How Does a Monk Express Love for His Hometown?

**[Editor's Note]** Halfway through the interview, I asked whether any difficulties from all those years of traveling had stood out as especially unforgettable. A brief silence came over the phone line. Then, in that earnest, low voice, the answer slowly followed: "Shortages of funding, exhausting journeys that stretched on, waiting day and night for a single shot—things like that really did happen a lot.

But there's no need to talk about those." Another time, during the interview period, a busy schedule caused him to put off sending the materials again and again. At the final contact, this gentle-faced, bearded monk rather "abruptly" initiated a video call. On the screen, he rubbed his head repeatedly and said earnestly, "I'm truly sorry for the delay. I will definitely send all the materials to you this time. Otherwise, I won't feel right about it myself." These words were as plain as the plateau lakes his lens captured.

His tone as mundane as mentioning yesterday's weather, Tudeng Daji said, "Recently, I've scanned several hundred more ancient texts and documents," in "Between Nature and Civilization." Yet for those who listen carefully, a deeper insight appears: the profound hardships were never worn by him as medals. Instead, they have quietly settled into his character—grounded, simple, unassuming.

At Mugya Monastery, his living quarters and workspace hold sutras, old books, external hard drives, and camera gear together in an unusual mix. A scanner converts the yellowed Tibetan texts into digital images page by page, and these are quietly stored on his computer next to the vivid wild photos he has taken of snow leopards and blue sheep.

Whenever Tudeng Daji returned to his hometown, Muru Township in Dawu County (སྨུག་རོང), a strange sense of unfamiliarity came over him. Following his ordination as a monk, he had devoted much of his time to studying at Buddhist colleges. The root of all his work lies in a feeling of pain generated by "loss," and the two anchors of his entire world are: the ancient civilization bound to the bloodlines of his native land, and the lively natural energy coursing across that very earth.

As time carried the elders away, their oral narratives and age-old ceremonies went with them. The respect and balance that once united people with each other and with the natural world likewise dimmed beneath the pressures of modern living. "The hometown I knew is becoming blurred." So in 2013, this young monk chose to act, resolved to protect the "soul" of where he came from. The Most Ancient Environmental Protection draws its strength by turning back to the traditions of Tibetan culture itself.

He put substantial effort into rallying villagers to rebuild many “Lhatse” (arrow-planting platforms for mountain deities) and “Lu Khang” (small temples dedicated to dragon deities). To him, this went beyond a mere restoration project; it represented a reawakening of cultural rituals and ecological education. He believed that protecting the environment was not an imported or contemporary notion, but rather something deeply rooted in the wisdom and faith of his forebears.

He explained that in these traditional beliefs, mountains are inhabited by mountain deities, waters by dragon deities, and every blade of grass and tree carries spirit. Showing reverence for them constitutes the oldest form of environmental protection. Through the restoration of these ritual sites, he rebuilt the spiritual bond between people and the sacred mountains and lakes, so that environmental protection becomes an act grounded in cultural instinct. More far-reaching than direct restoration is the civilizational "salvage" project.

Over the years, he journeyed through his hometown and the villages around it, painstakingly seeking out and salvaging at-risk ancient Bon and Buddhist manuscripts, local records, and family documents—much like a cultural miner. The roughly three to four thousand treasured volumes he gathered, now digitized through scanning, make up the "digital gene bank" he established for his native land. At his core, he was firmly convinced that the spread of ideas cannot happen without the backing of written materials. As he put it, "If these books disappear, our connection with the past will be completely severed.

Documents are static, yet life is ever-changing. The concern embedded in his unassuming words reflects a deep anxiety over civilization and a strong sense of duty—future generations, after all, will lose track of their roots and the values they ought to hold sacred. He wove these research findings into compilations such as *The Gazetteer of Mountains and Waters of the Muru Region* and *The Clear Mirror of History of the Muru Region*, enabling the dust-laden history and geography of the land to once again tell its legends. Over 1000 class hours.

Observing that many elderly villagers lacked literacy and thus could not fully comprehend Buddhist scriptures, Tudeng Daji started evening literacy classes during the agricultural slack season, teaching them to read and write and, through the simplest means, lighting a lamp for their hearts. His most ardent feelings have always gone out to the living beings of his homeland, its people and all things.

His concern for the children’s future was even deeper: every year, he sets aside one entire month to go home and offer free tutoring in Tibetan language and cultural studies. “I hope they can have more choices, know the world is vast, but understand their roots are here.” So far, he has taught more than one hundred children, with instruction time exceeding one thousand hours.

To the outside world, he is perhaps best known as a "wildlife photographer." With no formal training and driven only by genuine passion, his camera has consistently captured the solitary pride of snow leopards, the swift grace of Tibetan gazelles, the playful antics of macaques, and the quiet connection shared between herders and their animals. Smiling, he remarked, "I am merely documenting my neighbors.

He once braved blizzards in temperatures below minus ten degrees Celsius, waited beneath the starry sky before dawn, and endured several days and nights just for a brief glimpse of these "neighbors." To him, such trials are barely worth a mention, because the moment he catches the untroubled gaze of wild animals through his viewfinder, his weariness vanishes entirely. "That kind of beauty is life in its truest form.

Monk, scholar, teacher, photographer, environmentalist—these identities are woven together within him without ever seeming disordered. For him, they all lead back to a single origin. His photographs and films have become some of the most compelling lessons on environmental protection, giving villagers a direct way to grasp the importance of conserving wildlife. Where hunting was once widespread, it has now steadily shifted into voluntary stewardship. And there is his call: "I want everyone to see it, and then join together in caring for them.

Each year, I devote three months exclusively to studying the Dharma, and the rest of the time I work and take action. "Public service is not a hobby; it is a responsibility," he says. Everything I do is ultimately aimed at benefiting others and supporting nature. True auspiciousness exists only when every being on this land is happy.

Today, he carries an even deeper aspiration: establishing a serene retreat for meditation and study beside the untouched forest, located a two-hour trek from the village at an elevation of four thousand meters, along with a modest museum dedicated to Tibetan culture. The photographs he has taken and the materials he has gathered will be housed there, offering a place where the elderly can practice meditation, children can gain knowledge, and all who are interested in Tibet can explore both the traditions and the natural environment of the region.

After I mentioned that we could connect him with people willing to offer financial support, resources, or publicity—and that we'd gladly act as a bridge for such generosity—he replied once more, in a voice that was both modest and resolute, that it wasn't needed. As the interview drew to a close, I found myself looking again at the photos he'd captured: a red fox poised quietly by prayer flags, a herd of deer racing across a backdrop of snow-capped peaks. It was then that everything clicked.

Tudeng Daji's love for the Silent Sacred Mountain stems partly from childhood memories nurtured by snow-capped mountains, grasslands, livestock, and yaks, and partly from its deep roots in the Buddhist awareness of "the equality of all beings and the non-duality of dependent and principal" within Tibetan culture. All of his "side endeavors" are, in essence, one and the same: a monk, in his most contemporary way, practicing the most ancient vow—to protect all living beings and the land.

He protects not only the landscape of Muru but also the spiritual map that records how a people coexist with nature—and on that map, the starting point and destination are both named “home.” Temple and Deer.