When my editor asked me to report on the secret journey Tibetans take to escape into exile, I did not think that there was much worth writing about. It is the story of almost everyone in my community. It is not news, and we are in the news business. But as I reported the story, I could feel its power – and it reminded me of details of my own journey that I hadn’t thought about in years.
I was born in Kham, in eastern Tibet, my parents' firstborn. A brother and sister followed, and the five of us lived with two cousins in a home that sat in a valley where the Salween River flows, surrounded by farm fields and mountain peaks.My mom sold produce in a town closer to the border with China, and I remember her taking me with her to pick the fruit to sell, teaching me a little Chinese as we worked. When she sold the fruit, she would bring back Chinese toys. All the neighborhood kids would gather around to play with me and my new plastic guns and cars. I loved the attention the gifts from my mother brought me.
