was established, until her death, at the Kashmir Cottage, where most of the Jewish delegates would stay and where we all met for meals, discussions, and prayers.

Kashmir Cottage, our new headquarters, was built of granite blocks, with several guest rooms that adjoin a porch with a magnificent view of the Kangra valley to the west. Set into the slope above us was the main house where the proprietors lived. The guest house was modestly furnished, but comfortable and homey. After the drivers pulled our packs and suitcases from the cars and we dusted them off, we were happy to sit for a while in the living room. I strolled around outside in the garden.

My exposure to India, though brief, had been staggering. I had traveled extensively in Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras, so I knew what third world poverty looked like. But nothing could have prepared me for the total density of suffering. The immense need of the people, the vibrant anarchy of their lives, and the variety of costumes, physiognomy, and activity had left me drained. Certain images kept returning with an absolute force: the leper's finger stumps thrust into my face, the mother holding her infant up to our cab, and from our first hours, that corpse surrounded by a circle of white stones. My heart was torn and tender.

I believe in tikkun olam tikkun olam-that the world can be repaired. And that belief requires action: being a Jew means put up or shut up. In my own life that made sense. But in India, the idea that any individual could grasp, let alone modify, such a vast quant.i.ty of suffering felt absurd. The streets of Chandigarh smeared with dung, the tide of women and young girls carrying boulders on their heads toward a construction site, the mult.i.tude of beggars waiting to surround us at the airport at 4 A.M. A.M.-all acc.u.mulated into a sense of hopelessness.

If Jews are responsible for relieving the suffering of the world, knowing the size of the task is critical. I felt how much I ignore, how often I redefine the world as my world, and suffering as the suffering of the Jews.

I admit I was glad to leave the thick air of Route One for the thinner air of clarity and contemplation. At that golden hour I came upon Mr. Richard Gere, sitting on a lawn chair before a view of the Kangra valley, the setting sun illuminating everything below in a brilliant haze like a bowl filled with seething light.

I sat beside him and said h.e.l.lo. He nodded, natural, not unfriendly. Gazing with him into the valley, I could pick out the route we'd traveled through a thick choking cloud of wood ash, dung smoke, car exhaust, heat, and light-the great burning heart of the world. Sitting next to Richard Gere, I knew I was among the blessed. After I mentioned our problems with roadblocks and demonstrations, he remarked, speaking perhaps as a multimillionaire, "It's not a good idea to argue with poor people." Then he padded away, disappearing with a suddenness that made me doubt we had met.

The first order of business at Kashmir Cottage for Blu Greenberg was more practical: to investigate the kitchen facilities housed behind the cottage. Her commitment to halakhah halakhah gave her an enviable sense of purpose. Rinchen Khandro Choegyal, the proprietor, had carefully supervised the arrangements. Handsome and gracious, she was so warm and helpful when it came to solving problems-from making alternative travel arrangements to long-distance calls-that we all came to call her Rinchen-la. It was a small but delightful fruit of Tibetan Jewish dialogue to realize that both Yiddish and Tibetan share a linguistic quirk, the ending gave her an enviable sense of purpose. Rinchen Khandro Choegyal, the proprietor, had carefully supervised the arrangements. Handsome and gracious, she was so warm and helpful when it came to solving problems-from making alternative travel arrangements to long-distance calls-that we all came to call her Rinchen-la. It was a small but delightful fruit of Tibetan Jewish dialogue to realize that both Yiddish and Tibetan share a linguistic quirk, the ending L L plus a short vowel that makes a name more affectionate. Rinchen-la, bubbe-leh! plus a short vowel that makes a name more affectionate. Rinchen-la, bubbe-leh!

Like many of the Tibetans we would meet, Rinchen wears several hats. In addition to hosting the exile government's official visitors, she heads the Tibetan Women's a.s.sociation, which fights the forced sterilization of Tibetan women, and raises funds for housing Tibetan nuns. Now, thanks to Blu, she could add to her resume, mashgiach mashgiach-kosher kitchen supervisor.

