The <a href="https://www.ohchr.org/en/special-procedures/wg-arbitrary-detention/opinions-adopted-working-group-arbitrary-detention/opinions-adopted-working-group-arbitrary-detention-its-101st-session" target="_blank">United Nations Working Group on Arbitrary Detention</a> in a report published this month has found the Bhutanese government to have detained its citizens without parole for expressing their political opinions, in direct contrast to its multiparty democratic system and its claim of being an enlightened land that promotes “gross national happiness”.&nbsp;
Human Rights Watch and the Global Campaign for the Release of Political Prisoners in Bhutan (GCRPPB) identified at least 37 <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2023/03/13/bhutan-free-long-term-political-prisoners" target="_blank">political prisoners</a> in the country in 2023. The vast majority of this group – 32 prisoners – belong to Bhutan’s Nepali-speaking Lhotshampa community, which has faced <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2003/06/18/nepal-bhutanese-refugees-rendered-stateless" target="_blank">decades of discrimination and abuse</a> from the Bhutanese government. Most of them were convicted because of prohibited political activity between 1990 and 2008.
Five of the 37 prisoners were released upon completion of lengthy sentences, but were found to have imprisoned in dire conditions, facing long-term physical and psychosocial wounds.&nbsp;
A report by the UN Working Group highlighted a catalogue of violations of fundamental rights upon examination of the cases of three out of the 32 remaining <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/political-prisoners-languish-in-bhutan-s-jails">political prisoners</a>.&nbsp;
Birkha Bahadur Chhetri, Kumar Gautam, and Sunman Gurung &nbsp;became refugees at a young age after the government expelled 90,000 Nepali-speaking Bhutanese in 1990. When the three men returned to Bhutan in 2008, they were arrested for distributing political pamphlets and sentenced to life without parole under Bhutan’s 1992 National Security Act.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/prisoners-of-conscience-languish-in-bhutan-jails">Prisoners of conscience languish in Bhutan jails</a>
The Act deems anyone who conspires, solicits, or commits offenses against Tsa-Wa-Sum—which refers to the King, the people, or the country— a political prisoner.
The UN Working Group found the three men’s detention to be arbitrary in four different ways, all of which make their imprisonment illegal under international human rights law. The circumstances of their arrest and incommunicado detention were found to be outside the protection of the law and in two cases amounted to enforced disappearance.&nbsp;
As it relates to the distribution of phamplets, the three individuals were simply exercising their rights to freedom of thought and opinion under the <a href="https://u7061146.ct.sendgrid.net/ls/click?upn=u001.gqh-2BaxUzlo7XKIuSly0rC6qW-2FnvSGJskOuXf1mmv7fb-2BiYM7QGwU6H-2Bf6KIGuxAW8-2BkBKAx7BEev71tQe8HgenEdlZgM1cj0gDMDAHtXRtI-3Dl5XL_FSNxcQr-2BB-2FhcOdIidi6wdSUEqxUucKsRY8L7gcmE0dj99C71Z1DrszIvW2IyfMsa6FzM5M1J2gY2prfUknme7t6-2FejYw5H9zGkpZDOqKdUpcPR75fvavpCESm81yhl2cTPMp8VoiXwHrUH2gtzEGvT2s9j6RwrigCP2v8jWoptGwkE5huuOssPClxOMnuxN9-2FnwnWoWOsOYX0Oz9hMw2WmzuhLnKJ4p9YTCH5Jq67eztiDA7zAEFfWOg9zAhaPsh02wXkL-2BQgCCcDM1ir5Aw6VHhLw3e-2FRyIdVLb7BqKGZwPTTewI66CHyO7A7QpeOL-2FYtebxH602F1I4IyQaijxSw-3D-3D" target="_blank">Universal Declaration of Human Rights</a>, the Working group stated.
Breaches of the prisoners’ right to a fair trial were also traced by the group, which found that the prisoners were “deprived of their liberty on discriminatory grounds, because of their political opinion and status as members of a linguistic minority.” The body also expressed grave concern at the prisoners being denied visitors.&nbsp;
The cases of Chhetri, Gautam, and Gurung echo other cases of unjust imprisonment which Human Rights Watch and GCRPPB have been documenting consistently. As it stands, the remaining detainees live under brutal conditions, wherein they do not have access to adequate food, clothing, or medical assistance.
The government of Bhutan did not respond to the UN Working Group’s communications.&nbsp;
A former inmate, Ram Bahadur Rai, had previously spoken to the Human Rights Watch explaining conditions of reduced food rations, poor quality of clothing, minimum medical assistance and lack of welfare checks. Rai said that sometimes the clothing they were provided would be so small that the prisoners had to make do with rice sacks, not just for clothing but also bedding.
While many of these prisoners continue to serve life sentences without parole in dire conditions, Bhutanese authorities completely deny their existence. Rai further added that many of them are in very poor health as they are obligated to seek medication on their own and sometimes need to wait for months just to see a doctor.
<a href="https://www.hrw.org/about/people/meenakshi-ganguly" target="_blank">Meenakshi Ganguly</a>, Deputy Asia director at Human Rights Watch, has urged Bhutan’s international partners to call on the Bhutanese government to release all remaining political prisoners immediately.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/no-country-for-dissent">No country for dissent</a>

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Detainees in dire straits in Bhutan’s prisons

