Traveling is a complicated endeavor. For some, it is as simple as picking up one’s passport and heading to the nearest airport. For others, it is a harrowing experience, one marked by uncertainty. For tourists, traveling represents a temporary detachment from the mundanesmundanity of everyday life. For many migrants, it is an incredibly significant decision that can define their very futures.
International Travel for Tibetan Refugees in India is complicated by the labyrinth of documents they have to traverse and the legal positions they have to shift between, from refugees to stateless foreigners as determined by the Indian State that is averse to granting them Indian citizenship. Drawing from a personal encounter at the airport, this flash ethnography cum photo essay hopes to be able to illustrates the precarity of exile for Tibetans through the materialization of their identity and thereby the complexities of travel through the legal documents that define them
Qatar flight QR 737 from Doha lands at San Francisco International Airport. Walking towards the Immigration Counter, I hold on to my Identity Certificate (I.C), its bright yellow cover screaming anomaly in contrast to the blue passport of India possessed by most of my fellow travelers.
I notice a woman in front of me, marked by the same yellow scar. I tap her shoulder and ask in Tibetan, “Are you Tibetan?” Recognizing a fellow stateless alien, a wave of relief spreads across her face.
“Yes! Yes! I am. I got separated from my husband who is in the other line for US citizens. I don’t know what to do.”
“ཨ་ལེ་ (a le)![1] Don’t worry. Do you have your I.C. and immigration documents?”
“I have them here, but I don’t know what they will ask me. I didn’t think I would be in a separate line from my husband.”
[1] ཨ་ལེ་ is a Tibetan colloquial term, which roughly translates to “ Ah Okay!”
“ཨ་ལྕག་ལགས་ (a lcag lags),[1] ” I say, “Just have your documents ready and slide them under the window when the officer asks you to show them. He will ask about your husband, where will you be staying in San Francisco, and your family. Just general questions. Don’t worry. Make sure you answer exactly what he asks you and nothing else, OK?”
“ལ་སོ་ ( La so). [2] My friend told me that the མགོ་ སེར་ (mgo ser) officers are stricter,” she says, referring to those Tibetans identify as ‘foreigners’ or white people as those with ‘yellow hair.’ “I hope I don’t get him.”
Modern migration is defined by documents and gatekeepers that validate them. Acha’s concerns about the Gopse gatekeeper reflect this reality, from the Indian officials who grant Tibetan refugees their residential permits, to the Embassy and Immigration officers who determine their entry into the West.
“ཨ་ལྕག་ལགས (a lcag lags). It doesn’t matter. You have your documents, so you will be fine.”
The queue of aliens keeps moving forward. I look around to check where ཨ་ལྕག་ལགས (a lcag lags) ends up, but I can’t find her amid the row of glass cubicles. I stand in front of the uniform assigned to me, and smile, offering a cheerful “Good Afternoon!” The uniform asks for my passport.
“Is this your passport?”
“Yes, Sir. It is my travel document.”
“I have never seen a yellow passport. What is this?”
“Sir. This is a Travel Document that the Indian Government provides for Tibetans who live in India. I am a Tibetan living in India.”
I offer this rehearsed answer that I have used across immigration counters in the US, Canada, and Europe over the past six years. For exiled Tibetans, legal belonging is defined by the uncertainty of movement. From the generation who trudged across the Himalayas to those who were born in exile, one has to move between the rehearsed multiple positions as foreigners under Indian law, refugees in the Indian imagination, and/or holders of strange yellow documents for immigration officers.
“You’re not an Indian citizen?”
“No, Sir. I am a stateless Tibetan living in India.”
The uniform finds the US visa stamped in the middle of my I.C. He asks me to wait and walks to another room with my document while others with regular passports hurry by, relieved to have been allowed on American soil.
The uniform returns and asks me to place my fingers on a scanner.
“Where is your final destination?”
“Sir, I have a connecting flight to Irvine, California. I will be starting my Ph.D. in Anthropology at the University of California Irvine.”
After stamping it, the uniform hands me back the yellow oddity, acknowledging my presence.
“Best of luck with your Ph.D. You can go in and pick up your bags.”
“Thank you so much! Have a good day, Sir!”
I collect my documents and walk towards the baggage claim area. My muscles relax and I take a deep breath. I look around for ཨ་ལྕག་ལགས (a lcag lags), but I don’t see her. She must have reunited with her husband. I imagine she shares my sense of relief. Tens of thousands of Tibetans have already made this journey: from people of a lost country to refugees and finally holders of a national passport.
I collect my bags, a white ཁ་བཏགས་ (kha btags) [1] tied around each of them for easy identification. This is an old Tibetan trick to identify personal belongings during long travels. My grandparents did this during their exodus from Tibet. I do this in my travels from India to the US. The trepidation of rejection binds us, across generations. For many, it is just another day at the airport and the bothersome routine of going through Immigration. For ཨ་ལྕག་ལགས་, me, and others, these are sites of scrutiny, trials, and performances of identity.
I walk out of the airport, my yellow document is now hidden, put away, out of sight. It has fulfilled its role in this ritual.
[1] ཁ་བཏགས་ is a traditional scarf used by Tibetans to greet each other or as an offering
Tenzing Wangdak. 13 December 2024, "Another Day at the Airport", Platform for Experimental Collaborative Ethnography, Platform for Experimental Collaborative Ethnography, last modified 13 December 2024, accessed 21 December 2024. https://worldpece.org/content/another-day-airport