However， Ngari is not remote in my eyes. It is within me， but avoided by myself as I resist thinking of it. Now， she comes to me like a cascading waterfall or an avalanche. I can feel the holy aura of Mount Kailash and Lake Mansarovar. It is like my beloved， who I miss as soon as I part from him.
Gao Basong， the Tibetan boy who herded animals until the age of eleven when he started to attend school， grew up to be a high-ranking officer in Ngari. With affinity and grace， he also spoke extremely standardized Chinese. When it came to the topic of policies， he talked in a closely reasoned and well argued way. I wonder how he felt when he came to the frozen Ngari Plateau from the Party School of the Central Committee of CPC， where towering pine and cypress trees grew.
Luosang Shandan， who had a scar on his forehead， must have lived a legendary life as a tulku and hero.
Tashi Cuomu was a female county head， who went to the pasturing land and into the tents， negotiating with herdsmen in order to mobilize them to send their children to school. Her confidence in the ecological environment of northern Tibet surprised me. Even more amazing was the fact that she was sister of little Luosang， my traveling companion who taught me an unforgettable song when I came to Tibet for the first time. I had been looking for him for the past eight years.
Ge Yi was from Chabug Village in Gêrzê County. Before he became Party branch secretary of Nuxtiu Village， his family had more than 400 sheep and 100 yak， making them one of the wealthy families in the village. Now his family has no livestock. His life disintegrated. His eldest daughter is divorced with two small children. His second daughter is locked up in a dark little house throughout the year because of tuberculosis. The youngest daughter cannot work as she is suffering from gynecological diseases. The three generations lived on Ge Yi's annual salary of 7，000 yuan. Has their living standard improved yet？
I also remember the beautiful and outgoing teacher at Kong Fansen Elementary School. She pointed to the two military officers standing beside her， laughing， "I have two bridegrooms." Is she still so happy？ Is she pregnant？ How I wish she was. How I wish she wasn't. She has been married for eight years， and had six pregnancies. The last time， she finally succeeded in giving birth to a baby boy， who died because of anoxia three days later.
Chilie Taerqin was a native of Ngari who lived in Lhasa after retirement. In Zongjiaolukang Park， we sipped buttered tea， ate Tibetan noodles， and talked about the beautiful starry nights he had spent in the warm sheepfold and about his youngest son's toes which were frozen off in the snowstorm. In the weeping willows and apple fragrance， he told me smiling， "I am now very， very happy. The support and assistance to Tibet from the central government is a bliss bestowed upon all Tibetans as the result of thousands of years of devout worship. We have benefited a lot from this bliss."
The first Han female to Ngari Plateau climbed over the Kunlun Mountains following the footsteps of the advance troop to Tibet and finally arrived at the deserted land under Mount Kailash. What had she gone through on the way？ What kind of belief and willpower supported her to cover the thousand-mile-long distance braving snowstorms and gales？ How are her son and daughter doing？
How did Wang Huisheng， the experienced Tibetan， manage to carry the five live cold-resistant sheep from Beijing to Shiquanhe Town， thousands of kilometers away， in order to improve Ngari sheep breeding？ That letter which took one year and seven days to reach him must have climbed over the snowcapped mountains and frozen Dabans as people did.
Hypoxia is the most ruthless killer on Ngari Plateau， threatening not only adults， but also babies in the womb. Because of this， people who live and work here daren't have babies for a long time after marriage. Even after they are pregnant， they do not give birth in Ngari. During the days I stayed in Shiquanhe Town， I only saw two Han children. Most children studied and lived inland or in areas with lower altitudes， separated from their parents.
A cadre told me that fifty-four people had died in work because of altitude sickness， cars overturning and from other unnatural causes in the past three years. Of them eighteen ranked above county head level. There was no blood bank in the whole Ngari area， but a small first-aid room where a strange face turned up every few days. Where did they go in the end？
The young soldier who graduated from a dance school and who liked posing orchid fingers， washed cattle intestines in the frozen river. Is he still chasing the dense mass of crows？ He won't point a gun at me the next time we meet， right？
The female soldier never had a chance to wear a dress during the eight years she stayed in Ngari， although she had a full wardrobe of dresses and skirts. Is she still trying on the purple dress in front of the mirror？
At the frontier checkpoint where one could see foreign outposts without lifting heads， I met the sixteen-year-old soldier who dazed at me and who was neither haughty nor humble in confrontation with foreign soldiers. Has he seen the town and green trees yet？
And what happened to the nineteen-year-old soldier？ Is he demobilized yet？ He thanked me by saying that I was the second stranger he had seen in half a year and the first woman he had seen in the past two years as a soldier there.
I'm grateful for all the experiences I've had in Tibet. I've been to Tibet five times (of which I went to Ngari three times) in the past eight years. Danger and amazement helped me understand better why Tibetans regard death as the most trivial of matters and why they value life so much. Difficult survival and easy death is a common experience for every Tibetan.
In the depopulated zone in Changtang， our car was stuck in a half-melted frozen river. Two tractors had hardly dragged our car out to the bank when the steel plate broke off. Stranded at one o'clock in the small hours with hail， snow， lightening and thunder in the vast wasteland， my companion held his breath while I was calm and carefree watching the green eyes of wolves wander farther from us. After the long night， I was told that if lightning had happened to strike our car and caused combustion last night， all of us would have been cremated on the spot. Since then， whenever there is thunder and lightning， my shoulders develop a kind of conditioned convulsion reflex.
