Gambala, Forever on My Mind
■ China Military Net Reporter Shang Xiaomin, Correspondent Liu Lian
In Tibet, the serene, deep-blue waters of Yamdrok Lake are endlessly captivating, drawing visitors to linger. Yet higher still, amid the clouds and mist, the Gambala Radar Station stands in silence, guarding the nation's magnificent rivers and mountains—and has become a place that haunts the dreams of many.
Who are these people?
Why does Gambala stay with them, impossible to forget?
Personnel rushing to their combat positions. (Archival photo)
(I)
For nearly a year, veteran Zhang Zhengqi had been turning over one idea: he wanted to go back to Gambala and take another look. The moment he mentioned it to his old comrade Yang Shuke, the two found themselves of one mind. After coordinating with their old unit, they finalized the trip, returning to their old company to see what "home" looked like now—on the eve of the 32nd anniversary of the Central Military Commission conferring on the Gambala Radar Station the honorary title "Gambala Hero Radar Station."
On the morning of June 22, the vehicle carrying the two men wound its way up along a switchback mountain road, altitude climbing steadily. When the radar antenna of the Gambala position came into view, both veterans straightened up in their seats at the same moment. 5,374 meters—that number is etched into their bones; they will never forget it for as long as they live.
But Gambala in June is not gentle. Gale-force winds howled, and hailstones the size of soybeans crackled against the car windows. The moment he stepped out, Zhang Zhengqi pulled his collar tight and drew a deep breath: "Still that same smell—the smell of oxygen deprivation." Yang Shuke laughed and clapped him on the shoulder: "Old friend, we're back."
The news that the veterans were coming home had spread three months earlier like a spark igniting the air across this high plateau.
Private First Class Danzeng Wangdui had only arrived at the station two years ago. He had heard his squad leader tell countless stories of veterans hauling equipment up snowy mountains on their backs. Now he craned his neck toward the switchback road, his fists quietly clenching with excitement: "I love listening to the old squad leaders talk about the past. Only by feeling the hardship they endured can you truly understand what it is we are guarding now."
That warmth was especially moving in the perpetually frozen world of Gambala.
Transporting supplies by flatbed cart in the station's early days. (Archival photo)
The Gambala Radar Station is garrisoned on the northern slopes of the Himalayas at an altitude of 5,374 meters. It is currently the world's highest human-operated radar station. The oxygen content here is less than half that of the plains; the minimum temperature reaches minus 40°C; for nine months of the year winds exceed Force 8, with maximum gusts surpassing Force 11. It has been called a "forbidden zone for life."
In October 1965, the order was issued to establish the Gambala Radar Company. Building a radar station in such a "forbidden zone for life" was no less daunting than constructing a high-rise on ice. The personnel who received the order did not utter a single word of complaint—they shouldered their packs and headed up the mountain.
There were no roads, so they hacked out paths through the boulder-strewn slopes with shovels and pickaxes. There were no vehicles, so they disassembled the radar into components and hauled them up piece by piece on their shoulders and with ropes, reassembling everything at the summit. There were no buildings, so they gathered stones to stack into walls, threw canvas over the top, and called it a barracks—at night they wrapped themselves in layer after layer of greatcoats and still shook from the cold. It was through this unyielding spirit that the personnel planted the first radar on the summit of Gambala, raising a "sentinel in the clouds" in the "forbidden zone for life."
(II)
During the survey and site-selection phase, then-Staff Officer Zhang Zai'an led personnel in repeated on-foot ascents of steep mountain slopes, covering more than a hundred surrounding peaks. His toenails separated from the flesh, blood flowing freely. Whenever the hardships endured by the founding generation come up in conversation, veterans Zhang Zhengqi and Yang Shuke—both retired for more than forty years—still cannot hold back reddening eyes.
After transferring out of the military, Zhang Zai'an never stopped thinking about Gambala. In his later years he returned to Tibet three times, but each time his physical condition prevented him from ascending to Gambala again. He left a final wish: if he could not return in life, he would return in death. Later, accompanied by unit personnel, his wife and a family of seven buried a portion of his ashes on a slope of Gambala. The personnel specially found a flat mountain stone and placed it beside his grave, engraved with two characters: "Steadfast Perseverance (坚守)."
On a slope at Gambala, the loyal remains of Zhang Zai'an rest. Photo by Liu Lian
Steadfast perseverance (坚守)! Guarding the border for twenty years, this veteran used fearlessness and a sense of duty to erect a radar station on the snow-covered plateau. Now his loyal spirit gazes day and night at the rotating radar antenna, bearing witness to Gambala's transformation from a makeshift outpost of stacked stones to an intelligentized radar station, and bearing witness to the spiritual inheritance passed down through generation after generation of radar soldiers who have taken root on the summit and kept watch over the skies.
Before Zhang Zai'an's grave, one person often stands for a long time—sometimes in silence, sometimes murmuring to himself.
That person is Wang Shengquan, former Master Sergeant First Class and radar technician at the Gambala Radar Station.
