The Pilgrimage Begins at Barkhor Street

In Sunlight Shines on the Potala Palace, I mentioned the phrase “one street, two palaces, three great monasteries.” I learned this from Mr. Sui Shui. He was referring to Barkhor Street, the Winter Palace (Potala Palace), the Summer Palace (Norbulingka), and the three major monasteries: Drepung, Sera, and Ganden.

He also spoke of the “four Ling and five sacred sites”: Tsemonling, Kundeling, Trijangling, and Tengyeling; plus Jokhang Temple, Ramoche Temple, Drak Yerpa, Puru Monastery, and Pabonka. He categorized both Jokhang and Ramoche as sacred “practice grounds.”

According to him, visiting these five groups of places would give you the essence of Lhasa—and it helped us a great deal to avoid wandering aimlessly.

It's always wise to ask someone experienced. Years ago in Xinjiang, when I took a train to Hemu Village, I couldn’t figure out whether to get off at Beitun or Altay, or whether Burqin was a required transfer stop. Online searches were messy and full of ads. Most results were superficial or misleading.

I’d seen friends’ black-and-white photos of Barkhor Street—slow, solemn. In my mind, I pictured the ground polished by the bodies of devout pilgrims, elders spinning prayer wheels walking endlessly, smoke from incense fires drifting chaotically in the sun. That alone felt like a kind of preparation.

Today, we arrived. We knew, whether in terms of distance or meaning, that Jokhang Temple and Barkhor Street are inseparable.

Everyone entering the Jokhang must go through security. There are six checkpoints, using facial recognition—just like the Potala Palace. Past the checkpoint, what you see is Barkhor Street.

Barkhor is full of people walking—all at roughly the same pace, with the same quiet emotion, heading in one direction, flowing together like a stream. Step onto Barkhor, even as a tourist, and you'll be swept into the current, unable to stop. If viewed from above, the crowd forms ripples rotating clockwise, with Jokhang Temple as the vortex at its heart.

Jokhang Temple was originally built for Princess Bhrikuti of Nepal; Princess Wencheng’s original chapel was at Ramoche Temple. Due to reasons unknown, the sites were later swapped. Legend has it that these five sacred temples were built by King Songtsen Gampo for his five consorts.

In front of the temple is a significant monument: the Tang-Tubo Alliance Tablet, carved over 1,300 years ago in both Chinese and Tibetan. It reads:
"May our states flourish as one. Let there be no hostility, no weapons raised, no schemes of harm..."

Outside the main gate, an area is set aside where pilgrims prostrate themselves, rising and bowing again and again. The sincerity and formality of it can be shocking if you’re not prepared. Tourists must enter from a side corridor.

Along the wild roads of Tibet, pilgrims prostrate every few steps for thousands of kilometers, heading either to Mount Kailash or to Jokhang Temple. Now that they’ve reached their destination, seeing the Buddha so close—how joyful their hearts must be!

Inside is an open courtyard, used for prayer ceremonies. Tourists enter the inner corridor, which has 308 prayer wheels. This is the central axis of Lhasa’s spiritual orbit. For Tibetans, Jokhang is the heart of the faith—like the center of a lake from which ripples spread outward across Barkhor, Lingkhor, and into Qinghai, Sichuan—anywhere Tibetans dwell.

Then we entered the main hall. Outside, we exchanged cash for a stack of one-yuan bills. Mimicking the locals, we bowed before each statue, lifted the note to our foreheads, and placed it into the donation box—one note per statue.

The interior felt even older than the Potala Palace. The doors, cabinets, and walls all seemed coated in a kind of glossy membrane—aged and smooth, like relics from ancient tombs. The rough-hewn columns seemed to carry some kind of energy. Though dim, the space radiated a strange harmony through its faded murals.

Every altar and statue is original and ancient—no imitations, no fakes.

The central figure is the statue of Shakyamuni Buddha. Standing several meters away, cloaked in yellow robes, his gaze lowered with serene compassion. A black iron curtain hangs in front, keeping the crowd at a distance.

This statue was brought by Princess Wencheng from Tang China. Its realism brings a strange intimacy, while its age adds mystery. Of the three life-size statues of Buddha made during his lifetime, this is one: the 12-year-old form. Another, representing him at age eight, was brought by Princess Bhrikuti and now resides at Ramoche. The 12-year-old image was a gift from an Indian king to the Tang emperor and was later given to Wencheng as part of her dowry—making this statue over 2,500 years old.

These “life-sized” statues were made from direct measurements of the Buddha’s body. It’s said the young Siddhartha would have seen and touched this very likeness himself. Could he have imagined that centuries later, it would be enshrined in Lhasa, worshipped daily?

I felt a flutter of nerves standing so close to something shaped under the Buddha’s own supervision.