A man who served 30 years in a <a href="https://www.hrw.org/asia/bhutan" target="_blank">Bhutanese</a> prison for distributing political pamphlets has said that political detainees like him are surviving on meagre rations and are reduced to using rice sacks for clothing and bedding. Human Rights Watch called on the Bhutan government to immediately free its remaining <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2023/03/13/bhutan-free-long-term-political-prisoners" target="_blank">political prisoners</a>, who it said are kept in appalling conditions and serving lengthy sentences following unfair trials and torture. Ram Bahadur Rai, 66, spoke with Human Rights Watch after he was released and deported after completing his sentence on 5 July. At least 34 other political <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/no-country-for-dissent" target="_blank">prisoners are still in Bhutan’s prisons</a> and most of them are Nepali-speaking citizens from ethnic groups of which <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/gross-national-reconciliation-in-bhutan" target="_blank">100,000 were expelled</a> in the 1990s and lived in refugee camps in Nepal. The tiny Himalayan kingdom has been a multi-party democracy since 2008, but it continues to hold prisoners accused of being opponents of the former autocratic system. “Bhutan’s government cultivates an enlightened international image by propounding the theory of <a href="https://www.qeh.ox.ac.uk/news/bhutan-gross-national-happiness-index-shows-increase-2015-despite-pandemic" target="_blank">gross national happiness</a>, but the blatantly abusive treatment of these prisoners tells a different story,” said <a href="https://www.hrw.org/about/people/meenakshi-ganguly" target="_blank">Meenakshi Ganguly</a>, deputy Asia director at Human Rights Watch. “While the Bhutanese government attempts to strengthen its ties with international partners, foreign governments and multilateral organisations should push for the release of political prisoners.” In 2023, <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2023/03/13/bhutan-free-long-term-political-prisoners" target="_blank">Human Rights Watch documented</a> 37 inmates <a href="https://www.nab.gov.bt/assets/uploads/docs/acts/2014/Prison_Act_of_Bhutan,_2009eng3rd.pdf" target="_blank">classified by Bhutan’s government</a> as political prisoners, who were first detained between 1990 and 2008. Following the <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2023/09/13/bhutan-freed-political-prisoner-describes-dire-conditions-0" target="_blank">release</a> of three people in the past year, at least 34 remain, many imprisoned for life without parole. Under Bhutan’s law, only King Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck can commute a life sentence.&nbsp; Ram Bahadur Rai was among the 100,000 Nepali-speaking Bhutan people who were <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2003/05/03/we-dont-want-be-refugees-again" target="_blank">forced to flee the country</a> in 1991 after violence and persecution under the government at that time. He sneaked back into Bhutan in 1994 and was caught distrubuting pamphelts of the banned Bhutan People’s Party in the border town of Gelephu . He said he was accused to taking part in political violence, but had no defence lawyer during his trial. He was so severely tortured that he was hospitalised, only to be returned to jail and further tortured. By the time he was convicted and sentenced to 31 years and 10 months in prison, he said the torture had left him unable to write his own application for an appeal. The appeal was rejected, and he was warned that if he appealed again his sentence could be increased.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240713060756_328136fb3903d1d0c9fcc4bfe04b74d4a9a7004a8dc9d28bb89effa9767f0b30.jpg" data-media-id="editor_10" data-image-id="20240713060756_328136fb3903d1d0c9fcc4bfe04b74d4a9a7004a8dc9d28bb89effa9767f0b30" data-rendition-name="original" width="946" height="1871" loading="lazy" alt="Bhutanese prisoners"> <figcaption>Ram Bahadur Rai</figcaption> </figure>  Rai said that since 2012, when the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) stopped arranging family contact for national security prisoners in Bhutan, he had had no communication with his family. Upon his release, he sent a photograph to his four children “so they can know what their father looks like”. In Chemgang prison, near the capital, Thimphu, Rai was held in a block with 24 other ‘anti-national’ prisoners. “It’s a very painful situation. The facilities have almost halved since the Red Cross left ,” Rai said. Prisoners are obliged to buy their own medication if they fall sick and can wait up to eight months if they need to see a doctor, and frequently receive no treatment. Several are in very poor health, Rai said. Food rations have been reduced to half, prisoners get a poor quality blanket only every three years and a mattress every 18 months. Rai said the clothes they are provided are too small so prisoners wear rice sacks for clotheing and bedding.&nbsp; Rai said that the Bhutan Red Cross Society, which is supposed to have taken over the duties of the ICRC in supporting prisoners’ welfare, don’t do anything. Bhutan’s legal system is formally based on concepts in the Buddhist tradition such as compassion. The king, who is head of state while most government functions are the responsibility of an elected government, retains the power to grant ‘kidu’, or relief, including by commuting sentences. Said Ganguly. “<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/bhutan-king-must-free-political-prisoners" target="_blank">King Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck</a> could end the unjust suffering of these prisoners and their families with a stroke of a pen, as both <a href="http://www.bhutannewsnetwork.com/2022/04/six-political-prisoners-released/" target="_blank">he</a> and <a href="https://www.ucanews.com/story-archive/?post_name=/1999/12/28/king-pardons-bhutan-prodemocracy-leader-after-10-years-in-prison&amp;post_id=15081" target="_blank">his father</a> have previously done in other cases. Sixteen years since Bhutan’s transition to democracy, all of the remaining political prisoners should finally be released.”