"I didn't have a problem," Blu told me, "because Rinchen kashered the entire kitchen. They poured boiling water on the floors. They bought altogether new pots and pans, all new utensils. Everything was totally new and their cooking surfaces they had totally kashered. They cleaned it out thoroughly and they gli gli'd it, raised it to its highest heat. We went over with them in advance what they should do and we saw what they had done. Rinchen supervised the whole thing. Somebody else might have looked at this and said it was ridiculous, but the Tibetans took it very seriously."

During the next few days, our meals were a blend of Western-style eggs, bread, coffee, and vegetarian versions of traditional Tibetan dishes. We were spared tsampa tsampa, a traditional ground barley staple but were treated to the great Tibetan delicacy, the mo-mo mo-mo-a round, flat, fried pancake ordinarily stuffed with meat like a blintz, and a first cousin to kreplach in flavor. The vegetarian version we ate lost nothing in translation.

After supper on our first night, I walked around, happy to stretch my legs, wondering what other celebrated visitors I might stumble upon. In the dark around the cottage compound, by a rose bush, I nearly b.u.mped into a familiar-looking man dressed all in black. I was speechless. The Dalai Lama in our garden!

"Excuse me," I said, and the Tibetan man smiled and extended his hand.

"Tenzin Choegyal," he said, "You can call me TC."

I introduced myself and we both laughed. TC understood what I'd been thinking, because the resemblance to his older brother is striking. Although TC was recognized in childhood as a tulku tulku-a reincarnation of a previous lama-he had given up his monk's robes for the life of a householder and ran the guest house with Rinchen.

But now it was time for me and several of the delegates to be driven down to our lodgings. Since Richard Gere and another guest were staying already at the Kashmir Cottage, about half of our group was a.s.signed to similar quarters about a quarter of a mile below.

After settling in, a few of us sat out on the veranda to talk. Marc Lieberman stopped by to check in on us, still mulling over the discussions he'd had en route. He feared that the Jews were so concerned with bringing their Torah to Dharamsala, that they would engage in a onesided talkfest. There were some pretty good talkers in the group, so I could see the danger. Remembering his reaction to Zalman's proposal of a Buddhist seder, I asked him about his concern. He saw it as another example of what he feared, overreaching.

"Look," he elaborated, "the life of Gautama Buddha is totally irrelevant to the Tibetan Buddhists' Mahayana. To the Mahayanists he is one of zillions of Buddhas, and the life of the Buddha story isn't key. Second, the seder is a pedagogic technique that Zalman would like to insert into the householder life of the Tibetans. That's terrific, but we don't have the right audience. If he were to talk to a Tibetan PTA meeting it might work, but we're talking to celibate monks and nuns. They're not going to get together with the kiddies and make tsampa tsampa matzahs." matzahs."

Rabbi Joy Levitt and I laughed at Marc's splenetic attack, but I also wondered why he was being so fierce with Zalman, while evidently very respectful of Yitz's more Orthodox position. I had a.s.sumed that as a Jewish Buddhist he would be more likely to embrace Zalman's universalist approach. This was a paradox I saw with other Jewish Buddhists. Maybe they wanted the Judaism they'd left behind to stay put.

Joy Levitt, while more open to Zalman's seder proposal, did wonder whether Tibetans felt their exodus was a memory worth preserving. "That's what Jews are about," she went on. "We're about remembering how s.h.i.tty life was and how much better it could be. So do we want to say to them, you should sit down and tell the story of your trek over the Himalayas and do it with a Haggadah Haggadah and have little games for the children?" and have little games for the children?"

We laughed at that. But to be fair, Zalman was not proposing a parallel between the Jewish exodus and the Tibetan exile. Instead, his intention was to simply use the Pa.s.sover seder format as a sh.e.l.l, in which to insert a message about the life of Buddha.

