Editor’s Note
The following interview with Tenzin (Tendor) Dorjee, Director of Research and Advocacy at Tibet Action Institute, and former director of Students for a Free Tibet, took place over thali and momos in Jackson Heights, Queens. It has been lightly edited for clarity and flow.
I was eager to speak with a leader of Rangzen—the Tibetan Freedom movement—about Buddhist movements for liberation and the perceived support for this movement among contemporary Buddhist practitioners in North America. In the spirit of this special issue on Movement Dharma, which aims to (re)awaken political consciousness and engagement among Buddhist practitioners, it felt necessary not only to center indigenous decolonial movements, but also to honor the lineage and culture of Tibetan Buddhism, from and through which so many of us practice and have received teachings.
Tendor and I met shortly after the self-immolation of Tibetan activist, Logba Rangzen. In protest of China’s ongoing occupation and cultural genocide of Tibet, Logba Rangzen self-immolated in front of the United Nations on July 2, 2026, the day after China announced its Ethnic Unity Law. The law, which effectively assimilates China’s 56 officially recognized ethnic minorities—including Tibetans—into a unified Chinese national identity, sparked international protests and condemnation. Logba Rangzen’s self-immolation marked the first known Tibetan self-immolation in the U.S.; more than 170 Tibetans, aged 15 to 81, have self-immolated since 2009. Relatively few of these have made the U.S. news.
*This interview is from The Arrow Journal’s special issue, “Movement Dharma: Towards a Buddhist Movement Chaplaincy.” Subscribe to The Arrow to access the full issue and their archives.
**And visit https://movementdharma.org/ to learn more about our upcoming Buddhist Movement Chaplaincy Program.
Brooke: Thank you for joining me, Tendor, for this interview. And thank you for the work that you do and have done for the Tibetan people.
Before we hit record, you were sharing a bit about Lobga Rangzen’s self-immolation just a few weeks ago outside of the U.N. He was a local activist and also your friend. It feels like a poignant place to begin.
Tendor: Yes, it’s so sad. Lobga was an incredibly committed activist. Though no one knew he was going to do it, he totally renewed awareness for the movement.
I’m aware that many westerners don’t really get self-immolation; it seems extreme. There’s a lot of silence around it, and maybe even fear around it, too.
Brooke: What do you think is in the fear? Do you think we fear our own lack of courage? Or fear what action(s) collective liberation might really take?
Tendor: Yes, maybe we fear our own inadequacy. I personally believe life is precious; though I wouldn’t challenge another’s thought-out decision. But I do think these actions challenge us to ask ourselves what it is that we are really willing to risk in service of liberation.
On Political Silence and Inaction: The Theological Challenge
Brooke: I want to ask you about the relative silence. Not only in relation to self-immolations, but also to the movement for a Free Tibet—and to political struggles in general—among North American Buddhist practitioners. What do you think accounts for the relative inaction?
Tendor: I think there are both geopolitical and theological reasons. Theologically, I have a few different theories. One is that I feel there is a big distinction between Theravada and Mahayana Buddhism. In terms of Buddhist vehicles, Mahayana is known as the greater vehicle, or self-proclaimed greater vehicle. I think of it as kind of the more reformist, activist-y kind of vehicle where the whole idea is to get enlightened so that you can help everybody else.
Brooke: And for those who might not be familiar with these different Buddhist vehicles, Mahayana as a vehicle emerged later (around 2nd century CE) and socio-historically speaking was seen as a kind of social response to or a critique of Theravada, and its concern with individual liberation.
Tendor: Yes, exactly, [Mahayana was] a response. My understanding is of course shaped by my upbringing. I was brought up in the Tibetan Buddhist world, and my understanding of Theravada is shaped by that. Basically the way I’d put it is that, in Theravada, the theological frame is that the entire system of rebirth and all of samsara is hopeless—it’s just all suffering. The only thing you can really do—or should even try to do—is to get out! And that orientation becomes a scriptural or theological basis for culture and political praxis.
I don’t know if that stance is accurately reflected in the real, lived practice of Buddhism in Theravada Buddhist countries, but when I went to Sri Lanka to speak with Theravada Buddhists, I did get this impression that Sri Lankan Buddhism is very empirical in its approach. It’s rational; even realistic. And the most realistic thing that you can do in a world that’s burning is get out. I’ve been thinking about theological frames for some time.
