The first memory that comes to mind when I look back on living in India is when I ate dirt. It was stolen, smuggled across borders, and carried secretly from a land I had never seen but somehow always belonged to.

I was often placed in situations that felt grand and historic, even if I didn’t always understand their significance at the time. One such moment came when I was allowed to privately tour a Tibetan culture and history museum in Dharamsala, India, my hometown. It was a formal occasion; I remember getting dressed in the finest brocade chupa I owned and pairing it with a silky orange wonchu. Every piece of jewelry I wore was dazzling, the kind of decoration meant to remind the world of the richness of our culture, even in exile.

As my father and I walked through the museum, I listened to the tour guide for as long as my nine-year-old patience would allow. My mind wandered before my feet did, and soon, I found myself straying, exploring the exhibits on my own. I studied the mannequins draped in vibrant silk, their necks weighed down by heavy coral beads, and I felt a sense of childish vanity. I sized them up and confidently decided that I looked even more regal dressed as I was. I twirled the ends of my sleeves, ran my fingers over my embroidered collar, and let myself feel, for a moment, like I belonged in the kind of history that surrounded me.

In the center of an otherwise empty room, a small white pillar stood beneath a glass case. And on that pillar was a pile of dirt.

At first, I thought it was a mistake. It seemed out of place among the intricate tapestries, golden statues of Buddhas, and the delicate scrolls of Tibetan scripture. But the glass case told me otherwise. This dirt was important. This dirt had a story.

I stepped closer, squinting at the label beneath it. Lithang.

I knew that name; Lithang was my grandfather’s birthplace. It was the last place in Tibet my family had ever known before they fled across mountains and borders, leaving behind everything but their memories. My grandfather had once walked on that soil. And now, impossibly, a piece of it was in front of me.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something deeper, an emotion I didn’t yet have words for. I noticed a small bit of dirt that had fallen onto the floor outside the case. Without thinking—without hesitating—I crouched down, pinched it, and put it in my mouth.

Yes, it could have just been a stupid nine-year-old acting on impulse. But I like to call it intuition.

Buddhism teaches that everything has meaning if you choose to see it. It teaches that the mind is powerful, and that belief can shape reality. So I have since allowed myself to fill that ordinary moment with extraordinary meaning. I choose to believe that in that moment, I wasn’t just eating dirt—I was tasting home. The home I had never set foot in, the home that had been taken from me before I was even born. My ancestors had walked on that land, and now, in the only way I could, I was trying to bring a piece of it back into myself.

That dirt had crossed mountains, rivers, and borders, smuggled out of Tibet through Nepal and into India. It had made the journey that I could not. Because of my father’s position in the Tibetan Government-in-Exile, the chances of me ever stepping onto Tibetan soil are practically nonexistent. I joke about it with my friends sometimes, “I’ve been to Tibet–on Google Earth. That’s about as close as I am allowed to get.” They laugh, their eyes creasing in smiles, and I laugh with them. It’s the kind of joke you make so your voice doesn’t crack.

It is a terrible thing to miss a place you have never been. To carry a longing so deep that it feels like an ache in your bones, yet have nothing tangible to prove that your longing is real. No childhood memories, no photographs, no stories of “when I was young, back home…” Just a feeling. Just a pull toward a land that exists for me only in history books.

But longing is not enough.

Whether I am in India, America, or anywhere else in the world, my duty remains unchanged. As a Tibetan, I carry the weight of exile. As a Buddhist, I am taught that suffering must be met with compassion. As a human being, I believe that no one should be denied their homeland, their culture, or their identity.

That dirt was not just dirt—it was proof. Proof that Tibet exists beyond politics, beyond oppression, beyond exile. Proof that no matter how much is taken from us, something will always remain. And so, I will always fight. Whether through words, through actions, through whatever means I have, I will fight for Tibet—because I must, because it is my duty.

Because it is who I am.