The point was, the Dalai Lama had asked Jews for help. So I asked Marc if the seder, with its emphasis on parents teaching their children, wasn't an important and enduring secret of Jewish survival.

Lieberman exploded. The tensions of shepherding us through India, and all the minor details he'd been saddled with over the past few days, like relaying phone messages and changing money, had evidently been taking their toll.

"We keep asking what they want to know. Why don't we ask what we want to know? That's why I'm here. I did not bring a Chautauqua Society to Dharamsala to lecture Buddhists or Jewish-born Buddhists about Judaism."

In his proposal, Marc had suggested topics for the Jewish partic.i.p.ants. Rabbis Zalman Schachter and Jonathan Omer-Man would address kabbalah and Jewish meditation. Yitz Greenberg would cover the role of the Talmud in Jewish survival, Rabbi Levitt the synagogue, Dr. Blu Greenberg, the Jewish home, Professor Mendes-Flohr the role of secular Jews, and Dr. Moshe Waldoks the Jewish textual tradition. Professor Nathan Katz would cover possible points of contact between Judaism and Buddhism in the ancient world.

I thought the format itself practically dictated that Jews would teach and the Dalai Lama would listen, but Marc rejected that idea vehemently. "The topics were chosen because you could plug them in both ways. They are just as appropriate for Buddhists to talk to Jews about as for Jews to talk to Buddhists. How, for example, do the Buddhists really work? What's the reality of the Dalai Lama working with hotheaded Tibetans-keeping a lid on all the factions who urge violence and revolt against the Chinese? How do you work with that anger, that hatred of the oppressor?"

That interested Rabbi Levitt, who'd worked in support of the Israeli peace movement.

"Tell me about that," she said to Marc. "Who knows?"

"I think he will be able to show us."

But Joy was skeptical. She had been struck by the same phrase from The Dhammapada The Dhammapada that I'd seen Zalman Schachter translating into Hebrew, "Animosity produces only animosity." that I'd seen Zalman Schachter translating into Hebrew, "Animosity produces only animosity."

"My fundamental issue in reading Buddhist texts," she said, "is what it means to love your enemy. I have a suspicion that they have a much better take on those energies than we do. On the other hand, when I read this stuff about loving the Chinese, I want to know why. I don't get it at all. It seems unnatural."

Lieberman smiled. "It's totally unnatural. The whole Buddhist thing is unnatural. The natural way of samsara samsara is the perpetuation of more and more suffering. Nothing could be more unnatural than cultivating the pure kind of mind where you get off the wheel." is the perpetuation of more and more suffering. Nothing could be more unnatural than cultivating the pure kind of mind where you get off the wheel."

"Yes, but I still don't understand that."

"I'm not trying to give you a flip answer. That question is a genuine meeting of Tibetan and Jewish experience, where their response is different from ours."

It had been a long day's journey, and it was getting cold sitting out on the porch. Tomorrow morning we would find new barriers on the Jewish side to overcome before such a genuine meeting could take place.

4.

Heights.

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 24, DHARAMSALA.

Refreshed after a good night's sleep and some vigorous morning prayers, the Jewish group sat around a long dining table at Kashmir Cottage for a hearty breakfast of eggs, milk, and cheese. Moshe Waldoks read to us from the Torah portion for the coming Sabbath, in which Abram journeys out from the land of Ur. He focused on Beres.h.i.t Beres.h.i.t (Genesis) 14:18: "And Melchizedek, king of Salem brought forth bread and wine; and he was a priest of the most high G.o.d." (Genesis) 14:18: "And Melchizedek, king of Salem brought forth bread and wine; and he was a priest of the most high G.o.d."

Then Moshe took us on a compact midrashic journey-through four thousand years of Jewish experience, from the terse biblical account to the rabbinic commentary to the Hasidic masters up to the present moment when, as we consumed bread and coffee, we thought about bread and wine.

