Chunztenz

“What am i doing for Tibet?”

That is the question i have been asking myself every single day since july 2nd, 2026.

On that day, I was at BMO Stadium in Toronto, surrounded by thousand of football fans watching Portugal play Croatia. Cristiano Ronaldo was on the field and the atmosphere was electric. Like everyone else, I was completely immersed in the excitement of the match.

Halfway through the game, my phone buzzed. The battery was almost dead because I had come straight from work and I noticed a notification from our family group chat. My cousin in Newark had shared an Instagram link.

Living in Canada, I couldnt view it because instagram restricts certain graphic content here, Curious I asked him to send me a screenshot instead.

A few moments later, He did.

I barely looked at it. All I saw was the word in the middle that says “BREAKING : Lunatic with Tibetan flag sets himself on fire outside NYC,s UN Headquarters.” My battery was down to 4 percent and I was in the middle of the match. I assumed it wasn’t anything too serious, slipped my phone back into my pocket and continued watching the match.

Never, even in my wildest dreams, did i imagine that a Tibetan would self immolate on American soil.

After the final whistle, Portugal won. I went to celebrate the victory at a near by bar since my friends were there, We ordered some snacks and drinks and I handed my phone to the server and was telling my friends how disappointed I was for not being able to take any pictures or videos and blamed my self for not charging the phone at work. While waiting, I was also chatting with a lot of Portugal fans from different parts of the world, we guessed on how Portugal will win this time.

About half an hour later, I got my phone back, I then remember the screenshot my cousin had sent.

This time, I opened it properly. I read the caption carefully, something didn’t feel right. Within seconds, I searched Google.

Thats when I realized a Tibetan activist had carried out a self immolation outside the United Nations headquarters in New York.

I froze.

It felt as though a surge of electricity had rushed through my body.

A deep sadness settled in my chest.

There was heartbreak.

But there was also something I hadn’t felt in years, A deep sense of nationalism.

It wasn’t only the news itself that shook me.

It was what came next.

Almost instantly, I realized I had seen this man before.

Just a few weeks earlier, while visiting Jackson Heights with my uncle, I had crossed paths with him.. My uncle who had previously served the RTYC, they spoke. I shared a smile

He smiled back.

He casually asked if I would be joining the Wednesday Gorshey Dance and told me ho much he loved dancing.

That was our entire conversation.

It lasted less than a minute.

At the time, He was simply another friendly Tibetan I happened to meet.

I never imagined that brief encounter would become one of the most unforgettable memories of my life.

That smile stayed with me.

It replayed in my mind over and over again.

I kept asking myself….

What if i had spoken to him a little longer?

What if i had asked for his name?

What if i had known the kind of person he was?

I have always had a habit of greeting older Tibetans wherever I meet them. My friends tease me for it and say I am too outgoing.

But that night reminded me why those small interactions matter.

Sometimes the people we briefly meet leave the deepest impression.

The rest of the evening, I couldn’t stop reading about Lobga Rangtsen la,

I read every article, tribute, every social media post and watched every video I could find. I wanted to know who he was, what kind of life he had lived and what had brought him to make such an unimaginable sacrifice.

I couldn’t stop scrolling.

Years ago, i loved social media,

I enjoy sharing my life online and interacting with people from around the world. There was a time when thousands of people liked my photos, commented on my posts and filled my inbox with messages. But now I dislike all the attentions.

Every new post about Lobga Rangtsen la made my heart heavier.

I cried more than I had in a very long time. My eyes became swollen, my nose was blocked from crying so much and I felt emotionally exhausted.

That same night, I quietly left my family group chat.

Then i deactivated all of my social media accounts and muted every notifications.

It wasn’t because I stopped loving social media.

It wasn’t because I wanted to disappear.

I simply couldn’t continue absorbing everyone else’s grief while trying to process my own.

Some people may think I should have posted a tribute.

I understand that.

But i also asked myself…

Who exactly was I trying to reach?

The people I truly want to reach are those who know little or nothing about Tibet. The people who have never heard of our history, and the people who have never met a Tibetan.

Oddly enough, after deactivating everything, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Peace!

The sadness was still there, The grief hasn’t disappeared.

But the noise was gone.

The same night, Lobga Rangtsen la passed away from his injuries.

I barely slept.

The following morning, I called in sick at work.

Instead, I went to the protest outside the Chinese Consulate in Toronto.

Normally, I avoid Tibetan gatherings.

Moving to Canada changed me in ways I never expected.

Over the past few years, I have become much more introverted.

I rarely attended community events anymore, other than occasionally meeting friends for Laphing at a Tibetan restaurants, I mostly kept to myself.

I didn’t want to be seen, nor socialize.

But this time, something inside me told me i needed to be there.

So I went.

The temperature that day was close to 36 degree celcius.

The heat was unbearable.

But compared to what Lobga Rangtsen la had endured, it felt insignificant

As I stood among the crowd, I watched a young Tibetan woman collapse because of the heat. People immediately rushed to help her.

Around me were Tibetans from every generations.

Young people stood beside elders who had dedicated decades of their lives to the Tibetan cause. Community leaders gave speeches. Prayers were recited. People cried openly.

I cried too.

I had never witnessed so much collective grief gathered in one place.

Standing there, surrounded by people I had unintentionally distanced myself from over the past few years, I felt something awaken inside me.

For the first time in a long time, I truly felt that I belonged.

As i listened to the speeches and looked around at the faces in the crowd, one question echoed louder than anything else.

WHAT AM I DOING FOR TIBET?