In contrast, in Tibetan and Tibetan Buddhist activist circles, one thing that you do see reflected again and again is the Mahayana principle of others before self. If you are fine, but if others are on fire, then you’re not fine. It’s actually your job to help everybody else.
This is not the entire story, of course, and I should add, all people never live up to the principles of their tradition, right? But even having a principle of serving others, or a recognizable figure, like Avalokitesvara, the bodhisattva of compassion, who says, “I want to be the last person left behind in samsara! Shepherd everybody else beyond samsara into nirvana or freedom! And only then can I cross over, too!” This Mahayana and Tibetan Buddhist rhetoric—all of this mythology, the bodhisattva ideal, all of the Jātaka tales (a collection of moral stories of the Buddha’s previous lives)—just have this impact on the way people think. Wisdom and compassion are central to the Mahayana vehicle.
I grew up in a Tibetan school where these kinds of stories—like the famous Jataka tale of the Buddha giving his flesh to feed a starving tiger and her cubs—are told all the time. There isn’t any Tibetan Buddhist who doesn’t know that story; it’s everywhere. I think people don’t really learn much from scripture, but people learn from stories. Stories just have such a huge influence.
Brooke: I’m going to generalize for a moment, too, because there are a lot of different American Buddhisms, as well as different lineages and phases of transmission of Buddhism to the west. It might be fair to say that a lot of what came through popular dominant discourse was the rational, contemplative traditions and practices, and not so much of the mythology or cultural framework which you are gesturing toward. In some cases, the mythology or cosmology was consciously rejected, downplayed, or outright dismissed.
Tendor: That’s right. That’s what I was alluding to earlier. When I went to Sri Lanka, my impression was that there was a huge focus on meditation, and specifically mindfulness. Lots of sitting practice and walking meditation. In interview after interview after interview, I came to this realization—which may be wrong—which is that this is why American Buddhism is all about mindfulness and meditation and nothing else. It’s the prevalence of features of the Theravada tradition and the confluence of that style with American culture. Tibetan Buddhists never talk about mindfulness! Most Tibetan Buddhists never meditate! I mean, seriously. If anything, many of us will go to a group prayer session or something, and then when we pray, then some meditation happens, right? But the idea of meditation as a consciously recognized practice, where you tell yourself, “Now I’m meditating!”, is just not part of Tibetan Buddhist culture in an authentic way. Unless you are like a mountain retreat meditator or something. But even then, that’s a fraction of what you’re learning, not the whole. There’s an entire world view, an entire culture, that is not captured through mindfulness practice? Tibetan Buddhism is a whole system; mindfulness is just one very tiny piece of it.
A Theological Disconnect?
Brooke: I think there’s a lot to say about the transmission of different vehicles and schools of Buddhism to the west: how they adapted, assimilated to survive, interacted with, resisted, and even adopted features of American culture like whiteness, individualism, capitalism, and so on.
There are of course many Mahayana and Tibetan Vajrayana practitioners in the West who have a different theological orientation, as you described. Many of them are also affiliated with lineages, like Thích Nhất Hạnh and Plum Village, within which there is a strong history of what folks call socially engaged Buddhism. And various Vajrayana communities, in my experience—I’m thinking particularly of Shambhala—do teach about Buddhist cosmology and mythology. There also are a large number of heritage Buddhists in the west shaping how Buddhism is practiced. These folks don’t necessarily privilege the same theological frame of individual liberation as Theravada practitioners might, though that frame may be activated through/by certain features of American culture. Given that, what else do you think accounts for the relative political silence and inaction among contemporary Buddhist communities, particularly in North America?
Tendor: To be honest, I haven’t been paying much attention to Buddhist communities lately because they haven’t been doing anything for the movement!
Brooke: I get it! And, to be fair, there are numerous accounts of silencing occuring in dharma groups, particularly but not exclusively related to political issues, including the genocide in Gaza.
Tendor: Right! This is getting to the other challenge. Politically, there can be a cost to action. And, if there’s money involved, you have something else to lose.
I’m familiar with many Buddhist communities suppressing the discussion of Tibetan history, and now they’re also suppressing the discussion of Palestinian history. And Gaza is out there in its own league; it is so extreme—and so in your face—that there shouldn’t even be a question about speaking out. It’s hard to understand the silence. Unless you consider it in terms of political costs. It can be hugely devastating to speak out on Palestine.