In the unique juxtaposed river-valley landform mountain area of the three parallel rivers of Jinsha River， Lancang River， and Nujiang River， I was writing in an Internet bar where fists， knives， cigarettes， spittle foam， shouting and quarrels were exchanged over my head at two o'clock in the morning.
At the foot of Mount Kailash at three o'clock， snow grains hit my face， hands and body with great force. The freezing gale was like a piercing sword. I scrambled for a seat where I could take shelter from the wind so that I would not get frostbite. I hugged my laptop tightly， which was already wrapped up in a hada， to keep it from falling apart on the road. Is that man， one of the travelers in the car who asked me to call him husband， still under dialysis treatment？ Is he really dying？
At four o'clock， a doctor from Doilung Hospital of Dêgên County administered medicine and oxygen to me and saved me from the gate of death.
Tibet has blessed me， so I feel that it is also my responsibility to care for more lives. As a result， I begin retrospecting and self-examining in the freezing wind of northern China.
Miraculously， I no longer reject taking the metro and bus. Before this， I never tried these overcrowded means of transportation. This is the result of a habit I formed on the Tibetan Plateau over the past several years. In the subway and on the bus， I sing loudly like a hardworking lark. My singing varied according to the interview I had — sometimes passionate， and sometimes mildly sad.
Once， I waited for a scholar I was going to interview until nine o'clock at night. There was a small pack of sticky candy on his tea table. Unable to resist my hunger any more， I asked him if I could eat one of the candies. In the end， I ate the whole pack and a cup of hot oatmeal milk. Then， I could sit straight and my brain could function swiftly again. That was my first meal of that day. On my way back to the Luxun Academy of Fine Arts， the metro closed when I had to transfer lines. Alone in the quiet and long underground transfer passage， I thought of the vast depopulated land and snowy mountains of Ngari， and felt warm， happy， and peaceful.
Inland， connections and political careers matter more than other things. Ngari， on the contrary， is pure， simple， transparent and straightforward. This difference is not a special case， because Tibet is different from the inland on the whole.
In the winter in northern China， I always come and go on my own. If I do not dry my hair after washing it， it will be frozen to strings of thin popsicles in minutes， jingling， beating my shoulder and back. Blood drops through my swinging earrings in the morning wind. My hands are stiff and numb from cold if I make a phone call for a slightly longer time.
I linger in front of the tall gateway to the summer resort. I sing on the frozen lake. Emperors, generals and other famous historical figures who appeared to be all-powerful in the past have all gone with the wind. How can I, an ordinary woman, make a difference? I won't stop only because I'm destined to live an ordinary life. I can make a difference, because I'm backed by a mountain range called the Himalayas and I have the Shiquan River running in my blood. In my heart, there is a treasured name, holy and resplendent, called Ngari.
They taught me to be broad-minded and kindhearted. They tempted me like roses and love to go there in pursuit of great souls, noble spirits, and a happy homeland.
I am like a silver string that connects scholars, experts, cadres, and soldiers related to Ngari but are scattered in the vast world and apart from each other, thousands of kilometers away. Almost all those who are always thinking of Ngari and love Ngari are friendly and helpful to me. They are open-minded and have a penetrating interpretation of life, death, and all living beings, while at the same time stand in awe of them, as if they have never left Ngari. They offer me suggestions and wishes, and they hope that more people can know and even support Ngari through my book.
Can I live up to their trust and to this proud task?
I confided my worries in a reviewer. He told me the following:
"Ngari is regarded as 'the roof of the roof' (Tibet is known to people as 'the roof of the world', as the highest area on the earth), and the third pole of the earth with an average elevation of 4,500 meters. It is a forbidden zone for life. Having an area twice as big as that of Shaanxi Province, the population of Ngari is only about 90,000. People living and working there are often threatened by blizzards. Since it is a forbidden zone of life, why haven't Nagri people migrated to a more livable place? Ngari occupies a critical military position as it is situated at the bounding area of China, India, Nepal, and Kashmir between West Asia and South Asia. Some of its territory belongs to the disputed areas. It suffices to station some soldiers there. Why are common people living there?"
I understood him. However, the reality is far from that simple.
Mr. Bai Miao, Dean of Lu Xun Academy of Fine Arts, reminded me to write with vision and reflection like a social anthropologist instead of merely telling stories of Tibet. Writers Bi Shumin and Ma Lihua, who are deeply connected with Ngari, encouraged me to depict not only the living status of Ngari people, but also their inner feelings and thoughts.
I was told that Bi Shumin wrote about Ngari how it was thirty years ago and Ma Lihua twenty years ago. They hoped that I could give an up-to-date account of contemporary Ngari and Ngari people after the generation of Kong Fansen.
I'm not sure whether I can come up with satisfactory work without shame. After all, Ngari is such a special place on earth.
I have only one wish. That is to merge myself into their life and work, to listen to their voices and feelings, and to share their woes. Although I am not a native Ngari, I have a genuine heart, which is most valuable.
In the spring of 2011, I left my warm hometown and arrived in Ngari after climbing over the Qinghai-Tibetan Plateau and thousands of kilometers on the road, despite the fact that the Himalayas, Mount Gangdise, and the Kunlun and Karakoram ranges were still covered by ice and snow and the Shiquan River, the Maquan River, the Satluj River, and the Karnali River had not completely melted.
I went there without hesitation. I just wanted to go to this snowcapped land and the holy temple of Buddha.
I owe my deepest gratitude to the Publicity Department of the Ngari Prefectural Party Committee, the Ngari Military Subdistrict, Nyima Tsring, Li Weining, and Dou Weidong, who provided this book with beautiful photos. I'm also grateful for all the hardship and blessings on the Plateau. Zha-Xi-De-Le!
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