I searched for an answer.

I couldn’t find one.

The first thing that came to mind embarrassed me.

Despite studying in TCV, I still struggle to read Tibetan fluently.
Writing Tibetan is even harder.

My spelling has always been terrible.

Back in the school, I used to laugh about it.

I was an ace student in English and Mathematics but I barely passed Tibetan. I used to joke about how bad my Tibetan was and somehow convinced myself it was something to laugh about.

Looking back now, I feel stupid.

There was never anything admirable about losing touch with my own language.

There was never anything funny about struggling to read the language of my ancestors.

That realization hurt more than i expected.

One thing I have remained consistent with over the past six years is my daily prayers.

Every morning, I spend at least 10 minutes to sometimes close to an hour praying.

I don’t use a traditional prayer book. Instead, I listen to prayers on Spotify, reading along as I pray. It has become part of my daily routine and a promise made to myself.

Those quiet moments have given me a sense of peace that I never expected.

As i have grown closer to my faith, I have realized I no longer feel the same need to seek validation from other people.

There is a quietness that comes from beginning each day with prayer, something that no amount of attention on social media could ever replace.

But beyond my prayers, another difficult question kept returning to me.

How Tibetan am I?

The answer wasn’t easy.

I have never liked wearing a chupa,

Not because it isn’t beautiful, it truly is.

Whenever I see Tibetan women wearing one, they look elegant, graceful and proud.

I simply never felt comfortable wearing one myself.

For years I never questioned it.
Now, I do.

Perhaps preserving our identity doesn’t always require grand gestures.

Perhaps it begins by embracing the traditions we once took for granted.

On July 6th, I watched the livestream of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama’s 91st birthday celebrations from Ladakh.

It was a joyful celebration.

People smiled,

Children danced.

Monks offered prayers.

Life continued, as it always does.

Yet my thoughts kept returning to one person.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Lobga Rangtsen la,

More specifically, I couldn’t stop thinking about his niece. The only close family member he left behind in New York.

I listened to her speak, and It broke my heart.

Then i listened to his friends.

I listened to community leaders.

I listened to Tendor la, Sonam Wangdue la, his close friend from Philly, the Kushola and the many others who have known him personally.

Though their memories differed, they all described the same man.

A man who lived simply.

A man who drove uber for living.

A man who carried a Tibetan flag in his bag wherever he went.

A man who showed up whenever there was a protest.

He wasn’t famous.

He wasn’t wealthy.

He wasn’t seeking recognition.

He simply loved Tibet with all his heart.
That is what has stayed with me.
Not only the way he died, but the way he lived.

Hisnlove for Tibet was not something that appeared in his final moments.

It was reflected in the way he lived every day.

In the causes he supported.

In the people he stood beside.

In the quiet consistency with which he carried his identity wherever he went.

That realization made me uncomfortable in the best possible way.

It forced me to stop looking outward and start looking inward.

So many of us spend our lives chasing careers, scrolling endlessly through social media, worrying about what others think or simply trying to get through another day.

Meanwhile, there are ordinary people quietly dedicating their lives to preserving something much greater than themselves.

I kept asking myself the same question.

What can i do?

The truth is…

I still don’t have a complete answer.

May be I never will.

But perhaps the question itself is where change begins.

Before his passing, Lobga Rangtsen la left a message for Tibetans

It was about all of us.

He asked us to remain united beyond regional and sectarian differences.

He urged us to preserve our language, preserve our culture and never forget who we are.

Those words have echoed in my mind ever since.

They reminded me that the future of Tibet does not depend only on political leaders, activists or organizations.
It also depends on ordinary Tibetans like you and me.
It depends on the choices we make everyday.

It there is one lesson I have taken from all of this, Is it that preserving our identity begins at home.
It begins with speaking Tibetan to our parents, our grandparents, our children, our nieces and nephews and every younger member of our family wherever we have the chance.

A language survives only when it is spoken.

Every conversation in Tibetan keeps our culture alive.

Every child who grows up speaking Tibetan carries a piece of Tibet into the future.

We should teach our history,

Celebrate our festivals.

support one another as a community.

Wear our Chupa with pride if we choose to.

Pass on our Traditions.
And above all, Never feel embarrassed about being Tibetan.

For too many years, I took my identity for granted.

Today, I realize that being Tibetan is one of the greatest blessings of my life.

Our history is one of resilience.

Our culture is one of compassion,

Our faith teaches us kindness,

Our language carries the wisdom of generations.

Those are not burdens.

They are gifts.

And gifts should never be forgotten.

I still don’t know exactly what my role will be.

I don’t know how much difference one person can make.
But I know this much.

I no longer want to drift through life without asking myself what I can do for my people.

I want to improve ,your Tibetan.

I want to become more involved in my community.

I want to educate those who know little or nothing about Tibet.

And above all, I want to live in a way that would make the next generation proud.

If one day they ask us what we did to preserve our language, our culture and our identity, I hope we will have an answer.

A smile exchanged with a stranger in Jackson Heights became one of the most unforgettable moments of my life.

Some people leave behind wealth,
Some leave behind achievements,
Some leave behind memories.

Lobga Rangtsen la left behind something far greater.

A question.

A question that continues to challenge my heart every single day.

What are we doing as Tibetans, to ensure that our language, culture and identity continue to live on?

May we never forget where we come from,
May we always be proud to call ourselves Tibetan.

And may we honor those who came before us, not only through our words, but through the way we choose to live every single day.

BOD GYALO!!!