To the rabbinic commentators, Salem is Jerusalem, and Melchizedek-as a priest of G.o.d most high-is intimating to Abram what his descendants will be doing there when they become priests of the Temple.

Then Moshe quoted a Hasidic take: "bread and wine" symbolize words of wisdom, and anyone who shares wisdom with another is as holy as the ancient priests.

That's how far we'd gotten when Zalman struck yet another blow for spontaneity with a zap of instant midrash. The story of Abram learning from Melchizedek, he proposed, is an image of the dialogue to come. Like Abram, we had journeyed far from home to learn wisdom from a great non-Jewish teacher.

I was impressed. Suddenly, the Dalai Lama was Melchizedek. This kind of vigorous interplay showed me how, in yet another sense, the Torah might bring this group together.

Then Zalman added another twist: just as Abram and Melchizedek had shared rituals, couldn't we share our seder with the Buddhists?

That was one twist too many for Rabbi Greenberg. He responded with an acc.u.mulating syntax of carefully qualified clauses-Talmudic inflections. He had "a theological reservation" about doing a Buddhist seder, "because it begins to raise questions of crossing the line, and also, maybe unintentionally, patronizing them."

Good-bye, Buddhist seder. The pattern would recur, the sides were shaping up. The traditionalists in the group, led by Rabbi Greenberg, spoke of preserving Jewish authenticity. But Reb Zalman believed that, in the Reconstructionist phrase, tradition should have a vote, not a veto.

The sides kept shifting partly because in moving into dialogue partic.i.p.ants were loosening up. Joy Levitt felt unmoored-far from her husband, her two kids, and her Long Island shul. When our discussion that morning moved toward her expectations and apprehensions, she said they were the same. "I want to be completely open and that means I will be completely vulnerable. I want to be able go home changed. The more open you are about taking in new ideas, the more challenged you are about the ideas you already accept as true."

Jonathan Omer-Man quipped, "I've tried to purge myself of expectations, a process that was enhanced by the drive up here."

Blu Greenberg added, "Jonathan described himself as emptying out. It took so long that by the time we got here I thought we wouldn't have Jonathan."

A quiet, deeply reflective man, Omer-Man had spent eleven years in Jerusalem studying kabbalah and Jewish meditation. Very soft-spoken, he was often talked over in a conversation, especially in the boisterous exchanges this group engaged in. But he was referring to more than the volume of his voice when he spoke that morning.

"What normally happens to me in this kind of encounter is that through dialogue I learn to see myself through the prism of the other's experience, and I very much want that to happen. Paradoxically, I find it very hard to share my feelings with Jews. I have problems with the number of times I've been told by Jews what my experience is." His words would prove prophetic.

Michael Sautman, our Dharamsala connection, joined us. He was a somewhat mysterious figure. There was, for instance, the matter of what he did for a living, and for whom he worked. I knew for certain only that he was a trained private pilot, that he had done relief work with Tibetans in southern India, that he was the Dalai Lama's personal student. He mentioned that after the dialogue, he was starting up a cashmere factory in Mongolia.

Sautman was crisp, well organized, quick on the uptake, and very controlled. He was able to converse in Tibetan with Tsangpo or to bawl out our drivers in Punjabi if necessary. I sometimes wondered, in fact, how a practicing Buddhist could be so harsh with them. But he had reached very high levels of initiation in tantrayana tantrayana and spent several hours a day practicing. He intimated to me that he was now able to visualize himself as a dragon-headed deity of some sort. His Jewish roots showed too: he'd worked very hard on this dialogue. His own dream was that the Dalai Lama would visit Israel. and spent several hours a day practicing. He intimated to me that he was now able to visualize himself as a dragon-headed deity of some sort. His Jewish roots showed too: he'd worked very hard on this dialogue. His own dream was that the Dalai Lama would visit Israel.