Prisoners of conscience languish in Bhutan jails

A recently released political prisoner from <a href="https://www.hrw.org/asia/bhutan" target="_blank">Bhutan</a> has revealed ghastly conditions that political imprisoners in Bhutan are subjected to including food shortages and inadequate medical care, urging foreign countries to press for the immediate release of those held in violation of their human rights.
Madhukar Monger was released in August 2023 after serving 29 years. At least 36 others including a woman are in Bhutan jails, convicted of political offenses following unfair trials that frequently relied on confessions coerced under torture. 
 
“Bhutan’s government has sought to cultivate its global image by espousing ‘gross national happiness,’ but its treatment of political prisoners tells a different story,” says <a href="https://www.hrw.org/about/people/meenakshi-ganguly" target="_blank">Meenakshi Ganguly</a>, deputy Asia director at Human Rights Watch. “King Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck should exercise compassion and his sole authority to grant amnesty to these unjustly held prisoners and release them.” 
 
Most of Bhutan’s political prisoners belong to the country’s marginalised Nepali-speaking community known as Lhotshampa and were convicted because of prohibited political activity between 1990 and 2008.&nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/bhutan-king-must-free-political-prisoners">Bhutan king must free political prisoners</a>, Nepali Times
Some 90,000 of them were forced to leave the country as refugees. A majority of them ended up in refugee camps across eastern Nepal before they were eventually resettled in eight different countries with the United States taking a bulk of them.
Monger, now 57, fled Bhutan with his family in 1990 but returned to campaign on behalf of the banned Bhutan People’s Party. He was arrested and tortured by the army in February 1994. And at 26, he was sentenced to 31 years for “anti-government activities,” following a trial in which he had no defense lawyer. He was released a year early after paying a fine of $250.
Monger was held in a section of Chemgang prison near Thimpu, known as the “anti” block, short for “anti-national.” He said the authorities refer to the political prisoners as “rajbandi” and the guards address them as “traitors.”
<a href="https://www.nab.gov.bt/assets/uploads/docs/acts/2014/Prison_Act_of_Bhutan,_2009eng3rd.pdf" target="_blank">Bhutanese law</a> defines a “political prisoner” as “any person convicted for conspiring, attempting, soliciting, abetting or committing offenses against the Tsa-Wa-Sum (king, country, and people).”&nbsp;
Many are serving life sentences without parole, and they are all denied contact with their families or the outside world, in violation of international standards. Bhutanese authorities have long denied the existence of these prisoners.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/political-prisoners-languish-in-bhutan-s-jails">Political prisoners languish in Bhutan’s jails</a>, Devendra Bhattarai
Monger describes the conditions for political prisoners as having declined drastically in recent years. He told Human Rights Watch that the authorities cut the monthly rice ration from 20kgs to 12, wheat flour from 6kgs to 1.5 and lentils from 3kgs to 2.
Prisoners do receive a small weekly allowance of fresh meat and vegetables but they were compelled to sell a portion to police and guards in order to buy medicine and clothes which the authorities did not provide.&nbsp;
Monger further adds that at the time of his release, at least four prisoners in the “anti” block had serious health problems, including one who received back surgery twice for a condition that the prisoners believe resulted from torture, and three who are regularly hospitalised for chronic conditions.
The neglect has gotten worse since the Covid-19 pandemic, Monger says. Prisoners have not received new bedding or clothing since the coronavirus outbreak, and Chemgang is cold much of the year. Families do not get to visit then. Phone calls and letters too are prohibited.&nbsp;
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/gross-national-reconciliation-in-bhutan">Gross National Reconciliation in Bhutan</a>, Suraj Budathoki
Following a Human Rights Watch <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2023/03/13/bhutan-free-long-term-political-prisoners" target="_blank">report</a> in March identifying 37 political prisoners, most of them held at Chemgang but also at other prisons, government officials assured prisoners regularly that they would be “released soon,” according to Monger. However, none aside from Monger is known to have been released. 
 
Under <a href="https://www.judiciary.gov.bt/storage/files/1/Sentencing%20Guideline%20for%20the%20Judiciary%20of%20Bhutan%202022.pdf" target="_blank">Bhutanese law</a>, a person serving a life sentence can only be released if the king grants an amnesty. In 2022, King Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck <a href="http://www.bhutannewsnetwork.com/2022/04/six-political-prisoners-released/" target="_blank">granted amnesty </a>to one political prisoner serving a life term. In contrast, his father King Jigme Singye Wangchuck in 1999 <a href="https://www.ucanews.com/story-archive/?post_name=/1999/12/28/king-pardons-bhutan-prodemocracy-leader-after-10-years-in-prison&amp;post_id=15081" target="_blank">granted amnesty</a> to 40 political prisoners, including some serving <a href="https://www.amnesty.org/en/documents/asa14/002/1994/en/" target="_blank">life sentences</a>. 
 
Monger is currently in a refugee camp in Nepal while his family has moved to the United States under a resettlement program for Bhutanese refugees. Governments of Nepal and the United States with the assistance of the United Nations Refugee Agency must assist him to rejoin his family. 
 