This helps us understand some of the silence around Tibet. Now Palestine is the issue but in the late 80s and into the 90s, Tibet was the issue. Back then, if someone was not active on Tibet, then they probably were not involved in activism in general. And today, if someone is not taking action on Palestine, or thinking about Palestine, I’d say they probably don’t care about any other struggles.
From your view, do you think any Buddhist communities are doing anything meaningful related to Palestine?
Brooke: With few exceptions, like the Sacred Justice Coalition and One Earth Sangha, I’ve not seen specifically-Buddhist organizations or communities doing anything explicit in support of Palestine. At least not as Buddhists. This is another issue worth mentioning that we’ll come back to, which is that many Buddhists are active, just not as Buddhists.
Inaction: The Political Challenge
Tendor: [shakes head] This is bringing us into the other challenge—the political challenge—and perhaps the disconnect from the Buddhist theological frame. But, you know, Buddhists weren’ t always this quiet politically.
In the 1990s, Tibetan Buddhist teachers brought a lot of people into political activism. There was a very famous teacher called Geshe Wangyyal based in New Jersey. He was an ethnically Kalmyk-Mongolian Tibetan Buddhist who founded the first Tibetan Buddhist Center in the U.S. For context, the Kalmyks and Mongolians have historically been the original protestors or activists for Tibet. When Tibet was originally invaded, the first protest outside the United Nations was a group of Kalmyks protesting China.
Brooke: Geshe Wangyal was Bob Thurman’s teacher, right?
Tendor: Geshe Wangyal was everybody’s teacher: Jeffrey Hopkins, Robert Thurman, anybody, it seems, who contributed to the Tibetan cause. And somehow he’s one of the least known.
I mean, he’s not unknown….The thing is, the more I meet people and ask about how they came into the Tibetan cause or into Buddhism, they often reference Geshe Wangyal. Many streams flow back to him. Wow! He certainly made a lot of people aware of the Tibetan political plight. It was an era when I think many Buddhist students came to the cause and became supporters of the movement.
The ’87-’89 protests in Lhasa put Tibet into the spotlight. Then of course there are the Freedom Concerts with Adam Yauch and the Beastie Boys. There’s an amazing podcast I will send you called “Freedom Needs a Soundtrack”. It’s the story of how these concerts came to be and how they made the world pay attention to Tibet. I was listening to it last week, and there is this amazing story of the woman, Erin, who meets Adam Yauch in Nepal while she’s there as a foreign exchange student. She becomes interested in Tibet. Then she runs into Adam Yauch. She tells Adam about Tibet, and he becomes interested. And then they organize the concerts.
It’s a mind-blowing story to me. Every single step of the way, there were these Tibetan Buddhist teachers, like some monks who come here to take part in the concert, help with something. And each of these people, they say something that has a huge impact on Adam or Erin or somebody who then mobilizes to do certain things.
So I think the ’90s was a very good example of Buddhist teachers playing a big role in political activism. Right now, there is a general kind of disconnect among the Buddhist community about anything political. And there is another way in which Buddhists are not necessarily disconnected from activism in general, but they are disconnected from the Tibetan cause. Why? Because I think the price is high. There are some causes where the price of participation is higher than others. If somebody supports freedom and democracy in Burma right now, they don’t really pay a price. But, like I mentioned, if somebody supports Palestine, they pay a big price. And in the ’90s, when somebody supported Tibet, there was no price to pay. Nobody paid a price.
But between 2002 and let’s say 2005, as the geopolitical landscape shifted, the price for supporting Tibet increased. During this time, China started to become rich and more powerful, geopolitically.
Suddenly, these Buddhist practitioners and teachers find themselves in a situation where, on the one hand, your political participation or speech is punished directly by the Chinese government through visa denial. Or their families are punished back home in Tibet. Or their access gets cut off if they’re a scholar.
So on the one hand is China’s punishment. That’s the stick. There’s a carrot component to it, too, which is the funding. Lots of Chinese donors are funders of Buddhism now. And, over the last 20 years, I’d say, there are more and more Chinese people who are discovering and attending Tibetan Buddhist teachings.
As China became more powerful, people began to switch their priorities. Once they started rationalizing their changing behavior in response to the threat of punishment, they started becoming silent. And once they get in the habit of going silent, they also start justifying the silence.
