Tibetan Buddhism has garnered a reputation among many, especially in the West, for being a unified, peace-loving religion. This is remarkable considering that Tibetan history—and that means Buddhist monastic history—is one of the most bellicose and bloody anywhere. I will never forget attending what was ostensibly a performance of Buddhist arts by Tibetan monks at a university outside Chicago some years back. After each sloppily performed act, a giddy, clownish monk would amble onto the stage and cry, “World peace! Thumbs up!” He would then ask for money. Not only was the dancing bad and the pitch an embarrassment, it perpetuated this notion that Tibetan Buddhist monks have always been about world peace, and their arts an expression of that. Far from it! A clearer perception of the complex identity of Tibetan Buddhism and its arts is available.

This article is not a critique of the martial aspects of Buddhist dance—I am an admirer, archivist, and practitioner of martial movement forms. Nor is it a critique of historical sexual behaviors that are better understood through an honest attempt at contextual objectivity, rather than viewed through the lens of contemporary moral judgment. Tibetan Buddhist society was feudal and complex; its mysticism ancient and powerful, its historical identity forged in warfare. This essay intends only to challenge rose-tinted notions of Tibetan Buddhist culture that may perhaps reflect an overly idealistic “Shangri-La syndrome” common among Westerners as much as a revisionist PR campaign by Tibetan monks. Further, this column seeks to comprehend the true nature of monastic dance forms—something that in the West has no equivalent, and for which we have often substituted romantic or impotent notions.

Tibet fought its neighbors for centuries. Indeed, they were despised for it. The kingdom of Bhutan is singular among them for never having been successfully invaded by Tibet. It is also important not to label all Vajrayana Buddhism “Tibetan Buddhism.” They are not the same thing. Domestically, Tibetan monastic orders physically fought each other for political dominance. The political and religious authorities in that vast and ancient land were related by blood in most provinces, and the aristocratic genetic links within orders remain today. There was much power and wealth to protect. Tibet’s monastic culture was a pure expression of medieval feudalism. The dances and arts enhanced and facilitated the meditative practices of educated monks and provided religious expression for the uneducated masses, serving to strengthen the minds of monks and the allegiance of peasants. At the same time, Cham was also a means of physical training.

Men like to fight. To this day, the ancient martial arts of many cultures exist and thrive. The subject of Buddhist martial arts is vast, encompassing everything from the Shaolin monks, to the Samurai code of honor, to Zen archery. The martial aspect is more explicit and more alluring than the strict mental discipline: today’s martial arts culture is dominated by competitions and rankings—such as “belts”—that have no basis in history or Asia (how many of us have nieces or nephews under the age of 10 with a “black” or at least a “brown belt”?), and a kick-ass movie culture that has spanned decades. Those training in martial arts for spiritual discipline, such as the Shaolin monks historically advocated, are not unknown, but certainly rare.

Monasteries have been the exclusive domain of men. How many men need to gather before there is a fight, based on testosterone alone? One hundred? Tibetan monasteries had thousands of men; some had more than 10,000. And, as in any other exclusively male community, practices such as hazing, forced submission to sexual domination that had nothing to with sexual attraction, and training an elite group of warriors were all part of Tibetan monastic culture.