A special virtue attaches to playwrights who take us into unfamiliar territory. In his last play at this address, The Djinns of Eidgah, Abhishek Majumdar explored the human cost of the Kashmir conflict. The setting for his new one is Tibet and, while it would be easy to pick holes in his technique, he offers a philosophical inquiry into the nature of non-violence and the tactics required to counter oppression.

The title means “father” in Tibetan and the play starts by showing how a strong-willed young woman, Deshar, has disowned her dad to become a Buddhist nun in a remote part of eastern Tibet. When a Chinese military commander, Deng, arrives to launch a programme of political “re-education” and threatens to destroy the nunnery and build a hospital, we see how defiance of authority can take many forms.

The nunnery’s resident scholar, Rinpoche, debates with Deng, counsels against hate and declares: “If we become violent, we lose everything.” Deshar takes more decisive action in a self-destructive gesture that sees the Theatre Upstairs blazing with a ring of fire.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Not a cardboard villain ... Daniel York Loh in Pah-La. Photograph: Tristram Kenton/The Guardian

In the play’s superior first half, Majumdar raises fascinating ethical questions and avoids a too obvious confrontation of good and evil. There is a wiliness to the Buddhist Rinpoche who, when asked if he accepts the five pillars of “re-education”, says: “Too many nouns unfortunately. My entire training is in verbs.” The Chinese communist, Deng, also scores a palpable hit when he says of Buddhists: “You are unsure whether you are here or not but you are absolutely sure that Tibet is yours.” It is even debatable whether Deshar’s suicide bid is heroic or, in every sense, inflammatory.

The opposition of ideas in the first half gives way to contrivance in the second, where plot takes over from philosophy. The action shifts to Lhasa and we see how Deng, held morally responsible by his wife for Deshar’s act of self-harm, finds his own daughter has gone missing: an over-elaborate irony. I also find it hard to believe that Deng’s female sidekick would launch into a tirade damning the global patriarchy and declaring: “The world doesn’t need less monasteries or Marxists. It needs less fathers.” The sentiments may be admirable but the speech sits oddly in the mouth of a communist apparatchik.

The play’s flaws matter less than the fact that it heightens awareness about Tibet and forces us to re-examine the potential of non-violence. Debbie Hannan’s production creates a complete world in the confines of a tiny space and is notably well acted. Millicent Wong captures the independent spirit of Deshar, as you can see from her angry features when the Chinese political precepts are being read out, yet also her compassion and grace. Daniel York Loh ensures that Deng is no cardboard villain but a soft communist torn between loyalty to the party and paternal anxiety. There is striking support from Gabby Wong as his insubordinate aide and from Kwong Loke as a calmly disputatious Buddhist.

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The play has too many inscrutable parables and an excess of antithetical dialogue but I welcome its attempt to breach the inherent parochialism of British theatre.