Why is China afraid of the Dalai Lama

WHEN Narendra Modi and Xi Jinping meet this weekend, their agenda will cover trade, border disputes and shifting Asian alliances. Yet, one figure will shadow the discussions without being named: the Dalai Lama.

India's "honoured guest" for 65 years remains a shadow in Sino-Indian relations and, remarkably, one of Beijing's greatest fears.

Despite commanding a $17-trillion economy and the world's largest standing army, China treats this 90-year-old Buddhist monk as an existential threat. This paradox illuminates the fundamental vulnerability of authoritarian rule.

The global stature that so unnerves Beijing is built on extraordinary reach. Over six decades in exile, the Dalai Lama has visited 67 countries, enjoyed the support of virtually every US President from Eisenhower to Biden, and received more than 150 awards, including the Nobel Peace Prize.” His books reach millions across languages. Scientists collaborate with him on neuroplasticity research. He fills stadiums from London to Tokyo, with messages about secular ethics and interfaith harmony.

This soft power empire, built from a hill station in India, achieves what China's billions in public diplomacy cannot: genuine global influence rooted in moral authority.

When Czech President Petr Pavel met him in July, Beijing severed diplomatic ties. When Mongolia hosted him in 2016, it incurred $4.2 billion in loan losses. Research indicates that countries whose leaders meet with the Dalai Lama experience an average decline of 8 per cent in exports to China over two years. Yet, the meetings continue. Nancy Pelosi led a congressional delegation to Dharamsala this summer, declaring, "His Holiness will outlive the Chinese regime."

Beijing's Tibet strategy rests on a fundamental miscalculation. Since the Dalai Lama's 1959 flight to India, China has personalised the entire Tibet issue around one individual rather than acknowledging the aspirations of more than six million Tibetans.

This approach became particularly untenable after 2011, when the Dalai Lama formally transferred political authority to the democratically elected leaders of the Central Tibetan Administration, which oversees refugee affairs worldwide from Dharamsala, advocates for the Tibetan cause and represents Tibetans under Chinese rule.

Beijing's refusal to engage with these elected representatives, insisting on framing everything around a figure who now holds a purely spiritual authority, reveals its unwillingness to address legitimate grievances.

By making the Dalai Lama simultaneously irrelevant and indispensable to their narrative, the Chinese authorities have elevated his importance beyond what any political role could achieve.

Inside Tibet, despite total surveillance and harsh penalties, devotion persists. Since 2009, over 155 Tibetans have self-immolated, many invoking the Dalai Lama's name. Secret photographs circulate despite possession being a criminal offence. Beijing controls the territory but not the belief itself — a gap no force can bridge.

What makes the Dalai Lama particularly threatening is his response to persecution. Rather than matching hatred with hatred, he advocates dialogue with Beijing, describing the Chinese people as "brothers and sisters." This refusal to demonise his oppressors becomes his sharpest challenge to those who rule by fear.

His influence extends far beyond Buddhism or Tibet. In the Silicon Valley, he discusses AI ethics with tech leaders. At MIT and Stanford, he collaborates with neuroscientists studying the effects of meditation on brain function. When climate scientists seek moral frameworks for environmental action, they find an eager partner in him. This intellectual range creates a global constituency that no government can fully control.

George W Bush has met him four times. Angela Merkel risked trade relations to receive him. Even the Saudi sponsorship of the 2008 Madrid interfaith conference signalled his unique standing. These relationships, built over decades, provide a network that China's economic leverage cannot entirely dismantle.

When Beijing kidnapped the Dalai Lama-recognised Panchen Lama in 1995, making six-year-old Gedhun Choekyi Nyima the world's youngest political prisoner, and installed its own candidate, Tibetans rejected the impostor. Nearly three decades later, this state-appointed figure commands a title but no devotion.

The approaching succession crisis will test this approach. The Dalai Lama has announced, logically, that only he can and will decide where his own reincarnated successor will be born, specifying that this will be outside Chinese-controlled areas and that his office and registered trust will have the final responsibility for identifying him. India has said that it will accept the Tibetans’ choice. It is up to them.

Having personalised the conflict around mortality, Beijing assumes death will solve its problem. Instead, it has guaranteed perpetual contestation through the reincarnation process itself.

For PM Modi, managing the Dalai Lama's presence represents India's most delicate diplomatic balancing act. The relationship transcends realpolitik. To millions of Indians, he embodies an ancient ideal of spiritual authority, predating modern nation-states.

This grassroots reverence provides a domestic political shield no amount of Chinese pressure can penetrate. Yet, Delhi must balance this with the economic reality: bilateral trade exceeds $130 billion annually and border tensions require careful management.

Beijing's obsession exemplifies what political scientists term the "dictator's dilemma": the need to suppress alternative sources of legitimacy while requiring genuine acceptance.

The Dalai Lama represents "reserve legitimacy" — an alternative authority persisting regardless of territorial control.

This explains Beijing's seemingly irrational behaviour: spending billions on soft power while triggering diplomatic crises over monastery visits, hosting Buddhist conferences while genuine spiritual leaders remain imprisoned. China can orchestrate grand Olympics and finance infrastructure across continents. Still, it cannot manufacture what the Dalai Lama possesses: authentic moral authority recognised across cultures.

Beijing's fixation on personality over policy guarantees the conflict's continuation. China ensures that grievances accumulate rather than being resolved. The systematic suppression of the Tibetan language, the destruction of religious sites and the forced separation of children for "patriotic education" — these generate resistance that will outlive any individual.

International responses increasingly reflect this reality. America’s recently passed Tibet Religious Freedom Act, European Parliament resolutions and growing scrutiny of China's human rights record suggest that patience with Beijing's approach is eroding.

In the contest between the empire’s might and the monk’s example, it is the vulnerability of the former that becomes increasingly apparent. Beijing may control Tibet's territory, but its fear of one man reveals a truth no amount of power can change: authentic authority flows from conscience, not compulsion. That recognition haunts every authoritarian regime, making even the mightiest empire afraid of a single voice speaking truth to power.

Views are personal.

Rajiv Mehrotra is Managing Trustee, Foundation for Universal Responsibility of Dalai Lama.