I am sometimes sad when I hear the personal stories of Tibetan

Host: The morning light slipped through the curtains of a small monastery guesthouse nestled high in the Himalayas, where the air smelled of cedar smoke, butter tea, and quiet endurance. The mountain wind whispered against the prayer flags outside, making them tremble like colored sighs.

Inside, Jack sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, an old shawl draped around his shoulders. His breath came slow, uneven, still learning the rhythm of the altitude. Across from him sat Jeeny, her hands folded, a small cup of tea steaming between them. In the corner, a tibetan monk chanted softly, his voice deep as earth.

The world outside felt ancient and wounded, yet somehow untouched by time.

Jeeny: (gently) “The Dalai Lama once said, ‘I am sometimes sad when I hear the personal stories of Tibetan refugees who have been tortured or beaten. Some irritation, some anger comes. But it never lasts long. I always try to think at a deeper level, to find ways to console.’”

Jack: (staring into his tea) “That’s… almost inhuman, isn’t it? To be able to hear that kind of pain and not stay angry.”

Host: The steam from their cups coiled into the air like thin white prayers. The sunlight flickered across the floorboards, warm and fragile, like forgiveness taking shape.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not inhuman. Maybe it’s the most human thing — to feel the anger, and then choose something higher.”

Jack: “Higher? How can you go higher than anger when the world crushes people for what they believe in? You should be furious. I am.”

Jeeny: “So is he, Jack. He just doesn’t let fury become his master.”

Jack: (bitterly) “That’s easy for saints. For the rest of us, anger’s the only language injustice understands.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it never seem to change anything?”

Host: A pause. The monk’s chanting faded into silence. The wind shifted, rustling the flags outside. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes — cold and gray — softened, as if her question had found a hairline crack in his armor.

Jack: “You ever sat across from someone who’s been broken, Jeeny? I have. A refugee from Aleppo. Told me how soldiers made him watch his house burn with his family inside. He smiled when he spoke — said he’d learned to forgive. I wanted to scream. I envied him, but I didn’t believe him.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe forgiveness isn’t belief, Jack. Maybe it’s choice.”

Jack: “Choice? To just let go? To pretend evil didn’t happen?”

Jeeny: “Not to pretend. To refuse to let it poison the part of you that still loves.”

Jack: (shaking his head) “Love’s a luxury in a world like that.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the last defense.”

Host: Her words fell gently, but they hit hard — like snow on glass, cold but unyielding. The light had shifted now, painting their faces in gold and shadow.

Jack: “You think the Dalai Lama never hated anyone? You think he didn’t dream of revenge?”

Jeeny: “Of course he did. He said as much — irritation, anger comes. But it never lasts long. Because he looks deeper.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “Deeper into what?”

Jeeny: “Into understanding. Into the truth that suffering doesn’t come from enemies — it comes from ignorance. He doesn’t excuse the pain. He just refuses to pass it on.”

Jack: (scoffing) “So what, compassion is some kind of bulletproof vest?”

Jeeny: “No, it’s a wound that teaches you how not to wound others.”

Host: A bird cried outside, carried by the wind. Jack’s hands trembled slightly as he set down his cup. The silence between them grew thick, a mirror reflecting the space between fury and forgiveness.

Jack: “When I see what people do — the lies, the greed, the cruelty — I don’t want to console. I want justice.”

Jeeny: “Justice isn’t the same as revenge.”

Jack: “And what’s justice without anger?”

Jeeny: “Wisdom.”

Jack: “That’s idealistic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But tell me, Jack — has your anger ever made you wiser?”

Host: The question hung in the room, heavy and sacred. Jack didn’t answer. The monk began humming again, his chant slow and low, like the sound of time breathing.

Jeeny: “The Dalai Lama lost his homeland, his people scattered across mountains, his culture nearly erased. Yet he smiles. Do you know why?”

Jack: (quietly) “Because he has nothing left to lose?”

Jeeny: “No. Because he still refuses to lose his compassion. That’s the one thing his oppressors could never touch.”

Jack: (looking away) “Compassion’s fragile.”

Jeeny: “Only if it’s built on comfort.”

Host: Outside, the sun slipped higher, and the fog began to burn away. Prayer flags snapped in the wind — colors of grief and grace entangled in motion.

Jack: “You think it’s possible to forgive the unforgivable?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But you can learn not to hate it. That’s where peace starts.”

Jack: (dryly) “You sound like you’ve mastered it.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “No. I’m still learning. Every day.”

Jack: “And what happens on the days you fail?”

Jeeny: “Then I start again.”

Host: Her smile was small but steady, like a candle that refused to go out. Jack looked at her for a long time, his expression unreadable — until finally, something in him softened.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe anger’s a spark. But hold onto it too long, and it burns you more than it burns the world.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what he meant — to feel it, but not to feed it.”

Jack: (after a pause) “So how do you do it? How do you… console?”

Jeeny: “By listening. By showing up. Sometimes that’s all there is. Consolation isn’t fixing — it’s holding someone’s pain long enough that it stops being only theirs.”

Host: The monk stopped chanting. The room was silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the prayer flags — a sound like breathing made visible.

Jack: (softly) “You ever notice how forgiveness feels quieter than anger?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s heavier. Forgiveness isn’t light — it’s gravity. It grounds you.”

Jack: “And what if I can’t find it?”

Jeeny: “Then find silence. The heart heals best in quiet places.”

Host: The sunlight touched the rim of Jeeny’s cup, turning the tea to amber. Outside, the mountains blazed with gold — sharp, majestic, eternal.

Jack breathed in the mountain air — thin, clean, almost holy.

Jack: (after a long silence) “You know what’s strange? I came here hoping to forget. Now I think maybe I came to remember — how to look at the world without flinching.”

Jeeny: “That’s where compassion begins, Jack. Not in blindness — but in seeing, and staying.”

Host: The wind quieted, leaving only the sound of the flags brushing softly against one another. The world seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny reached for her cup again, her movements slow, deliberate.

Jeeny: “The Dalai Lama doesn’t deny pain. He just refuses to make it contagious.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the secret to peace — knowing that pain isn’t an excuse to pass it on.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Pain teaches. Love transforms. Wisdom remembers.”

Jack: “And compassion…?”

Jeeny: “Compassion forgives — even when the world doesn’t deserve it.”

Host: The bell from the monastery rang once, deep and resonant, echoing across the valley. The sound lingered in the thin air — like a reminder, like a promise.

And as they sat in silence, the sun fully rose, illuminating their faces.

In that moment, surrounded by mountains scarred and still magnificent,
anger looked small,
and compassion — infinite.