“At least 36 people remain in prison for their alleged political activities seeking democratic choice, which Bhutan’s multiparty constitution has recognised since 2008,” says Meenakshi Ganguly. “The Bhutanese authorities should release these prisoners now and reunite them with their families.”
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/real-refugees-want-to-go-back-to-bhutan">Real refugees want to go back to Bhutan</a>, Sujata Dhungana

No country for dissent

We often see ourselves reflected in the other. For someone who grew up in Kathmandu Valley in the eighties and nineties, this maxim comes alive with an even greater force. Nepal’s media ecosystem was dismal, the school curriculum was narrow and did not provide opportunities for creative expression. Perhaps that is why I became obsessed with MTV videos and Bollywood films. I saw my developing self reflected in these story-lines and razzmatazz. When the media and education system do not engage the public and reflect myriad interests, aspirations and lifestyles of the population, citizens get detached and disconnected from their roots. I left for America for further studies, and was somewhat determined to never return to Nepal. It was a country full of potholes and black-outs. But foreigners have been fascinated with our country for decades. In the early 19th century, Francis Buchanan-Hamilton led a pioneering expedition and documented more than a thousand species of plants native to the region. Almost a century later, in 1905, Frenchman Sylvan Levi published ‘the first attempt to produce a comprehensive study of Nepal’, drawing on not just indigenous but available Chinese and European sources as well. After Nepal opened up in the 1950s, different kinds of foreigners have traveled here -- most notably, cold-war era spies disguised as diplomats, and later came the hippies. I returned to Nepal in 2013 and was primarily struck by two major demographics - the artists and the expats. Energised by the recent revolution, the creatives were making vibrant, powerful works. The expats, on the other hand, demonstrated a different way to navigate life in Kathmandu Valley. These two groups of people re-introduced Nepal to me and I began seeing my country and my hometown with a renewed perspective. Which is why one particular image from Giovanna Caruso’s ongoing show at the <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thekalasalon/?hl=en" target="_blank">Kalā</a><a href="https://www.instagram.com/thekalasalon/?hl=en" target="_blank"> Salon</a> curated by <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/facades-and-flowers-from-nepal-to-italy" target="_blank">Sophia L Pandé</a> instantly caught my attention -- rather, it called out to me, as if it was composed for me, framing a key moment from my own life. Its title is, coincidentally, 2013. Like most of her other works, the pen-and-ink drawing is punctuated by an explosion of watercolour: a woman standing confidently in front of a Newa-style house, a leg arched up, as if she is fixing a strap around an ankle before stepping out on an adventure. The watercolour depicts a rainbow streaming out of a pot through a second-floor window. The rest of the details are rendered in realism – clusters of garlic and onion hanging to dry from the rafters, and further down a stack of corn. There are towels drying, even an old water pump.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251201121216_f440de5b5402fe0877dc46d94f41647bd46b00035b61241d46fc9f7ffbd87d0f.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251201121216_f440de5b5402fe0877dc46d94f41647bd46b00035b61241d46fc9f7ffbd87d0f" data-rendition-name="original" width="4032" height="3024" loading="lazy" alt="art review Kala Salon"> </figure>  When I walked over to this artwork with Caruso, she chuckled, “Ah, this work is a celebration of my 30 years in Nepal.” It was while trying to calm a restless group of students during her teaching days in Italy that Caruso first came across an iconic image of Kathmandu Darbar Square. She had found an old box of slides and while projecting images from the Himalaya to engage her students, the artist was determined to travel to Nepal. The first flat she rented was close to the square and the view from her rooftop was the same as the one she had encountered inside her classroom. She has been traveling to Nepal every year since. Some of her favourite drawings depict Khokana in morning fog. From 1993-2006, she drew murals at Ram Mandir and Pashupatinath, asking sadhus to guide her and correct her depictions. Caruso received a classical education, which means she was trained to focus on perspective and geometry while capturing mainly portraits and still lives. She is influenced by M C Escher and his explorations of mathematics and symmetry. No wonder she finds the Darbar Square architecture so compelling. She also names as inspiration Gustave Dore, whose style is different from Escher’s and I can see how she has fused these influences in her body of work: Escher’s austerity complimented and slightly dislodged by Dore’s comics and caricatures. “Before starting, the painting needs to be complete in my mind,” she explains as we pass a series of portraits titled Saraswati, Lakshmi, Kali Dancing, and Durga dominated by a roaring tiger. “These are all real people, I ask my friends and family members to sit for me.” The Kali in the drawing has the artist’s fiery copper red hair and she is dancing, surrounded by various men with flowing hair. The artist seems to have experimented here, drawing the revelers from above, and indulging in playful abandon. Depictions of Nepal are often in danger of being exoticised. But Caruso is familiar with her subjects, knows our alleys and temples intimately. Her colours and compositions are passionate and dense. In an essay, Anirudh S Chari writes the artist’s work is splashed with rapturous energy and most drawings have a carnivalesque element. ‘Kali Dancing’ illustrates this idea perfectly in that she has turned Kali’s usual fearsome portrayal on its head by depicting and embracing another feminine principle - the capacity to celebrate and create joy. Apart from drawing inspiration from Hindu goddesses and Nepal’s multi-colored rituals, Caruso has also drawn the Sumerian Ianna and Lillith and the Egyptian Nut. She enjoys drawing Nataraja, and says it is because “Shiva is a good husband”. We stand another painting titled 100 Days a Lion. “There is a saying in Italian, Better one day as a lion than a hundred days as a sheep, but I thought why not 100 Days a Lion?” This sentiment captures this nomadic artist’s spirit spanning four decades, in which she has captured urban energy as well as the sacred imagery of ‘life diaries on canvas’. From Venezia to Kathmandu and Journeys In Between Giovanna Caruso The Kalā Salon Chhaya Centre Mall, Thamel Till 12 December 10am- 8pm

