Shongka*, a Tibetan living in exile, recalls how listening to the Tibetan services of VOA and RFA during his childhood in Tibet regaled the day, connected Tibetans with the outside world, and sustained hopes for freedom, no matter how distant, for a people long deprived of their most basic human rights.
(TibetanReview.net, Mar30’25) – Growing up in Tibet in the 1990s, my nights were filled with the quiet hum of my grandfather’s old wooden radio. As the sun disappeared behind the mountains and the streets of Lhasa settled into silence, he would begin his nightly ritual. With careful hands, he would close the windows, latch the doors, and take his seat beside the radio, its edges worn smooth from years of use.
With a few turns of the dial, static would fill the air—a restless, crackling sound that seemed to stretch across vast distances. And then, suddenly, the voices would emerge. Faint at first, fragile but determined, breaking through the interference like a light in the dark. Voice of America (VOA) and Radio Free Asia (RFA) carried messages from a world beyond our reach, their words sending a spark through my grandfather’s eyes.
He listened with a focus that made everything else fade away. Every pause, every shift in tone held meaning. News of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, whispers about life in exile, the possibility—distant but never forgotten—of a free Tibet. For him, the radio was more than just an object; it was a bridge to something larger, a reminder that we were not alone.
By morning, those voices from the night before would become the heartbeat of our breakfast conversations. Over steaming bowls of Tsampa, my grandfather would share what he had heard—where His Holiness had spoken, what new changes were unfolding beyond our borders, what hope still remained for Tibet. He would always tell us, “The sun of happiness rising in Tibet ” ༼བོད་ལ་སྐྱིད་པའི་ཉིན་མོ།༽ will happen soon. And in many ways, those moments were just that—a flicker of light in uncertain times.
But it wasn’t just news that filled those nights. My grandfather also spoke of faith and caution. He warned my parents to stay true to their beliefs, to resist the pull of Shugden, to remain steadfast in the teachings of the Gyalwa Yishin Norbu. And always, his voice would soften as he whispered Om Mani Padme Hum, his eyes shining with something too deep for words. He spoke, too, of our responsibility—to preserve our culture, to shield our fragile environment, to protect the endangered species. In those moments, our home felt like more than just walls and a roof—it was a sanctuary of history, a place where generations of faith, resilience, and quiet resistance lived on.
Beyond our small room, the night stretched on, restless. The wind carried the howls of stray dogs and the faint murmur of other radios, hidden behind closed doors, tuning into the same forbidden frequencies. The city slept, but somewhere in the darkness, hope flickered—fragile, persistent, and alive.
Those radio nights were more than just a ritual. They were a connection to something greater, a way for Tibetans like us to hear the voices that had been silenced, to hold onto hope even in the face of uncertainty. They amplified the voices of the voiceless, offered hope to the hopeless, reminded us that we were not alone in our struggle for freedom and self-determination.
Now, years later, I still think about those nights. When I heard that VOA and RFA’s Tibetan services had gone silent, it felt like losing a part of my childhood, like watching a distant star fade from the sky. Those broadcasts weren’t just news; they were a pulse, a thread connecting exiled voices to those who remained.
And yet, even in the quiet, I refuse to believe the signal is gone. Some things—hope, longing, the promise of return—continue to hum beneath the surface, waiting for someone to tune in once again.
May Happiness Dawn Upon Tibet!
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* The write uses a penname to protect his family in Tibet.