While the Pope's visit to Toronto is scheduled to start today, the Dalai Lama plans to visit in April, 2004. Here's a preview of what the Tibetan Buddhist leader's visit might be like.

Earlier this month, 100 metres from Prague's Sky Club Brumlovka, we were approached by a polite, young fellow wondering if we had a spare ticket for sale.

It was still two hours before the event was to begin, and, as we rounded the corner, we were surprised to see some 200 people gathered near the entry gates. Some held small signs offering to buy tickets for double the value.

It was a sell-out, and many would be left outside.

This is the phenomenon of Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet and 1989 Nobel Peace Laureate. The (just-turned) 67-year-old Buddhist monk travels around the globe by invitation, this time from Czech President Vaclav Havel. He had already been in Prague for three days of meditation and meetings with the humanist, intellectual Havel, and now he was giving a public talk.

Thus, at 6 p.m. on a sultry Tuesday in early July, 1,500 people had jammed into the dark, cavernous sweatbox of Brumlovka to sit in bleachers and floor-level chairs for two hours -- to listen in silence to the words of the Tibetan leader, words first spoken in his cadenced English and then patiently translated into Czech.

Not a rock star, a famous athlete or celebrity; not offering any spectacle or compelling entertainment; totally absent of hype or style or power, the Dalai Lama is unique. He attracts diverse audiences of all age groups, none bound by religious or ethnic commonality. Only Nelson Mandela approaches similar worldwide appeal, and he was an actual national leader with a political power base.

In an era when there is no trust, no faith in the essential depth or honesty of public figures, the Dalai Lama is oxygen. His ideas are far from profound. As Gandhi used to proclaim, "My ideas are as old as the hills," so too is what the Tibetan offers. This night in Prague he talks about compassion and how, through being compassionate, one attains inner peace and joyfulness.

His elucidation is slowly and logically drawn out, each idea linked, simply, until every person in the building nods at the inevitable conclusion. Indeed, if we offer genuine love to each other, we will all feel better.

The power, of course, is in who is delivering the message and the spirit he conveys as he does it. Somehow, one hears it differently, more purely, and considers it more deeply, reduced to greater focus and reflection. Perhaps, it's because one wants to hear, because the needed trust is there. His authenticity and gentleness opens ears.

An experience with the Dalai Lama begins at first sight. As soon as he leaves his car, he starts to make contact with individuals. Instead of brushing by under the cloak of his security entourage and right away going to the stage, he stops to linger, shake hands, and, above all, look into eyes. The latter is what stands out the most. He wants to see who is looking at him, wants to feel their energy.

The first words he uttered that afternoon in Prague, once he had taken his seat under a semi-pyramid of colourful prayer flags, were that now he could see everyone more clearly. That contact and connection is obviously central to his identity. He doesn't come to lecture but to connect. Each time it was the Czech translator's turn to convey his comments, the bespectacled Tibetan scanned the audience, his gaze pausing deliberately on certain individuals to nod, raise eyebrows, smile, point, or chuckle. Thus, so many feel touched, and the audience, in general, senses itself not as observers but as a part of an exchange.

At the end of his talk, he elicits questions. From all over the premises, hastily scribbled notes find their way to his secretary. Attentively, he gives each one a serious and considered response, regardless of how often it must have been posed before. We hear his thoughts on Tibet's struggle for autonomy, on vegetarianism and non-violence, and on giving money to beggars. The question that perhaps reveals the most is when he is asked what he keeps in his red monk's bag.

Immediately, he opened it and began pulling out objects for all to see. A chocolate bar, a case for his glasses, a toothbrush, Kleenex tissues, and then after a pause -- a single candy which, to great applause, he promptly unwrapped and popped into his mouth. Then, a moment later, he plucked out another candy and gave it to the young Czech woman doing the translating.

Another personal question asked what people could give him for his (then) impending birthday (July 6). He turned to his secretary to ensure he had heard correctly and then beamed at the audience. "That is easy," he said, "Just give me your smiles. It makes me feel good when I see people smile at me. And if you smile at each other that would also be very good. So you can just give me your smiles."

Minutes later, he had left the arena, and the crowd was milling around, about to make their way home. The sky, almost black with thunder clouds, was soon to unleash a torrential downpour. But since this evening had been so warm, no one was very concerned.

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Last updated: 24-July-2002