The Shadow of Fake Lamas

It has been nearly a decade since the #MeToo movement went viral in 2017, and survivors across multiple Buddhist communities in Asia, Europe, and the Americas began bravely sharing their stories. Several high-profile cases of sexual abuse shook the largest global Vajrayana communities—Rigpa, Shambhala, and the Foundation for the Preservation of the Mahayana Tradition were among the most well-known—leaving keenly felt grief, fracture, and trauma in their wake. Many practitioners remain adrift. Since then, scholars like Willa Baker, Sarah Jacoby, Ann Gleig, and Amy Langenberg have supported survivors one-on-one, organized survivor-centered gatherings, and offered resources to help understand and navigate this painful issue. Yet revelations of abuse continue to emerge.

Our coauthored article, “Parody and Pathos: Sexual Transgressions by ‘Fake’ Lamas in Tibetan Short Stories,” published in Revue d’Etudes Tibétaines in 2022, analyzed an emergent Tibetan-language discourse on sexual abuse in a Buddhist context. Through these short stories about so-called fake lamas, Tibetan authors offer poignant social critique in fictional form. We found a notable gendered pattern: Male authors tend to question blind faith (rmongs dad) and satirize lamas who abuse their authority, while women writers center the suffering of female victims, revealing the psychological and social devastation that follows abuse. Here we retell two of the stories analyzed in our article.

Tibetans use the term “fake lama” (bla ma rdzun ma) to refer to those who abuse their power or fail to uphold the ethical standards befitting a Vajrayana teacher. The term suggests duplicity—either an imposter posing as a lama without proper training or a socially recognized teacher whose conduct is driven by worldly concerns, such as fame, wealth, or sexual gratification. The word lama means “teacher” and may refer to anyone who has completed the traditional three-year retreat. However, it usually denotes a vajra master (rdo rje slob dpon) who offers tantric empowerments and esoteric teachings. Some lamas are monastics committed to celibacy; others are yogic householders who marry and pass teachings through family lineages. Tibetans distinguish between “fake” and “genuine” lamas by whether or not they embody their training through ethical conduct and serve as living exemplars of the dharma.

In contemporary Tibet, fiction has become an important space for social critique, partly because it allows writers to navigate state constraints on public discourse.

Despite its transgressive rhetoric, the Vajrayana tradition in Tibet is not a free-for-all. The qualifications and ethical conduct expected of a vajra master are clearly articulated in treatises such as Buddhist Ethics and The Teacher-Student Relationship by the 19th-century polymath Jamgon Kongtrul. These qualifications include scriptural knowledge, authorization within an authentic lineage, an honest character that never misleads students, and conduct rooted in the dharma’s nonharming ethic and the bodhisattva’s compassion. The tantric siddha (accomplished one) who upends social conventions as a skillful means is the exception, not the norm. As the contemporary Amdo teacher Lamo Yongzin observed, “Siddhas are as rare as daytime stars.” Traditionally, such skillful means are reserved for enlightened masters said to be capable of clairvoyance and miraculous powers. When harm is widespread—as contemporary accounts of abuse make clear—these actions cannot be considered skillful.

Concerns about lamas misusing privilege and authority have arisen for centuries in Tibet’s oral and literary traditions. The potential for abuse intensified in the second half of the 20th century, when Buddhist institutions were ruptured under Chinese Communist rule, particularly leading up to and during the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976). Since then, the popularity of Tibetan Buddhism among Han Chinese and globally has changed the contexts in which the dharma is transmitted. Lamas now travel far from communities that know their training and reputation, sometimes establishing centers where they become elevated and siloed with little accountability. Beginning in the 1980s, respected teachers such as the Tenth Panchen Lama and Khenpo Jigme Phuntsok publicly criticized monks and lamas who traveled to teach in Chinese cities without proper qualifications or who raised funds under the false pretext of supporting their dharma activities at home monasteries in Tibet.

In contemporary Tibet, fiction has become an important space for social critique, partly because it allows writers to navigate state constraints on public discourse. This coincides with the rise of modern Tibetan literature in the 1980s, when economic and cultural liberalization enabled a revival of Tibetan language, literature, Buddhist institutions, and cultural practices. Among the many social issues taken up in recent short stories, several draw attention to the wayward actions of religious figures. These works draw sharp distinctions between “fake” and “genuine” lamas, a device that allows Tibetans to defend the ideals of Buddhism while condemning those who abuse their authority, especially through sexual violation.