Looking at Nepal from Venice

Shantanu Dhakal wakes up to a cold misty dawn, dons his college uniform and fastens his tie, tightening it carefully so as not to dislodge the tracheostomy tube protruding from his throat.
Gingerly, he brushes his teeth, mindful not to hurt the wound on his left cheek, where a bullet tore through during the GenZ protests on 8 September in the highway town of Itahari in eastern Nepal.&nbsp;
Dhakal, 18, came home from college that day three months ago and then took the bus to Itahari to join some friends who were protesting in front of the sub-metropolitan city office. It was mid-afternoon, and the crowd was chanting anti-corruption slogans and holding up placards.
Like most young Nepalis, Dhakal and his friends had been angered by videos on social media of the offspring of Nepal’s rich and powerful flaunting their lavish lifestyles.&nbsp;
"That was the trigger for me to join the protest, it opened my eyes to just how widespread nepotism and corruption was," Dhakal told Nepali Times.&nbsp;
The police arrested a few students, angering the crowd even more. They massed at the gate of a nearby police station to demand their friends be released. &nbsp;
Dhakal was standing across the street from the police station when the first shots rang out. The crowd scattered. As he ran for cover, there was a searing pain in his left jaw. Blood was streaming and it took some time for him to realise he had been shot.&nbsp;
“I was bleeding profusely and couldn’t speak. My vision blurred, there was a ringing in my ears,” Dhakal recalls. “I collected myself and continued to run, fearing that I would be shot a second time.”
Dhakal collapsed some distance away, and a fellow protestor took him to a nearby hospital, where doctors bandaged his jaw. He was referred to Birat Medical Teaching Hospital, where surgeons immediately performed an emergency operation. &nbsp;
The bullet had torn through his left jaw, shattering the bone, teeth, and soft tissue. Blood had rushed into his throat, obstructing the airway so doctors first performed a tracheostomy, installing a tube in his throat to help him keep breathing. A week later, the doctors reconstructed his jaw with metallic plates, grafting skin from his chest and transplanting it to the lower left side of his face.&nbsp;
Dhakal spent three weeks in hospital before being discharged. But the relief of being home was marred by disturbing thoughts. He says, “Just sitting there doing nothing began to take a toll on my mental health.” &nbsp;
Since he was always interested in content creation and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/@docsbyshantanu">producing short documentaries</a>, he decided to document online his near-death experience and post-protest life.&nbsp;
Shantanu Dhakal’s Instagram and TikTok <a href="https://www.instagram.com/shantanu__dhakal/">posts are simple, short videos</a> every other day about his treatment process, dressing his wound and cleaning his tracheostomy tube, attending events with others injured during the protests, and scenes from everyday life in his family farm.&nbsp;
The comment section has Nepalis and people from around the world reaching out to ask how he is doing and keeping his spirits up. Dhakal now has a caring social media community, and he uses the platforms to keep in touch with other injured protestors across the country.&nbsp;
Life is returning to a new normal. This week, he returned to college to resume classes after more than two months and is making up for lost time. He has adjusted to speaking and eating with the tube, although the pain never quite goes away.&nbsp;
“I can eat mostly fine, but it is still difficult to speak,” he says. Soon, he will go to hospital for his fortnightly follow-up, and doctors will determine when his tracheostomy tube can be removed.
Like other young Nepalis, Dhakal is now even more politically engaged and actively reads the news of the interim government installed after the GenZ protests.&nbsp;
With the 5 March elections only three months away, young Nepalis like Dhakal hope that the elections will throw out the old and bring in the new. He is among the more than 800,000 new voters who have registered.&nbsp;
“The most important thing is that we have stable government,” he says. “As far as candidates go, an ideal one for me would be a person who prioritises health and education. But if the candidates in my constituency are not up to mark, I may not vote.”
Dhakal along with other injured protesters and relatives of those killed met &nbsp;Energy Minister Kulman Ghising, who has launched his own Ujyalo Nepal Party, and he is cautiously optimistic about the work of the current leadership. &nbsp;
It is a different story in Kathmandu, where Prime Minister Sushila Karki is struggling to manage the expectations of various youth collectives while trying to convince the old parties to participate in elections.&nbsp;
While the UML and NC are actively trying to delegitimise Karki’s government as they prepare to hold their respective general conventions, they are also preparing to give out tickets for elections.&nbsp;
Self-proclaimed GenZ leaders who used Discord to elect Karki prime minister are putting up their own conditions for the polls, even demanding her resignation for failing to meet their demands. This is in sharp contrast to the feelings of many of those injured during the protests who want elections so the nation can heal, and move on.

