Mary Taring: The First Tibetan Woman With a Western Education
Recognized as the first Tibetan woman to receive a Western education, Che Ren Rinqin Zholma (ཕྲེང་རིང་རིན་ཆེན་སྒྲོལ་མ།), also known as Mary Taring, is the subject of this photograph. Depicted at just 16 years old, she wears traditional Lhasa women's attire. The image was sent by her to Mrs. Carolyn Stahl, the former principal of the English school in distant Tajiling, with the message: "Sincerely—Your student Mary Tsarong." Alongside the photo, she remarked, "I was the first Tibetan girl to attend an English school, and Che Ren Wangzi was the first Tibetan boy.
According to Stahl, Mary, a member of the Tsarong family, attended Queen's Hill School—now called Mount Hermon School—between 1916 and 1919. At only 11 years old, she was nothing like the calm, composed figure in the photograph; rather, she was lively and energetic. Dressed in Western clothing, she quickly mastered English and became part of the community, advancing from grade one to grade four over those years. Rinqin Zholma, born in 1910 into an ancient aristocratic household in Lhasa, was the Tsarong family's most mischievous daughter.
Her mother, Yangjin Zholma, a devout Buddhist, gave birth to her at the age of 38. She described her father, Tsarong Wangchug Jeb, as tall, handsome, and a skilled painter who could play a variety of musical instruments, including the violin and flute. Each morning, she said, he would spend roughly an hour in prayer, have breakfast, and then start his daily work; however, not long afterward, her father and brother died. She is a descendant of Yutok Yonten Gonpo, the famous 8th-century Tibetan physician.
I remember when I was six or seven, my mother took me with her to live in retreat for spiritual practice. My deep love for her made me follow her everywhere until I started school. At the age of eight, I went to study at Kyire Labtra, where the grand opening ceremony saw students wearing their finest clothes and accompanied by their parents or servants. When I was ten, my mother passed away. Her grief over the deaths of my father and son had been profound and lasting, and Buddhism was her spiritual comfort.
On the first day, the teachers and students received butter tea, raisins, and other treats from the families of the newcomers, who also offered auspicious khata scarves to the teachers. Only then did the formal lessons commence. To begin, the teacher had everyone recite the Manjushri prayer together, and each day we were required to memorize a passage. After that, we moved on to the Tibetan alphabet, with the teacher guiding us individually in writing until all of us had achieved mastery. A female classmate was designated by the teacher to assist me in practicing the alphabet.
Because she had a lame foot and was unable to stand steadily, she leaned her whole weight on me—a truly agonizing experience that stayed with me for a long time. I was a quick learner, though, and each time my mother saw my progress, she was delighted. Yet I could also be very idle, and occasionally the teacher would slap me. One time, the teacher suddenly entered the classroom to inspect our homework; since I hadn't done my own, I grabbed another student's assignment and claimed it as mine.
This most mischievous daughter of the Tsarong family can't be tamed without a beating," the teacher said the next day, calling my name. He had, as usual, asked two male classmates to hold my arms and legs, but I told him there was no need to have anyone hold me—I could do it myself. Earlier, he had seen through it all and made me stay after lunch to finish writing. Terrified, I had run to a relative's house and didn't return to school, hoping he would forget about me.
Zholma / Mary. Before my mother died, I told her I wished to visit a place where oranges grew. She said that place was India, and reaching it would take a long and hard journey. In 1920, Sir Charles Bell and Mr. David MacDonald arrived in Lhasa. On one occasion, they were invited to the Tsarong residence for lunch, which was our first time ever seeing foreigners. As for the earlier event, after saying that, I stretched out on the ground and lowered my trousers. After four or five blows, I lost my endurance, leapt up, and hurried back home.
At the gathering, MacDonald would always come out to play with my sister and me, repeating, "You should come to Tajiling to attend the English school. My daughters are also there." My sister was quite shy, but I had many questions, like whether we could eat oranges, English biscuits, and chocolate in Tajiling. MacDonald, whose mother was Sikkimese, looked more Tibetan and spoke fluent Tibetan. As for Sir Charles, everyone said he had a red face, golden hair, and a nose shaped like a spout.