In 1993, Wang Shengquan enlisted at the age of nineteen, frequently drawn in by the heroic deeds associated with Gambala. Later, after repeated requests, he finally got his wish and was assigned to Gambala. Perhaps influenced by the older generation, he took root there for 28 years, setting the record for the longest continuous service at the Gambala Radar Station.
At the end of 2023, having reached the maximum service age, Wang Shengquan retired with honor. That day, he climbed alone to the southern slope of the position, gathered some stones, and solemnly arranged them into two characters: "Wang" (王) and "Bing" (兵—"soldier"). He said: let these stones stay here in my place, standing guard for the motherland. After retiring, Wang Shengquan often dreamed of the snow-capped mountains, dreamed of returning to Gambala—in his dreams he heard the hum of the rotating radar and saw scenes of being together with his comrades. Speaking candidly during an interview, he said: "Twenty-eight years. Faced with one choice after another, I chose to stay, again and again. I once thought Gambala couldn't do without me. Later I came to understand: it is I who cannot do without Gambala."
On his last duty shift before retirement, Wang Shengquan tenderly touches the station's stone monument. (Source: PLA Daily)
In truth, this longing tethered to the snowy mountains has never belonged to Wang Shengquan alone. Gambala's peaks hold the thoughts of every veteran.
The second company commander, Xia Zhongchang, was approaching seventy and had undergone coronary bypass surgery, yet he disregarded the objections of family and comrades and insisted on going up to the position to take a look. Standing before the stone tablet inscribed "Gambala Hero Radar Station," this veteran who rarely shed tears could no longer contain his emotions and broke down weeping.
In 2024, on the 30th anniversary of the Gambala Radar Station receiving its honorary title, more than twenty veteran representatives returned to Gambala. Lin Hongwei, a 71-year-old former political instructor who had fought on the plateau for more than twenty years, disregarded his advanced age and resolutely set out on the road back to the plateau to retrace the footsteps of his years of service.
The Gambala veterans' wall. Photo by Liu Lian
(III)
When Zhang Zhengqi and Yang Shuke set out for Gambala this time, they too encountered well-meaning attempts by family members to dissuade them—but the two old men insisted on making the trip.
Standing before Zhang Zai'an's grave, Zhang Zhengqi ran his hand over the stone engraved with "Steadfast Perseverance" and said with feeling: "Many people ask me why, at my age, I still want to climb up that mountain. What kind of place is Gambala? It is the position that men like him hammered out blow by blow. It is the place where we left our youth. This is our home—and what person doesn't miss home?"
Yang Shuke, traveling alongside him, gazed at the distant mountains, eyes reddening: "I keep thinking about the days I served here. Conditions are better now, the position has changed—but what we were guarding back then hasn't changed, and the roots of Gambala haven't changed. I just wanted to come back and see it—this place we defended with everything we had—and see the young people guarding it now. Knowing they are well, we can rest easy."
Before leaving, the two old men walked deliberately to the radar antenna and rendered a proper salute. The mountain wind whipped the hems of their jackets with a sharp crack. Behind them, the young personnel stood in a straight line and returned the salute.
Veterans Zhang Zhengqi (left) and Yang Shuke pose for a commemorative photograph. Photo by Liu Lian
The radar turns through every season; the soldiers never lay down their armor. On the position at 5,374 meters, the founding generation of Gambala people, driven by the resolve that "where a steel drill cannot penetrate, a person must still take root," carried equipment up the snowy mountain on their backs and shoulders, fitting the snow-covered plateau with "eyes" to guard the skies—and forging the Gambala Spirit (甘巴拉精神): "willingness to endure hardship, silent dedication, faithful discharge of duty, and tenacious struggle (甘愿吃苦、默默奉献、恪尽职守、顽强拼搏)."
This spiritual flame, spanning more than half a century, has never dimmed with the passage of time. On the contrary, it has burned ever brighter through the inheritance of generation after generation of personnel, illuminating the solid footprints of growth left by the Gambala Radar Station's officers and soldiers over 61 years—
Since the station was established in 1965, Gambala personnel have guided more than one million military and civilian aviation sorties; the radar intelligence quality rate has been maintained at 99 percent year after year; a large number of outstanding personnel who have rendered distinguished service on the plateau have emerged—22 individuals have been awarded second-class merit citations, 152 have been awarded third-class merit citations, and 35 have received commendations from theater commands (military region commands) or above.
This will, etched into their bones, means that wherever they go, they remember: they are Gambala's people—border guards who have planted their roots in the snowy mountains, guardians who have left their youth on the summit.
Why does Gambala stay with them, impossible to forget? The answer is written in every step taken toward the mountain, carved into every stone stacked to build the position—Gambala is the home they weathered wind and snow together to defend with all their strength, and it is precisely for this reason that they must return to see it, no matter how many mountains and rivers lie between.
The mountain wind still howls; the radar turns forever. Gambala's stones remember every figure who once took root here; the waters of Yamdrok Lake reflect the young faces of every generation of officers and soldiers. As long as the snowy mountains endure, as long as the radar turns, the story of Gambala will never end—and the spirit of Gambala will shine forever above the cloud-top at 5,374 meters.