Toward A Buddhist Public and LIberation Theology
Brooke: I do think there are a number of Buddhists who want to be more active politically. And I do think there are Buddhists who already are active politically. Some of those politically active Buddhists are informed by their dharma; others do not necessarily know how to link their dharma to their justice work. In other words, they default in their justice practice to other theological or political frameworks. (And sometimes when that happens, their sanghas critique them for not being Buddhist.) I think—and this is the premise of our work at Union on Movement Dharma—this in part because we don’t have a worked-out Buddhist Public or Liberation Theology. Also I think it’s because we’re still building an American Buddhist culture— with ontological frames, practices, stories, myths, and prophetic visions—that can help us address the crises of our time.
I’m curious what you think about all of this.
Tendor: Absolutely. I think that this is totally key.
I remember this one time I was on a bus to Vermont, and I was seated next to this older white American woman who identified as Buddhist. So we started talking about everything, you know, and she asked me what I did. I told her I was working for an organization, Students for a Free Tibet, and that we did a lot of political activism. And then she says, “You know, I used to go to those protests and all those things, but I stopped.”
“Why did you stop?” I asked. She explained that she felt that protesting and other forms of activism were putting out too much negativity in the world. She seemed to suggest that, as one deepens in Buddhist practice, they’d naturally become more aware of and concerned about negative energy and anger, and thus less likely to engage in activism.
This really struck me; it was as if she was forgetting or misperceiving the fact that she was actually part of the world, and also part of the solution to the world’s challenges. Activism in service of freedom or justice…how can that be negative? I think there is an immense disconnect in certain Buddhist circles between personal practice and the world we live in. And an immense amount of toxic positivity. You know what I mean? It’s like this unreal, fake, performance-driven expectation that you have to be positive every single minute of your day. Right? Be calm, be detached, be mindful, never get angry, never get stressed.
It’s spiritual bypass. I think John Wellwood coined that term. It’s everywhere, and it’s profound. And I think it reveals a real lack of an understanding of Buddhist philosophy and practice, a lack of a framework for engagement, as you suggested.
In the absence of a good framework, people are going for the easy-to-grab, lower-hanging, superficial framework. Even counterproductive frameworks. Those are especially easy for those who misunderstand Buddhism to grab.
Toward a Movement Dharma
Brooke: What sort of Buddhist teachings and lineages should we look to in developing this framework?
Tendor: I think karmic theory is central. And it’s been so misrepresented and misunderstood as fate.
Brooke: Yes! Which removes our agency….
Tendor: Exactly. Understood as fate, it takes away your agency, it takes away other people’s agency, right? That understanding is like the opposite of karmic theory! The Tibetan word for karma is lé, which just means action. If we try to re-imagine or re-understand the essence of the Buddhist concept of karma as action, then taking action is what you’re supposed to do. Action makes the world, right? So that means that action makes injustice and action makes justice, basically. And if compassion is the foundation from which you take action, then you can create an entirely different kind of world, right? Different agency, different action, different reality. You can change reality!
Brooke: Yes, I resonate. Sounds like a misunderstanding of karmic theory, and also a fear of agency. Which brings us back to a lack of courage.
Tendor: Yes! And to come back to your question, I do think karmic theory has tremendous potential for us working towards justice and liberation, and even for Buddhist practitioners who are lost politically, or eager to become more involved politically.
I actually think Buddhism has something distinctive to offer these movements. Not just karmic theory, but also nonduality.
Brooke: Nonduality as reality and a kind of relational awareness?
Tendor: Yes, an experience of—how to say — a stance of non-domination. Sounds paradoxical in a way, but Buddhism involves mastery over the self…you’re not trying to achieve dominion over earth, over animals, over people. The notion of submission to a separate or external God doesn’t exist.
Brooke: Relational power… makes me think of self-sovereignty and not only Buddhist contemplative teachings but also martial teachings.
Tendor: Yes, self-sovereignty. Rangzen.
Brooke: You know, I was reading an essay on the Epic of Gesar on the way over.
Tendor: Yeah. That’s great. I didn’t know Gesar talks about self-sovereignty.
Brooke: I was reading the beginning of the epic which describes a time in which the kingdom of Tibet, and specifically in the regions of Kham and Amfo, is taken over by demons who were very powerful tantric practitioners. This is key. They were practitioners who got slightly twisted, and got drunk on their own magic and power. And then they started fucking shit up because they lost the view.
What I love about this frame is that those practitioners are salvageable. They’re not enemies to be destroyed, but rather saved, or brought back into alignment. Gesar gets summoned down from the heavens and is basically like, “Y’all, you messed up! You took that practice power and forgot your vows, and you became selfish and dangerous!” Gesar, the warrior, reincarnates to help liberate them.
