The party that thinks it is God. The CCP’s plans for the Tibetan people

Few episodes in contemporary political history are as ironic as that of an officially atheist political party attempting to preside over a religious ritual whose doctrinal foundations it itself explicitly rejects. The Chinese Communist Party’s (CCP) determination to control the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama is precisely such an absurd spectacle. On the one hand, it continues to proclaim that religion is ‘the opium of the people’; on the other, it claims the right to certify the reincarnation of Tibetan Buddhism’s highest spiritual leader and to decide on the legitimacy of his next life.

In 2007, the Chinese government promulgated the ‘Measures for the Management of the Reincarnation of Living Buddhas in Tibetan Buddhism’. Its central provision is unequivocal: every reincarnation of a Tibetan lama must receive the approval of the central government. The real aim of this regulation is equally clear: it is directly targeted at the future reincarnation of the 14th Dalai Lama. By controlling the process through which reincarnations are officially recognised, the CCP aims to weaken, and ultimately eliminate, the influence of the institution of the Dalai Lama, thereby eroding the religious identity and cultural ties of the Tibetan people. This forms part of a much broader project: the cultural assimilation and ideological reshaping of Tibet.

To grasp the absurdity of this policy, consider a simple analogy. Imagine if the Italian government were to announce that the election of future popes would require the approval of the Italian state. Or if the US government were to declare that it intended to determine who should succeed the members of the College of Cardinals. The international community would react with disbelief and indignation. Such actions would represent not only an attack on religious autonomy, but also an affront to common sense. Yet the CCP’s policy is even more extraordinary: this is not simply a case of government interference, but the interference of a state whose governing ideology fundamentally rejects the religious beliefs upon which the institution itself is founded.

The Chinese government repeatedly claims that ‘freedom of religious belief’ prevails in China, yet in no other area does this slogan ring so hollow as in the matter of the Dalai Lama’s reincarnation. For any religion, establishing how its spiritual leaders are chosen is one of the most sacred and essential functions. In Tibetan Buddhism, the system for recognising reincarnated lamas is not merely a religious ritual: it constitutes the very foundation of doctrinal continuity and spiritual succession. If a religious community is denied the authority to determine the most fundamental aspect of its own faith, then the promise of religious freedom becomes little more than a transparent fig leaf.

History has already provided a chilling precedent. Following the death of the Tenth Panchen Lama, Gedhun Choekyi Nyima – recognised according to Tibetan Buddhist tradition as the Eleventh Panchen Lama – was taken into custody by the Chinese authorities in 1995 and has not been seen in public since, becoming one of the world’s youngest victims of political disappearance. Meanwhile, Beijing has appointed its own officially sanctioned Panchen Lama, elevating him to the status of legitimate successor. One religious leader has disappeared; another has been fabricated by the state. This fact alone exposes the hollowness of official statements on religious freedom.

But the contradiction runs even deeper. As a ruling party founded on dialectical materialism, the CCP has consistently portrayed religion as backward, irrational and ultimately harmful. From the destruction of the ‘Four Olds’ during the Cultural Revolution to the suppression of numerous faith communities, the accusation of ‘idealism’ has often served both as a political charge and as a justification for persecution. Even today, spiritual groups can be repressed simply because they are labelled ‘idealists’.

Following this logic, religion itself would belong to the realm of ‘idealism’, and belief in the reincarnation of living Buddhas would represent its purest form. This raises an obvious question: why would a government committed to materialism and hostile to idealism be so determined to intervene in, and even dominate, one of the most profoundly spiritual rituals imaginable? It is like someone who publicly denies the existence of music, yet insists on conducting a symphony orchestra.

It is precisely this contradiction that prompted the Dalai Lama to respond with his characteristic irony. If the Chinese Communist Party insists on interfering in his reincarnation, he observed, it should first acknowledge that reincarnation actually exists. Perhaps it should start by tracking down the reincarnations of Mao Zedong or Deng Xiaoping, before claiming the right to regulate other people’s religious affairs. Behind the humour lies a devastating logical critique: a government that rejects the most fundamental beliefs of a religion cannot consistently claim authority over its most sacred institutions.

Chinese officials often justify this policy by invoking ‘historical tradition’ and precedents in which past Chinese governments formally recognised senior figures in Tibetan Buddhism. Such arguments, however, do not stand up to closer scrutiny. The relationship between political authorities and religious institutions has varied enormously across different historical periods. Occasional interactions between imperial governments and religious communities do not amount to the kind of comprehensive administrative control that Beijing claims today. Elevating isolated historical precedents to the status of a legal basis for total state supervision is itself an exercise in selective historical interpretation.

More importantly, this policy cannot be understood in isolation. It forms part of a much broader framework of ethnic and cultural governance. In recent years, Beijing has increasingly promoted the concept of forging a ‘shared consciousness of the Chinese nation’, whilst legislation and administrative policies reflect an increasingly systematic drive towards assimilation. The Law on Promoting Ethnic Unity, adopted during the annual ‘Two Sessions’ held in Beijing last March, further enshrines the CCP’s assimilationist policies towards ethnic minorities in law. Within this framework, religious, linguistic and cultural differences are seen less and less as forms of diversity to be protected, and increasingly as differences to be integrated into a single national identity.

Seen in this context, it becomes clear why the Chinese government has chosen not to openly abolish the institution of reincarnated lamas. The reasons are simple. Firstly, the Dalai Lama enjoys enormous esteem and influence throughout the world, and openly abolishing the institution would provoke substantial international condemnation. Secondly, preserving its outward appearance allows Beijing to continue projecting an image of respect for religious traditions. But, at a deeper level, this approach reflects a more subtle strategy of political control: not destruction through elimination, but domination through appropriation; not open rejection, but gradual hollowing out from within.

By controlling the recognition of the next Dalai Lama, the Chinese government can preserve the institutional shell whilst radically transforming its substance. Once a religious leader’s authority no longer derives from the faith community but from administrative approval granted by the state, their spiritual legitimacy is inevitably diminished. Over time, the institution may well survive, but its meaning will have been hollowed out: the form will remain, whilst the soul will have been removed. This ‘orchestrated continuity’ could ultimately prove to be the most effective means of dismantling a tradition.

But the implications extend far beyond the religious sphere alone. When a people’s core belief system is systematically reshaped, their cultural identity is inevitably affected as well. Language, religion and historical memory together form the spiritual foundation of a nation. As these elements are progressively eroded, ‘assimilation’ ceases to be an abstract political concept and becomes a profound challenge to a people’s cultural survival.

The controversy over the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama, therefore, is not merely a technical dispute over religious procedures. It is a mirror reflecting the complex relationship between political power, religious faith and cultural identity. It raises a fundamental question: what happens when the state attempts to encroach upon a sphere that has always belonged to the spiritual life of a religious community? And once such interference becomes institutionalised through laws and administrative authority, how far will its consequences extend?

History has repeatedly shown that the vitality of culture and religious faith often exceeds the expectations of political power. But history also reminds us that prolonged campaigns of suppression and transformation impose very real costs on real communities and individuals. Faced with such realities, even silence can become a form of acquiescence.

In this sense, the debate over the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama concerns far more than the future of Tibetan Buddhism. It raises broader questions about the meaning of religious freedom, the limits of state authority, and whether, in a pluralistic world, distinct cultures have the right to preserve and perpetuate themselves in accordance with their own traditions.