The Succession of the Dalai Lama: What Are the Geopolitical and Religious Stakes?

Embodiment of both spiritual authority and temporal power in Tibet, Tenzin Gyatso, the current Dalai Lama, has just celebrated his 90th birthday. Though reportedly in good health, the celebration has been closely monitored by Beijing, as the question of succession looms. The stakes are high for China, which has already expressed its intention to designate the next Buddhist leader—a process that runs counter to Tibetan tradition. To what extent does the debate over the succession of the next Dalai Lama reveal the underlying tensions between China and Tibet? What role could the international community play in this debate? And beyond the religious symbolism, why does this succession hold such strategic interest for China? An update with Emmanuel Lincot, sinologist and Research Director at IRIS, co-head of the Asia-Pacific Programme.

How is the Tibetan government-in-exile managing the Dalai Lama’s succession? Why is this question so important for China?

The recent statements of the 14th Dalai Lama leave no doubt about his intentions: it is he, and he alone, who will choose his successor. This declaration makes the Chinese government particularly uneasy, as it intends to appoint a successor who would naturally be loyal to Beijing. This means that we could eventually face two rival Dalai Lamas, much like Europe once saw two Popes—one in Avignon, the other in Rome. Is this significant? Yes, for several reasons. First, it speaks to the special place Tibet and its spiritual leaders occupy in the Hindu and Buddhist imagination. Tibet is seen as the dwelling place of the gods. Moreover, since almost all major rivers in Asia have their source in Tibet, these waters are considered sacred. Consequently, the political developments unfolding on the Roof of the World draw intense attention across Asia.

The Dalai Lama—like other Tibetan spiritual leaders such as the Panchen Lama or the Karmapa—is considered sacred. His legitimacy cannot be negotiated, let alone granted by the Chinese. In essence, even if China’s presence in Tibet is legal and recognised as such by the international community, it remains illegitimate in the eyes of many. This is a subtle but powerful act of resistance by the current Dalai Lama, who, at the age of 90, is preparing to step down.

What could be the geopolitical consequences of the debate surrounding the Dalai Lama’s succession? What stance is the international community taking?

The Dalai Lama’s global stature is well established—not only in Asia but also in the West. This is one of the phenomena of globalisation: the Lamaist religion, or Tibetan Buddhism, has become largely deterritorialised. Many adherents—French, Indian, Californian, Taiwanese and even Chinese—have embraced a religion whose expansion and appeal are closely tied to the Dalai Lama’s exile. Since his flight to Dharamshala, India in 1959, no government has officially recognised his government-in-exile. Yet, during every foreign trip, the Dalai Lama has inspired exceptional devotion and respect.

This charisma poses a real challenge to the international order—and even more so to Beijing. Let us recall that when the Dalai Lama met with French President Nicolas Sarkozy in 2008, the meeting significantly soured Franco-Chinese diplomatic relations. What worries Beijing is the Dalai Lama’s revered status not only in Himalayan countries like Nepal and Bhutan but also across the Mongol world. This “Mongol space” includes three major areas: Outer Mongolia (independent since 1991), Inner Mongolia (administered by China), and Buryatia (under Russian control). All three are vast territories. What does this mean? A disputed succession of the Dalai Lama could spark political discontent directed at Beijing.

New Delhi, which has hosted the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile for decades, may be tempted to instrumentalise the issue. And one must not forget that within China itself—at Wutaishan or in Beijing—there are Tibetan-rite Buddhist temples that could serve as symbolic rallying points or potential nodes of dissent.

How does the Tibetan question reflect China’s broader relationship with its peripheries?

It reflects a deep-rooted pattern in China’s history: the complex and often fraught relationship between the centre and its peripheries. Today, Beijing manages this dynamic through an imperial mode of governance reminiscent of the Mongol rulers centuries ago. But there is a major difference: since 1950, the army, economy, and culture have all been mobilised to serve a single cause—building a united, indivisible Chinese nation and intensifying the Sinicisation of the borderlands.

This strategy is built on three main pillars: the use of force to crush dissent, the extraction of resources via Han-dominated elite structures, and the imposition of a historical narrative and a single language—Mandarin—as the sole markers of national identity. What has been happening in Tibet for decades is mirrored in Xinjiang, where Uyghur Muslims are subject to similar tactics. In both cases, marginalised populations seek solace and resilience through external moral support and the preservation of their faith—be it Buddhist or Muslim—while awaiting better days.

From the centre’s perspective, any tremor in these marginal areas is watched with extreme vigilance. And there’s a historical rationale behind this: in China, structural political change—including regime collapse—has often been preceded by upheaval in the peripheries. As Karl Marx once said—a quote surely not lost on Xi Jinping—“History does not repeat itself, but it does rhyme.”