More revealing perhaps about his own apprehensions and expectations, Michael Sautman had brought his parents to Dharamsala just for this occasion. It was their first visit. It seemed that Michael, like other JUBUs, was looking for a way to integrate his Jewish roots and Buddhist wings.

Sautman arrived with our schedule for the week. He was on his way to meet briefly with the Dalai Lama and wanted to hear what questions we might have him consider in advance. Like Lieberman, he was concerned that the Jews be open to learning from the Dalai Lama. "As far as learning what he's about," Sautman said, "it's a precious opportunity, in talking to a Buddhist master to gain some knowledge and wisdom."

But for now, much as Marc Lieberman feared, Moshe Waldoks and others seemed more interested in what the Dalai Lama would like to learn from the Jews.

Sautman sighed. "If you remember the first meeting in New Jersey, certainly there was an interest in Jewish mysticism. He is very interested in thought transformation-how one purifies afflictive emotions. In Buddhism it's done through tantrayana tantrayana. He's also interested in issues of diaspora survival if there's some elaboration to be offered."

Then Sautman repeated his request. Zalman spoke first about how both groups were at a crucial place in history. "I would like to ask His Holiness, what is it he would like to teach to us for our own consideration and close cooperation with what's happening on the planet?"

"Give it to me in one sentence," Sautman said crisply.

Zalman didn't hesitate. "Give me dharma talk. Give me dharma talk addressed to Jews."

In the prewar Hasidic Polish community of his childhood, Zalman had been nurtured on Jewish mysticism. As a young man he'd been an important outreach person for the Lubavitcher Hasidim of Crown Heights. And later, earning an advanced degree in the psychology of religion, he taught at Temple University. Starting in the sixties, he'd become an increasingly charismatic figure in Jewish circles and was active at the inception of the chavurah chavurah movement, when young Jews from the counterculture began exploring their Jewish roots. He gathered many around him, organized as a religious fellowship based in Philadelphia known as P'nai Or, or "faces of light." movement, when young Jews from the counterculture began exploring their Jewish roots. He gathered many around him, organized as a religious fellowship based in Philadelphia known as P'nai Or, or "faces of light."

Since Zalman sees himself as "doing Jewish renewal, not Jewish restoration," he identified with the Dalai Lama as a colleague facing a similar challenge. The Buddhist leader had brought with him into exile a Noah's ark of pract.i.tioners. Just as Jews had their specialists-mohels, mashgiachs, chazzans, kosher butchers-so the Tibetans had brought with them oracular mediums, thangka thangka painters, "inner heat" meditators. To have the "totality of our tradition accessible means to have people who live that tradition. It's not enough to have books; like in painters, "inner heat" meditators. To have the "totality of our tradition accessible means to have people who live that tradition. It's not enough to have books; like in Fahrenheit Fahrenheit 451, you need people who are living books. For every form of Tibetan practice he needs a living being that practices it." But now, like the Jews, the Tibetans faced the dilemma of restoration versus renewal, namely choosing "which tools to keep and preserve." 451, you need people who are living books. For every form of Tibetan practice he needs a living being that practices it." But now, like the Jews, the Tibetans faced the dilemma of restoration versus renewal, namely choosing "which tools to keep and preserve."

So Zalman had a second question to relay through Sautman.

"As the question of diaspora comes up for him, there is a sorting out of what is local and belongs to Tibet and what is global. I would like to know what he bases his discrimination on. This is our question in some ways too."

Sautman was getting more than he could hope to communicate to the Dalai Lama in a brief interview. He looked around the table-"If someone could write up these points..." Zalman's prolixity revived his concern about the dialogue, which was the same as Marc Lieberman's. He cautioned us that the Dalai Lama "always sees himself as the lowest person in the room. So it's important when you conclude your presentations to think of ways to bring His Holiness into the dialogue. I'm not saying he's shy. But you have to bring his partic.i.p.ation in. It's very important."