This is amazing to me: these practitioners are so powerful that they need a spiritual warrior to tame and liberate them. What this text is also saying then is that these Buddhist practices are so powerful. They’re insanely powerful. You need an adept warrior to come down who has view. Who’s sovereign, but is also relationally non-dominating. Isn’t that a cool starting point?
Tendor: That’s really cool. He’s not trying to kill them. Oh, that’s amazing actually. He’s a warrior who’s trying to wake them up. Oh my god. I already love it. It’s a very cool premise.
I mean, that’s the first time I’ve ever been interested in finding out what happens about Gesar. That’s such a great setup.
Brooke: I love it, too, because it speaks to the power of these Buddhist traditions and practices— spiritually, relationally, psychologically. I feel like we’ve overlooked so much from our spiritual traditions that can really serve our justice and liberation movements.
Tendor: That’s super cool. That’s way cooler than I thought. Gesar. I had no idea.
Gesar is so much deeper than Odysseus. So apparently, Chogyam Trungpa was saying this is actually a model for an enlightened society.
Brooke Right, right, right. I mean, this is all part of a longer story. But it’s a political framework. And one that speaks to building a culture of practice – back to your emphasis on story, and ontological frames and technology, and political praxis–a kind of movement dharma.
Tendor: Movement Dharma is a good name—I like it. There’s something about the word movement that I really like. You’re not stationary, you’re not still water. You’re in motion. But it’s also a community. It’s like a moving community
Whenever I think of our friend, Lobga Rangzen, who self-immolated a few weeks ago, I think of how he was such a movement guy. He lived the movement. He breathed the movement. I’ve known him for 20 years and have seen him around various actions and events, and all he really ever talked about was the movement. And injustice everywhere, really. He never really talked about anything else.
He was also hands-on. He did logistical work, grunt work. He showed up. He helped out. He organized funds, he helped build libraries, he did renovations, he helped get his brother a kidney. He made so many things happen in our community. And I’m sure there are things that I don’t even know about. And he did everything in such a way that nobody really knew that he was involved, which is the classic bodhisattva way. Help people but don’t let everybody know. Do it behind the scenes, not for attention. That’s just how he was. He was an amazing guy.
And he will live on. He was an incredible inspiration.
Usually when we hear a story of someone’s life we measure it like a loss of life. But he gave it up willingly. I’ve interviewed people through my research to try to understand what goes on in the minds of folks that self-immolate. What I’ve learned is that the way they think about it is kind of like calculus: they think can I make a bigger impact overall for the movement with this kind of extreme action, rather than a gradual slow burn for the next 80 years.
I can understand that thinking but, to me, there’s nothing more precious than a life. And even if it means freedom for a million people, if the price of that freedom is one life, we shouldn’t give it. That’s my inclination.
Lobga lived a beautiful, joyful life. And he brought that joy to others. We know what he gave up. Not just his life, but the quality of his life. I keep thinking about how much he gave up. He gave up hanging out with his friends In Jackson Heights, eating momos late at night. And being like an example to so many over the long haul. I know he will live on [in us?]
B: It’s both so very sad and also so moving: it feels like a charge and a call to reinvest, to recommit, to serve.
May Tibet be free!
Tenzin (Tendor) Dorjee is Director of Research and Advocacy at Tibet Action Institute. His research examines the influence of religious beliefs on political preferences and conflict behavior, and the links between transnational repression and political participation. His dissertation, titled “Religious Routes to Conflict Mitigation: Three Papers on Buddhism, Nationalism, and Violence,” is advised by Andrew Nathan and Jack Snyder. Tendor was a Charlotte Newcombe Dissertation Fellow (2023-2024) with the Institute for Citizens and Scholars, and the Inaugural Stephanie G. Neuman Fellow (2021-2022) at the Saltzman Institute of War and Peace Studies. His work has been published by the Oxford Encyclopedia of Politics and Religion, Foreign Affairs, Comparative Education, the Washington Post, the Journal of Democracy, China Brief, the Council on Foreign Relations, and the International Center on Nonviolent Conflict.
*This interview is from The Arrow Journal’s special issue, “Movement Dharma: Towards a Buddhist Movement Chaplaincy.” Subscribe to The Arrow to access the full issue and their archives.
**And visit https://movementdharma.org/ to learn more about our upcoming Buddhist Movement Chaplaincy Program.