According to him, there were many more delicious things there than just those. Only a year later was I finally allowed to go to Tajiling, and I was extremely excited. Although everything had been prepared, on the morning of my departure, the thought of leaving all that was familiar made me sorrowful and I began to cry. I braided my hair, donned a brown satin robe (ཚལ་ཕྱུ་མ།, Sikkimese men's clothing) and velvet boots, mounted a small white horse with a silver saddle, and set off with four servants, including Nyerpa Dorje, my father's most loyal personal steward.
Harsh weather conditions, including wind, frost, rain, snow, fog, and hail, were a common occurrence. The full 17-day trip from Lhasa to Tajiling involved crossing mountains, valleys, and vast barren wastelands. The severe cold made Zhoma's leather mask freeze solidly against her skin. Their dinner consisted of dried noodles, dried yak meat, boiled mutton, and either sweet or salty tea. Each morning, they departed before dawn and stopped around 10 a.m. to eat tea, tsampa, eggs, and cooked meat.
Approximately 25 miles were ridden each day, and after three weeks we finally reached Yadong, where I stayed at the MacDonald home. Their three daughters—Annie, Vera, and Vicky—became my close friends, and the MacDonalds treated me as their own child. When the winter break was over, I accompanied the daughters back to school. Annie was the one who taught me many things, including how to thread a needle and use sanitary pads. As for my name, they usually called me Zhoma.
Some time later, Annie asked whether she could call me Mary, explaining that this was the name of the Holy Mother in Christianity. To my ears it sounded like Zhoma, so I agreed. After that, everyone referred to me as Mary. Pear hidden in pants During my first year, I was placed in the pre-school class. Not knowing any English, I struggled at the beginning. But it wasn't long before I was moved up to the first grade. Teacher Hannah was kind and patient, always instructing us with a smile.
The students in my class were mostly British or American, and all of them were quite fond of me. I soon got to know everyone. Beside the train station stood a fruit stall where we often bought pears to snack on, though the school had deemed these "forbidden fruit." Once, when it fell to me to get them, I stashed the pears inside my navy bloomers and set off back to school. On the staircase, I suddenly came face-to-face with Mrs. Stahl, and right then a pear slipped out and dropped down the steps. "What are you doing?" she inquired.
Another step I climbed, awkwardly, and a second pear fell out, bouncing loudly down the stairs. "What is all this?" Mrs. Stahl asked once more. My face twisted with fear; I stood motionless, tears beginning to well up in my eyes. She pressed no further and walked away. Because she came from Tibet, the teachers and students at the school always granted Zhoma many privileges, and Mrs. Stahl was usually very fond of her. In another instance, with the other girls urging her on, she went to the principal to ask whether she could go see a movie.
When I was sixteen, I came back to Lhasa from Tajiling. Although I had attended the English school for more than three years, I was skilled enough to serve as secretary to Tsarong Dasang Zodpa and handle Tibetan-English translation for key business communications. One year later, Tsarong expressed a wish to marry me. Stahl answered, "Of course, Mary can't watch movies in her hometown." A husband reminiscent of a father.
Since he was 25 years my senior and had already wed my two older sisters, I also felt it improper to become his wife. However, he assured me that if I ever encountered a young man who suited me better, I could wed him at any time. Because I was so young and he held great influence, I consented, though without happiness. Tsarong treated all three of his wives with equal respect, yet with me his manner was more paternal than marital. In 1928 I found myself pregnant, and during that period I used to circumambulate the Jokhang Temple 50 times each day.
After giving birth to a girl, Tsering Yangzom, in the early winter, I soon received a congratulatory letter in English from Che Ren Wangzi Jigme. At Tajiling, Jigme had also enrolled in Mount Hermon School, where he became my classmate, and our contact steadily increased from then on. Meanwhile, whenever my maternal aunt saw me, she would say, "You are still a child yourself, and now you are carrying a child." I rejected that comment, because being pregnant meant I was an adult, but at the time raising an objection would have been impolite.