A new normal

It is quite a feat for just two actors on a darkened stage to hold an audience spellbound for more than one hour. Yet, ‘के? Us.’ at Kausi Theatre does just that. It is a thought-provoking but baffling work that leaves the audience questioning reality, the recurring metaphors in this intriguing and powerful dark comedy haunting us for days afterwards.&nbsp; The unsettling sound of deep breathing mingles with percussive drumming and a driving guitar that pulsates amidst a red glow, dimly illuminating shadowy structures charred by fire. A door leads to what is later revealed to be the ancestral home of two brothers which is ‘under renovation’. One of the brothers Ashim (Bijaya Tamrakar) lives in Nepal caring for a supposedly comatose mother who is only depicted by a tree draped with red LED lights that circulate arterial blood corpuscles. Visiting him is a long-lost brother Aaryan (Eelum Dixit) who has returned (deported?) from America.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071248_d3050fcd38e1ba471ea48e18fde6a8393a086a5b3afeef71eda190f3e01366e2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251202071248_d3050fcd38e1ba471ea48e18fde6a8393a086a5b3afeef71eda190f3e01366e2" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  The stage is littered with scattered paper trash, a run-down motorcycle chassis, a tattered sofa, and beat-up table and chairs. The stage is set for a sinister plot. Are the characters to be punished in perdition?&nbsp; It does not take long for the audience to grasp that this is an apocalyptic Nepal that, following absurdist traditions, could exist at any time in the future or the present day <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/election-vs-escalation">post-GenZ protest state</a>. Ashim and Aaryan Adhikari have reunited after 15 years. Ashim, the younger brother, has been burdened with the responsibility of taking care of their brain-dead mother. Aaryan, returns after having migrated to the US, where he married, had children, divorced, and lost everything. He has been at “minus 20 and is now back to zero”.&nbsp; The brothers have intense back-and-forths that expose their cynicism, the conversation tangentially alluding to Nepal’s unstable political landscape, migration, an economy in shambles, aging population, alcoholism and other mental health issues. Even the sibling argument about the relative merits of momos and burgers seems metaphorical. The stagecraft uses lighting and sound effects brilliantly, transporting the audience to a surreal world in which Tamrakar and Dixit improvise their lines — no two shows are exactly the same, although the overall plotline has continuity.&nbsp; In the first scene, Aaryan approaches the house tentatively, creeping rodent-like, and carrying a briefcase and an old-fashioned lantern. And at the end, Ashim screams, “I am chaos.” Is this the end of the beginning, or the beginning of the end?&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_a49af0960d3f6f61cd8e9d5ea9c5af64655b89865711f5566f3054b701840da1.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251202071252_a49af0960d3f6f61cd8e9d5ea9c5af64655b89865711f5566f3054b701840da1" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Choas play review"> </figure>  At one point Aaryan seems perturbed by the sound of protest outside (the Gen Z movement?) and the taut atmosphere grips the audience with fear, shock, and apprehension of the recent death and destruction.&nbsp; Throughout the play there is the sound of breathing, as if through a ventilator, a thumping heartbeat, the morbid buzzing of flies and the glowing red LED veins -- signifying the presence of the comatose Aama. She is featured in a prologue-esque home video at the start of the play in which she reminisces about her two sons and rues her failing memory.&nbsp; The sound of breathing gets accentuated each time a brother gets closer to the tree, and it seems to fuel Ashim’s belief that Aama may be brain-dead but she is still among them. This play can go as deep as each individual in the audience wants it to go.&nbsp; The silenced, comatose mother could be Nepali Aama muted by an entrenched patriarchy. Or, she could be the symbol of a helpless country while her children fight over the ruins of what is left. The cake cutting is a delightfully Shakespearean subplot where we wonder if one of the brothers is going to poison, or knife, the other. The message is clear: how can we move forward if it is brother against brother? The stairs signify political transition (elections, constitutional change, new coalitions) promising upward movement, but eventually lead to falls, leaving the nation exactly where it started, or worse. The mother’s terminal illness evokes an ailing state apparatus, hollowed out by corruption and deep-seated social decay. Yet the brothers cling to an irrational hope — instead of confronting the harsh truth and pursuing radical solutions, suggesting a blind faith in the mother.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_e30df0ea03c2db1759a09e2e3e3111d9d238d5cd5595a68b8052bbbc8e9ec6b3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251202071252_e30df0ea03c2db1759a09e2e3e3111d9d238d5cd5595a68b8052bbbc8e9ec6b3" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  The brothers are lost. Aaryan climbs up stairs that lead nowhere, Ashim holds on to unrealistic hope that somehow Aama will get better. Tamrakar and Dixit deliver powerful performances, even more remarkable for the fact that they are improvising their lines as they go along. When Aaryan breaks a wall and directly addresses the audience, spectators turn from being passive observers to active participants (‘the society’). The audience then become oglers in this drama, suddenly made self-aware of our role as the scrutinising, cavilling voyeurs that society represents. There is some discomfort of being watched and judged.&nbsp; By asking his brother what he is afraid of while pointing at the audience, Aaryan suggests that the brother's (and perhaps the character's core) fear is not just of the house, or the mother's illness, but of external judgment and societal censure. After the stage goes dark, the applause takes some time. Audience members shuffle out in silence, minds reeling from the collective soul-searching they have just participated in.&nbsp; After ‘के? Us.’ the din at Teku intersection outside sounds different as we wait for our Pathao ride below the खरी tree where <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=Shukra+Raj+Shastri&amp;client=safari&amp;sca_esv=75e8315709cd5118&amp;rls=en&amp;sxsrf=AE3TifMJhwukjdBBT0n4QcQWe8IYSaEVsw%3A1764648053799&amp;ei=dWQuaYbIMOy94-EPn4ygyAE&amp;ved=2ahUKEwiU1ciogp6RAxXq3TQHHeo9LBIQgK4QegQIARAB&amp;uact=5&amp;oq=nepal+tree+where+martyrs+were+hanged&amp;gs_lp=Egxnd3Mtd2l6LXNlcnAiJG5lcGFsIHRyZWUgd2hlcmUgbWFydHlycyB3ZXJlIGhhbmdlZDIIECEYoAEYwwRIug5QAFiNC3AAeAGQAQCYAc4BoAHrCKoBBTAuNS4xuAEDyAEA-AEBmAIDoALlBMICBRAAGO8FmAMA4gMFEgExIECSBwUwLjEuMqAHzw-yBwUwLjEuMrgH5QTCBwcwLjIuMC4xyAcM&amp;sclient=gws-wiz-serp&amp;mstk=AUtExfCLIneLVW3SFBzxBc964wFcTJ936tcAPSDcvNKljck0PIqDJddMZ_t8Pg610M98MCx14aNdnyLHs9QM0jWLhI7JYmkPhugX1ZHfSQvdCHZE9E5m2_ZQY5Jr893UcGjQfpabtA_C48NfB9Pg56uYMOmTtEBEcGuvz3d96Qaifyb86sI8mAkrRNo_367cv_xmFjLZ55iQkfHtORuOvZSUkIdMvAdpweuf4jPjjI4anbv9lc-uCImdP0JSvtvEGL8ePxwsWWOzYpIbjNP1zofjcWXK&amp;csui=3" target="_blank">Shukra Raj Shastri</a> was hanged in 1941 by the Rana regime. Language and Literature Students, 2026.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251202071252_f2dc03a35cba33b382a66bbd43905206d9d3eb5ec3ebdcf973aeefbb4a50b6b2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251202071252_f2dc03a35cba33b382a66bbd43905206d9d3eb5ec3ebdcf973aeefbb4a50b6b2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1080" height="1350" loading="lazy" alt="Chaos play review"> </figure>  ‘के? Us.’ Kausi Theatre, Teku Till 7 December (except 2 December) Bookings: +977 9842156109, 9842574607