Because there is no public movement akin to #MeToo in China, these stories offer valuable insight into how Tibetans understand and challenge sexual abuse in religious contexts through social realism.

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The short story “Sister Dechen Tsomo” (A shel bde chen mtsho mo) by female author Tashi Dronma, published in the Journal of Tibetan Arts and Literature in 1988, is one of the earliest Tibetan short stories to address sexual assault by a fake lama—in this case, the manipulation of devotion by an imposter. Set in 1982, it opens along the Kyichu River, in Lhasa, where the tranquil beauty of sunset is shattered by a mother’s anguished shout at her crying child: “Why do you keep making trouble? You are my karmic retribution! I don’t know how to live anymore.” The women nearby react with sharp disapproval, chastising her for speaking harshly and getting pregnant in the first place—a typical case of “blame the victim.” Only one bystander, Lhakyi, recognizes the distressed woman as Dechen Tsomo, who once stayed with her family. This moment of recognition shifts the story’s tone and opens the door to a fuller account of what happened, which fosters critical and compassionate understanding of how religion can turn against the most vulnerable.

Dechen is a young woman from Kham who ventured to Lhasa with friends, not out of hardship but driven by dreams of a better life, imagining the city as a place where spiritual ideals and modern opportunities meet. Life in an unfamiliar town proves far more challenging than she had imagined. After bouncing between jobs, she becomes a domestic helper for an elderly lady and a lama visiting from Kham. The lama, Gyaltsen, is introduced in a deliberately ambiguous tone without revealing his identity or affiliation; Dechen knows him only through reverent rumors that he is a “precious being.” While the pious elderly lady sets out for her daily circumambulation, Dechen tends the household.

After a few months, when Dechen is making a water offering, Gyaltsen stops her to admire the turquoise she wears—an heirloom from her grandmother, treasured as a “soul stone.” He examines the turquoise, then pulls her close, touching foreheads in a gesture of intimate respect. Confused but devoted, Dechen offers him the turquoise, asking him to help “guide her deceased grandmother upward” to a better rebirth and “purify her karmic obstructions.” He accepts the gift and her trust. From then on, he lingers around her, teaching her a little dharma and finding excuses to touch her or interrupt her chores.

Weeks later, after Dechen removes her top to wash her hair in the kitchen, Gyaltsen is depicted watching her from behind a curtain. The narration emphasizes his lust, specifically his “bulging eyes” fixed on her youthful body. To give the impending violation a religious veneer, he says, “It’s time to lead the dead upward,” a phrase with a sexual pun. The scene ends in euphemistic but unmistakable sexual assault: He embraces her “against her will” and kisses her all over “like a madman.” The story is explicit that she did not consent and felt powerless to resist.

In the aftermath, Gyaltsen reframes the violation as tantric practice, calling Dechen his “tantric consort” (rig ma). While legitimate sexual practices exist in Buddhist tantra, these are considered esoteric and meant to be engaged by partners who are both highly advanced practitioners. Religious aims include longevity and liberation but not sexual gratification or guiding the dead. His bogus rationale exposes his status as an imposter. Yet Dechen blames herself, believing she has “stained” a holy man and fears falling into “vajra hell.” Her subsequent pregnancy becomes, in an internalized version of “blame the victim,” the karmic result of her supposed failings. Fear of karmic retribution for refusing the dictates of lamas—or for speaking about abuse—is common in Vajrayana communities. As Sarah Jacoby shows in her study of Sera Khandro (1892–1940), even accomplished female masters had to navigate unwanted sexual propositions while articulating an ethic based on mutual benefit.

Gyaltsen continues to harass Dechen and demand sex, justifying his abuse by claiming: “Many qualified lamas (tshad ldan bla ma) in the past have taken consorts. When I saw the signs and marks, I took you as my consort.” The pretense is transparent, the story makes clear that he is motivated by sexual gratification and lacks a genuine understanding of the dharma. Once Gyaltsen realizes that she is pregnant, he abandons her, leaving under the false pretext of repairs at his monastery. Alone in Lhasa, far from home, Dechen is left to raise her child without support.

