The Economist April 2nd 2022 China 53Tibet
The fire inside
T
hestoryofTsewangNorbuisshroud
ed in mystery. The Tibetan pop star set
himself on fire in Lhasa, the Tibetan capi
tal, on February 25th. Fans have spent the
past month mourning his death. But on
March 28th the Chinese foreign ministry
suggested Mr Norbu might still be alive. In
response to questions about him, the min
istry said a man in Tibet had “attempted
suicide by selfimmolation”—and that he
had been taken for treatment immediately.
The man had long been “troubled by men
tal illness” and “had attempted suicide
multiple times”, claimed the authorities.
Activists are unconvinced.
Fans were shocked by Mr Norbu’s ac
tion. Over the past decade, scores of Tibet
ans have burnt themselves to death in
protest at Chinese rule. But Mr Norbu did
not appear to be a dissident. The 25year
old had competed on a popular reality
show, “Sing! China”, only months earlier.
The judges called him luobo (radish), a
Mandarin homophone for Norbu. In vid
eos he would rap about love. Sometimes he
would play piano or guitar as he sang tunes
by Camila Cabello and Frankie Valli. With
his pierced ears and groomed eyebrows, he
could have been a Gen Zer from anywhere.
But Mr Norbu was from Tibet. That
meant he lived in two worlds. There was
the Tibet promoted by the Chinese au
thorities: a glossy, exotic “minority re
gion”, where grateful nomads and monks
were being lifted out of poverty. Then there
was the Tibet experienced by locals, who
have watched the authorities tear down
Buddhist statues, close Tibetanlanguage
schools and arrest anyone who resisted the
state’s campaign of sinicisation. Those
who only saw the first world could not
comprehend why one of its stars would set
himself on fire. Those who knew the sec
ond immediately understood.
When Mr Norbu spoke of Tibet he was
careful. He would mention his father, a
composer in a staterun songanddance
troupe whose songs honoured Tibetan cul
ture. Mr Norbu did not speak of the deadly
crackdown after protests in Nagchu, where
he grew up, in 2013. He certainly did not
mention his uncle, Lodoe Gyatso, who
served a prison term for murder (his sup
porters say it was selfdefence) and is now
in jail for protesting against Chinese rule.
Mr Norbu may not have been outwardly
political, but he clearly took pride in Tibet.
He avoided the “red songs” performed by
his mother, a singer in a troupe run by the
Chinese army. Those ditties featured lyrics
thanking the “lifesaving” Communist Par
ty. Instead Mr Norbu wrote songs like
“Tsampa”, an ode to the Tibetan staple food
made of roasted barley flour. A video for
the song features the singer dancing
around Lhasa. At one point he bows, plac
ing a hand on his heart, as two monks pass.
These were signs of Mr Norbu’s true
feelings—his reverence for Tibetan identi
ty—say activists. They point to his rendi
tion of “Return to the Homeland” on “Sing!
China”. He wore a traditional chuparobe
and delivered the first lines in a Tibetan
folkstyle vibrato: “There is a land known
as the homeland, there is a happiness
known as the home.” He even changed the
lyrics, referring to Tibet instead of Nagchu
in the lilting last verse. Secretly, he was
singing for the nation, claim Tibetans.
Whereas his songs contained subtle
clues about his politics, his selfimmola
tion made them clear. Mr Norbu chose the
most sensitive location in Lhasa: the Potala
Palace, the traditional residence of the Da
lai Lama. And he picked a sensitive time,
days before the meeting of China’s parlia
ment in Beijing. To pull off such an act
shows not desperation, but the “utmost
determination”, says Matthew Akester, a
Tibet researcher based in India.
In some ways Mr Norbu seemed like the
Chinese government’s ideal minority
youth: urban, educated and fluent in Man
darin. On China’s National Day last year, he
posted a video of himself bringing his fin
gers together. “I make a heart for the moth
erland,” read the accompanying hashtag.
But Tibetans saw through that, says Tser
ing Woeser, a Tibetan writer and activist
(who lives under surveillance). “Chinese
people only saw the image.They only saw
the surface,” says MsWoeser.“We know
Tsewang’s real struggles.” nDeciphering a Tibetan pop star’s
self-immolation
HongKongThe dangers of
sitting too long
I
n 2016 LeungKwokhung,a politicianal
so known as “Long Hair”, snatched a fold
er of confidential documents from a gov
ernment official during a meeting at Hong
Kong’s legislature. Charged with contempt,
his case ended up in Hong Kong’s court of
final appeal last year. One of the five judges
was Lord Reed, the head of Britain’s su
preme court.
To anyone unfamiliar with Hong Kong’s
tangled history, this may seem odd. But
judges from Britain’s highest court have
been doing double duty on Hong Kong’s
since 1997 as part of the deal that handed
the city from Britainto China.
This legacy of Hong Kong’s past will not
feature in its future, though. On March
30th Lord Reed and his colleague, Lord
Hodge, resigned from Hong Kong’s top
court. No other serving British judge will
be allowed to succeed them. According to
Liz Truss, Britain’s foreign secretary, a na
tionalsecurity law imposed on Hong Kong
in 2020 has exerted a “farreaching chilling
effect”. To stay on the top court “would risk
legitimising oppression”, she said.
In commercial cases and ordinary
criminal cases Hong Kong courts remain
independent, says a British barrister who
appears before them. But the nationalse
curity law has nonetheless had an “insid
ious effect”. Ambitious judges “are not go
ing to deliver rulings that displease Beij
ing”. This is true even in cases that are not
tried under the nationalsecurity law, but
are politically charged.
That puts the foreigners on the bench in
a tricky position. Hong Kong welcomes
judges from commonlaw jurisdictions—
and it has attracted some of the world’s
best. Such minds would improve any judi
ciary. The fact they could resign may also
serve as a deterrent, preventing officials in
Beijing from meddling more than they do.
But by hanging around, foreign judges
could also make it seem as if little has
changed in Hong Kong. Their presence
makes the courts better than they would
otherwise be. It also makes them seem bet
ter than they actually are.
Even now, some judicial links with Brit
ain remain. Six retired British judges still
serve on the top court; others appear else
where in the system. And because the legal
system has English roots, cases still some
times cite English precedents. MrLeung’s
(unsuccessful) defence referredtothebill
of rights passed in England in 1689. nH ONG KONG
Two British judges quit Hong Kong’s
top court