A photo and a separate letter addressed to my sister, Xiangqu Zholma, came with the congratulatory letter. In that separate letter, Che Ren Wangzi said that, if possible, he wanted to marry her. Upon translating the letter for my sister, she only smiled and gave no answer. Because I knew him well, I believed this would be an excellent match. Che Ren Wangzi was a quiet boy, and we often spent time together during our time in Kalimpong. I was the first Tibetan girl to attend an English school, and he was the first Tibetan boy.
After showing Tsarong a photograph of Jigme, we discussed the proposed marriage. Tsarong paused and asked whether I had harbored any romantic feelings for Jigme during our school days. I told him that, although we had spent a lot of time together back then, there was never a romantic relationship between us. Later, I wrote back to Jigme, thanking him for his congratulations and promising to reply in full once I received my sister's answer.
Eventually, I wed Che Ren Jigme, while my younger sister married his brother, Chime Dorje. The ceremony was magnificent, lasting seven days. I left home at sunrise, riding a pregnant mare, and the servants' singing went on until noon. Before that, Tsarong had said that, if I was willing, it would be most fitting for me to marry Jigme, since both of us spoke English and could later work together at the Tsarong residence. For my own happiness, he hoped I would choose an outstanding young man, and I agreed.
Unlike the hectic pace of life at the Tsarong residence, the Tsarong Estate offered a tranquil atmosphere. There, my parents-in-law spent their time reading, chanting scriptures, or tending the garden. Jigme and I, too, enjoyed great happiness together. He, much like my father, was a gifted artist with a passion for gardening, and he was also adept at woodworking and cooking. Then, in 1934, my two daughters—Ngodup Wangmo and Yangdol—arrived successively.
Mother Tsarong La, Rinqin Zholma, possessed a natural charm. Like her people, she was humorous, kind, resilient, and full of faith. In the 1950s, together with her husband, she took up children's education and persisted until the end of her life. Teaching gave her great pleasure, and the children there all called her "Amala." She could recall every child's name, handled both major and minor aspects of their daily lives with equal concern, embraced them, and made each one feel distinctive. For her, "Amala" was indeed a most suitable title.
Rinqin Zholma says she wrote "Daughter of Tibet" because she thought it might be of some use to young Tibetans. She expresses gratitude to her husband, Jigme, for going through the manuscript closely and helping her recall their life together. The autobiography, completed in 1970, presents her life experiences in a plain and sincere manner. She had originally planned to write it ten years earlier, but she was then occupied with looking after the children at the school.
I am deeply grateful that I had the opportunity to learn English in my youth. Through this book, I hoped readers would gain a deeper understanding of Tibetan cultural traditions. There are already many books on Tibetan history, culture, and religion, yet I thought that sharing the personal experiences of a Tibetan woman might be more effective. At first, I worried: after publication, would this book truly serve its purpose? How would Westerners perceive it? In the end, the outcome wasn't bad—everyone liked the book. 《Daughter of Tibet》
Rinqin Zholma’s final project was translating her book "Daughter of Tibet" into Tibetan, with printing getting underway one month before she died. She passed away on July 29, 2000, in Raipur at age 90. As for English, it played a major role in my life, forming the basis for my marriage to Jigme and our family. We used it as a practical tool without letting it affect our beliefs and values; it was a bridge for making friends worldwide.
Rinqin Zholma and her husband Che Ren Jigme formed a bridge between foreign visitors and Tibet. During that period, they belonged to the small circle of Tibetans who were most well known to outsiders. That status came partly from their warm welcome and honest friendship, and partly from being essentially the only Tibetans who met with foreigners. Their fluency in English let them grasp Western habits and thought processes, while those foreigners, thanks to the couple, became acquainted with Tibet.
Rather than being delicate greenhouse flowers, my children should be like wildflowers—resilient and flourishing wherever they find themselves. — Rinqin Zholma This piece comes from Yangmao's blog, translated from the original.