Staged chaos evokes state of Nepal

This is the 75th episode of Diaspora Diaries, a Nepali Times series in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working and studying abroad. My father was a country boy from Sarlahi, and my mother a city girl from Kathmandu. They had an inter-ethnic marriage, which was difficult until the two families gradually began to accept it. My parents, who worked in development, viewed the world through a social lens. They often traveled overseas for their INGO work, leaving me and my sister behind. We spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house, or in rented apartments with guardians. Between Grades 1 and 10, I must have switched schools seven times. Our parents prioritised our education, and enrolled me in the most expensive schools. I was shocked by my school fees, and often wondered how they managed with their salaries.&nbsp; I wanted to become a businessman, so I could have the kind of life some of my well-to-do friend had. My family was not from a business background, and social services didn’t lend themselves to that kind of lifestyle. Now I realise what my parents gave me was already over the top, a truth that becomes clearer as I get older. Our family was getting along fine until our father died while working on a project in Dhading in September 2021. The official reason was ‘heart attack’. We do not talk about this much, perhaps as a way of dealing with the loss.&nbsp; He was our rock, and everything got harder. At least we had good people around us who reminded us to take care of our mother and to work hard. And we did. My sister and I made TikToks during the lockdown, initially in a joint account which reached its peak in 2022-2023. I had always wanted to be an actor, but I knew the film industry does not pay well. My parents also urged me to keep my interest in acting as a passion project. TikTok enabled us to showcase our talent for comedy. We figured out how to crack TikTok’s algorithm and stayed on top of trends. People liked our duo and the raw and authentic content. It required a strategy, luck, planning, and understanding the game.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1778" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  We use a hashtag #NakarmiKhanalAF in all our content drawing from my parents’ last names although they did not need to know what ‘AF’ stood for.&nbsp; My first viral content involving a humorous take on a Marvel character hit over 500k. That fusion combining international trends with Nepali humor worked really well, and I started making it my niche, adapting content.&nbsp; My father was always thick-skinned and did not have to try to be cool or tough. He was unapologetically himself, sometimes to the point where my sister and I felt embarrassed. When he was invited as a chief guest at a cricket game, for example, I remember feeling proud to be the child of an ‘important person’, but he grabbed the mic and told everyone to start cleaning the ground.&nbsp; Many of our friends came from wealthy families because of the schools we attended, and he proudly lectured them about our humble background and the importance of social service. Growing up, we tried hard to get his validity. My proudest moment was gifting him a shirt bought with my first salary. My father did not get to see our rise on social media, but I know he is watching over us just as he always did. The first brand deal I got was memorable but awkward. It was for a grooming package for private parts. I used to think about how movie actors start their journeys with advertisements for underwear, and this was going to be my story, my ‘humble beginning’ as a content creator.&nbsp; They did not even pay me money but just gave me the items. Other brands started coming in and with them, money. I earned as much as Rs40,000 per content and tried to make one every day. This was a big contrast to my monthly salary of Rs35,000 in a clothing store. All along, I was acutely aware that fame would not last forever. Just like one of my singer friends Wangden had said in a podcast: he was going to have fun while fame lasted.&nbsp; After TikTok was banned in India, there was even more uncertainty about social media. The alternates were also not assuring: people running businesses had to close up or were stuck, and the political uncertainty was scary. This pushed me to think about migrating, and Australia was a safe backup. I uploaded content right upto two hours before my flight from Kathmandu. I wanted to have enough savings so I did not have to start working right away in Australia. I was buying freedom. Since I had to change schools frequently, Rodin was one of few enduring friends I had. He was in Australia and assured me that he would take care of everything, and he did. He was my family there, and I did not have to go through the initial struggle that other international students had to endure.&nbsp; In Australia, I have done multiple jobs over the last two years and completed my MBA. My interviewer challenged me to make him laugh with one of my content videos. He did and I started work the very next day though I know I got the job because a hardworking friend had recommended me. To the boss, I was just another Nepali who could work swiftly. I mopped floors, washed dishes, and served customers. This was Australia, and I hustled. But I knew there had to be more to life. The long hours and little sleep eventually caught up with me. One day I slept 14–15 hours straight, and when I woke up, it hit me that I should try networking.&nbsp; I reached out to admins of Australia-based Facebook groups. Some replied, some did not, some offered jobs that were not for me. Then came an email from 8848 Momo House, and I travelled to Brisbane to meet the owner Hom Pyashi.