In December 1980, my family took a trip to the then-Soviet Union. It was the year of the Moscow Summer Olympics – the year the U.S. boycotted the games. It was not exactly the era of warm and fuzzy feelings between the two countries, so I had no idea what to expect; we had all heard so many stories about life in Soviet Russia and were (mostly) ready for anything.
We got our first taste of how things were going to be when we landed at the Moscow airport. Customs agents opened our bags, and, in my father’s suitcase, they found a World War II novel about spies in Germany. The book cover depicted, among other things, a swastika; the agents took the book and left us to wait, unsure of what would happen next. After what seemed like a very long time, the agents returned with the book, but the jacket had been confiscated.
That sensation of constant scrutiny continued throughout our stay. Our tour bus had a guide as well as an unnamed man who just seemed to watch what was happening. It later occurred to us that he must have been someone put there to monitor the guide’s statements and interactions with the tourists. There was very little real connection between the guide and us – sites were described factually without much commentary. Much like the weather, the experience was gray with little sunlight that penetrated.
I was reminded of this experience during my time in Tibet. It was difficult just getting in to the country; I had to leave my passport with the tour operator in Kathmandu while I did the Everest Base Camp trek in order to obtain the necessary permit for entry in addition to the usual Chinese visa. I was told I needed to carry my passport and my permit the whole time I was in Lhasa. Without a Tibetan guide and a valid permit, I would be denied entry into most of the major tourist sites.
When I met my guide* for the first time, he told me how much he loved Buddhism, and how excited he was to show me all of the significant temples and monasteries in and around Lhasa. But that first conversation took place in my hotel lobby. Things were very different when we got in the van to leave for our first site.
Being in Tibet, one of the things I was most curious about was the Tibetans’ view of the Dalai Lama. I asked a question about that in the van and my guide’s eyes went wide. He pointed to the ceiling at what I realized was a CCTV camera. He didn’t exactly put a finger to his lips to shush me, but his facial expression clearly conveyed his discomfort. Later, outside the van, he confirmed that everything that happened inside was being recorded and was subject to government review.
Whenever we left the van, it was like a switch was flipped. He became much more talkative, and I was able to ask my questions not only the Dalai Lama, but also about Mao and the Cultural Revolution (subjects I had studied quite extensively in college). Yet even outside the van he was uncomfortable talking too much about these things, and, in lieu of his impressions and feelings about China’s modern history, he generally brushed everything off as mostly irrelevant. “History is history” was his usual refrain.
I wasn’t a stranger to the idea of carefully curating what one shares with others. As an adult, I have always been a very private person. Admittedly, that might be a huge understatement. From a very young age, my parents instilled in me the notion that “what happens in the family stays in the family.” We were told never to discuss our family dynamics with strangers. Of course, “strangers” meant “anyone.” I extrapolated from that directive that I shouldn’t share even my inner dynamics with anyone, including my parents. There was never an upside to sharing with my parents; they were generally judgmental and critical.
Life was a bit like Charlie Brown and Lucy holding the football. Each time I thought going to my parents to talk about something I was struggling with, I found myself questioning why I had bothered to do so. I always came away from my interactions with them feeling worse, with a sense that there was something wrong with me. In my novel, Going Down, I wrote about my belief that we each lead three lives – our public life, our private life, and our secret life. It became impossible for me to differentiate between my private life and my secret life. Disclosing anything other than what I chose to allow others to see publicly was fraught with peril. I chose to sacrifice intimacy in favor of safer boundaries that I held onto like a security blanket (another Peanuts reference).
Given my reluctance to share much about my own internal workings, writing this blog (and starting an Instagram account) has been a real challenge for me. Although I made a commitment to myself to write honestly about my experiences and the feelings they bring up, simultaneously I have had to combat my ingrained belief that one must constantly be vigilant about sharing too much. I have often had to swallow hard and tamp down my anxiety about sharing my inner thoughts and emotions, things I would ordinarly keep tightly under wraps.
Writing (and recalling my past experiences) has been one of the more cathartic aspects of this year of traveling. It would be a gross overstatement to say that I’m entirely comfortable going into some areas of my life, particularly as they pertain to my relationship with my parents. There’s still a part of me that believes I need to protect my family’s secrets, but my gap year is not just about visiting amazing places (although that aspect of my travels thus far has been, well, amazing). This year was intended to get me thinking about what drives me and what I want for myself for the rest of my life. Ironically, traveling by myself has opened the door to my willingness to connect with others on a deeper level.
So, for me, Big Brother has always been watching. The fear of the consequences of disclosure like judgment or criticism have made it so I never needed a CCTV camera to remind me of the dangers of revealing the workings of my mind. Although there were clearly different motivations at work, I was able to relate to my Tibetan guide’s concerns. I realize that I have become my own Big Brother, and that I’m not a powerless player in my own life. I’m not necessarily ready to become an open book, but I am willing to step out of the van.
* My guide asked me to refrain from using his name in anything I wrote about my time in Tibet, and I am honoring his request.
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