While Tashi Dronma centers a young woman’s experience to elicit compassion for survivors, male authors such as Tsering Dondrup use satire to expose ethical failings within Buddhist institutions and to call for reform. One example appears in the short story translated for Tricycle, “The Disparaging Laughter of Tsechu River” (read the translation after this article). Its protagonist is Tsering Dondrup’s recurring character Alak Drong Tsang (Wild Yak Rinpoche), a lama with a dubious, self-serving nature. In the novel The Red Wind Howls, recently translated by Christopher Peacock, Alak Drong Tsang survives the Cultural Revolution by informing on his own devout disciples. In this short story, he appears not as an imposter but as a locally recognized religious authority who is nonetheless corrupted by material interests.

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Published in 1988, in a collection of Tsering Dondrup’s short stories, “The Disparaging Laughter of Tsechu River” (Rtse chus khrel dgod byed bzhin) is set in a fictional community along the Tsechu River in Amdo. As the head of the local monastery—then being rebuilt after the Cultural Revolution—Alak Drong Tsang receives great devotion, respect, and offerings from the local community. Among the most devoted are Ama Gonkyi and her 17-year-old daughter Lutso, one of the poorest families in the area, who offer what they can.

When Lutso develops a toothache, her mother sends her to the monastery with some yogurt, hoping for the lama’s blessing. Traditionally, lamas blow on the afflicted area when giving blessings for illness. Instead, Alak Drong Tsang stares at Lutso’s youthful breasts and thinks to himself, “I haven’t performed my secret practice for a long time,” before pulling her onto his lap. The rest is left to the reader’s imagination. Months later, Lutso becomes pregnant, and the lama begins scheming to hide his abuse. Knowing a wealthy family has recently lost its mother, he devised a plan to present Lutso’s child as her reincarnation, ensuring wealth and protection for his son while concealing his own identity as the father.

Tibetan short stories counter the idea that sexual abuse in Buddhist communities stems from a culture clash between East and West.

A couple of years later, when the wealthy family returns on pilgrimage, Alak Drong Tsang quietly instructs the toddler to touch and claim the prayer beads hanging from the wealthy son’s neck as his own. The child obeys, and the family interprets this as evidence of past-life memory. Even Lutso falls into the trap, regretting her previous doubts about him. Yet at every turn in the plot, the Tsechu River bears witness to each deception and laughs disparagingly, signaling to the reader not to be fooled. In closing, we learn that Alak Drong Tsang justified his abuse of Lutso as “secret conduct” (gsang ba’i mdzad)—behavior presumed to be beyond the comprehension of ordinary people. Through satire, the story exposes the mechanisms of his deception, the dangers of blind faith, and the role that secrecy plays in enabling harm. The land itself—embodied in the river—serves as an ethical witness.

In each story, Tashi Dronma and Tsering Dondrup expose how religious figures such as Gyaltsen and Alak Drong Tsang deceive and exploit their followers’ devotion, thereby failing to embody basic Buddhist ethics. Together, these narratives warn against blind faith in religious figures and suggest that devotion must be accompanied by discernment and ethical awareness at individual and institutional levels. Both authors portray the perpetrators as predatory and coercive, emphasize the women’s lack of consent, and reveal how Vajrayana concepts are twisted to mask abuse. Such manipulations not only aim to conceal ethical violations but also distort the meaning and integrity of tantric practice. In each case, the children born of these violations resemble their fathers, leaving an undeniable “footprint” that resists full concealment.

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Tibetan short stories counter the idea that sexual abuse in Buddhist communities stems from a culture clash between East and West. These narratives show that Tibetans themselves are deeply concerned about abuse and have developed their own ways of challenging it.

Many Tibetan and Himalayan women writers are addressing issues such as domestic violence, sexual abuse, human trafficking, and the status of nuns. These include Tsedron Kyi, Tsering Yangkyi, Kunzang Choden, Palmo, Jamyang Kyi, Dekyi Drolma, Pema Ngodron, Yangdron, and Chador Wangmo, writing in Tibetan, Chinese, and English. Far from opposing Buddhism, a number of these authors write as Buddhists to raise awareness and call for reform in their own culture and in Vajrayana ethics and institutions. At the same time, prominent teachers such as Khenpo Tsultrim Lodro of Larung Gar advocate for ethical reform and urge closer scrutiny of those who present themselves as lamas in faraway Chinese cities.

These emerging voices from Tibet raise awareness about abuse without offering an easy resolution. The urgent question remains: What must still be done to ensure that Buddhist communities are safe for everyone?

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For source material citations, see “Parody and Pathos: Sexual Transgression by ‘Fake’ Lamas in Tibetan Short Stories,” in Revue d’Etudes Tibétaines 63 (2022), by the authors.