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="1548" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  “Do you want momos?” was the first thing he asked warmly. He told me to stop by one of his new outlets and make a video. I did, and I was hired the next day.&nbsp; It was that easy, and I have been working there ever since. My boss would later share in a conversation that he did not hire me because of the video but because I was young and he saw hunger in my eyes. To him, I was clay that he could help shape. I am now the marketing head, and the chain is doing well. Content creation is still a side job that brings in money. But just as my parents said, it remains a side passion.&nbsp; Then came the GenZ protests. On social media I compared Nepal’s youth to relaxed backbenchers who finally act when provoked enough to get things done. I could relate to the rage and suffocation. A song I was featured in was supposed to be released just when social media was banned in Nepal, and that fuelled my anger. But from the onset, I was wary of the headless nature of this movement, there was no ठुलो मान्छे leading and no one would be accountable if something went wrong. There was so much uncertainty, and I am not comfortable with uncertainty. We were glued to social media as the protests happened, at work and in the gym. When we learnt of the deaths of young Nepalis back home, a part of me died. The grief of unexpectedly losing my father came back.&nbsp; I left the gym early because I just could not take it. My friend and I just drove quietly to a nearby waterside. We did not even sit together because neither of us wanted to notice that we were in tears.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  One of the messages I received was a GoFundMe link to support the victims. I shared it, but someone asked if it was genuine. That is when it hit me that I had a large social media following and could not just share things without verifying them. I removed the link. The only person I felt I could trust was myself, so I decided to start my own fundraiser. I felt emotional and helpless, and had to do something.&nbsp; I assumed we could raise around AUD5,000. I was wrong. Within hours, we had raised nearly AUD60,000. Fellow content creators Avash and Manzil from Minority Report had also started a GoFundMe, and we decided to join forces.&nbsp; Partnering with them was going to be a lifesaver because I was not at all prepared for what was ahead. Over 11,000 people contributed across our two campaigns, raising AUD514,386. But we had not thought through the logistical challenge, the online hate and the delays. We needed to release the money to the right organisations in Nepal, get complete information about the families of the martyrs and injured — our primary target groups.&nbsp; We faced a huge amount of backlash after a hate narrative instigated by a few people spread online. We just could not get our message across that it was not as simple as raising the money and handing it over. People believed what they wanted to believe. Internet hate can take you to very dark places, even when you believe in your cause and know it can bring some comfort to grieving families. You try to focus on the positive message, because many people did support us, but the hate and accusations do bring you down.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98.png" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98" data-rendition-name="original" width="1320" height="2868" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  When I was paralysed by the internet hate to carry out even the most mundane activities like cooking and cleaning, my roommate Bibek took over. He even made me watch an episode from the Mahabharat capturing Krishna’s teachings on karma without worrying about the fruits, a lesson that did not just help me get out of that depressive episode but has become a guiding principle for life. How would I have emerged out of that darkness when I was battling with suicidal thoughts if people had not showed up for me? We worked day and night to find the right partners, and because of the large amount of money and the level of transparency we asked for, many influencers or organisations turned us down.&nbsp; This was not easy because we had our own jobs to take care of, our own bills to worry about that were not linked to the fundraiser. It helped that my team at 8848 let me deal with this during work hours, and assured me that they will stand by me no matter what. Thankfully, we finally partnered with Nepal Rising (Daayitwa US), a professional and transparent organisation that stepped in and saved the day. GoFundme finally released the funds to their account and it has begun reaching the right people. My sister helped ensure the money is delivered properly. As a final check, I speak with the families in Nepal and offer my condolences. I honour their loved one’s contribution to our country and we will make sure it is never forgotten. But no matter what we say or how much we try to help, the heartbreaking truth is that their young son or sibling is not coming back. The narrative is slowly changing. Slaps are now claps. But the trauma of the public hate is so great that it still gnaws at me, I have anxiety about attending Nepali gatherings like concerts here. I remember when a dance I had created for Bola Maya went viral on TikTok, with tens of thousands of people picking it up. A chef friend told me it was time to use that influence for a social cause. Those words stayed with me. As I navigated the backlash, I was also reminded of my parents who worked on social causes and asked my mother if they had faced similar cases. She had, and she reminded me that all we can do is stay focused on the cause and drown out the noise. Things will eventually work out.