As the crowd parted and we stood alone, a side door opened. Several monks entered, accompanying an older couple holding a baby. The monks lifted the curtain and began chanting, circling the statue. One monk climbed the shrine, carefully unwrapping the Buddha’s robe, revealing a body of gleaming gold. He then took a small bowl of powdered gold and slowly applied it to the statue’s surface. The man stood in silence, holding his baby.

People behind us fell quiet. The atmosphere was reverent. The monk dressed the statue again, offered a khata scarf, lit butter lamps. The family passed by, and the crowd softly chanted “Tashi Delek!” as the father beamed with joy.

Someone said this was a naming ritual for the baby. Another whispered it was a rare gilding ceremony—an honor requiring sponsorship and timing chosen by a high lama. To witness it at Jokhang, for this Buddha, was pure luck. A kind of blessing.

To the right of the statue, in a smaller alcove, sit figures of King Songtsen Gampo and his two consorts. In contrast to the Buddha, these figures appear plain. Princess Wencheng wears her hair high, and is more beautiful than Bhrikuti.

There are more halls: the Tsongkhapa Hall, Avalokiteshvara Hall, Palden Lhamo Hall, the Kings’ Hall, the Tara Hall, and murals of Wencheng’s arrival in Tibet. Three floors in total—we observed everything without blinking.

On the third floor is an open balcony, like a Chinese-style gallery. Flowers crowd the railing. Jokhang’s gilded roof looms ahead, the sunlight bouncing off its golden spires like sparks from hammered metal.

Barkhor Street loops around Jokhang in an irregular circle, about 1.5 kilometers long. Beneath a banner reading “National Unity, One Heart,” old pilgrims rest along the way. Aunt Mao, seeing a free seat, always sat beside them. On one 10-meter stretch, we spotted four dental clinics. Women lounged under teeth-whitening ads. At corners, vendors crowded in, selling prayer beads, jewelry, snacks. Tibetan-run market stalls made movement nearly impossible.

Most Tibetans wore hats, not using umbrellas. Men wore traditional wide-brimmed hats and held long strings of beads. Women wore light bucket hats, long skirts, striped aprons, and backpacks—some walked while spinning prayer wheels, chanting quietly.

East and South streets were wider, with monks and laypeople walking more comfortably—calm, unhurried, as if heading to a timeless celebration. Aunt Mao and I often paused, sighing, “It’s not strolling. It’s not wandering. This is ‘kora.’” A specific word—evoking movement and beauty. When asked later about Barkhor, we’d simply answer: kora.

The stone path is worn smooth in the center, lighter in color, like a stream.

Within this “stream,” someone bows: hands above head, knees bent, chest to the ground—prostrating in a flowing, hinge-like motion. One leg only! A little girl is tethered to her mother by rope. The mother keeps prostrating, rising and falling rhythmically, like an inchworm.

Barkhor is a river of faith, and they glide through it with elegance, like boats in a current.

At the southeast corner stands the incense furnace—smoke curling upward. The golden-hued, romantic Makye Ame restaurant still guards the street corner. We crossed the flow of pilgrims just to stand before it, gaze at its timeless presence, freshly painted, silently inviting photos.

The cramped space, worn stairs, dim lighting—everything felt intentional. Upstairs was quiet. A few girls had only the cheapest pastries, taking selfies by the window. Below, indistinct sounds drifted upward—dispersed, distant. I wasn’t sure whether Makye Ame once waited for Tsangyang Gyatso or he arrived first—at sunset, or midnight?

In the afternoon sun, the shops appeared dazed. The heat licked at our skin like tongues of fire. Elderly pilgrims sat resting, yet their prayer wheels never stopped spinning. Shops sold statues, robes, thangkas, yak meat. The most common business? Portrait studios. The elaborately dressed girls standing in sunlight? They’re here for photos—with Makye Ame as the backdrop—posing without concern, even blocking the spiritual “stream.” The photographer squats low on the street.

To visit Lhasa and not take a photo at Makye Ame is almost like not coming at all.

It's hard to tell locals from tourists, but those carrying umbrellas usually aren't locals—and those amazed at prostrations are usually tourists, like Aunt Mao and me.

Tired, we rested on a bench near the temple wall, watching strangers pass. Time slowed. The spinning prayer wheels seemed to grow in size, spinning so fast I got dizzy. People came and went, but I was still in the same seat. The old woman beside me had been replaced.

Everyone who has walked Barkhor will tell the story afterward, trying to describe it. But these scenes have existed for centuries, whether we know it or not. If Barkhor lacked these people, it wouldn’t be Barkhor.

No matter who you are—if you’re walking Barkhor, you’re already on a pilgrimage.
Or perhaps, this is where the pilgrimage truly begins.