<figure><img width="1592" height="1236" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5ae9c7e80680e07bc19jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Memorial painting to honour the conservation heroes, showing Kangchenjunga, Ghunsa village and the tail of the helicopter disappearing into a cloud.</figcaption></figure>That night in Taplejung, we sang and danced to the tune of Sorha Barse Umera Ma. It was my conservation guru Chandra Gurung’s favourite song, and one he sang during many occasions. That song still brings back memories of the night 15 years ago as I sing it in every staff retreat to pay tribute to my mentor. The pain of loss is still palpable.We celebrated, but it was short-lived. Little did I know that 24 hours later I would be hiking all night with Ang Phuri Sherpa and a rescue team to Ghunsa to find the crash site, after bad weather forced our search helicopter to drop us in Pholey.    <figure><img width="640" height="485" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5b19c7e80680e07bc1ajpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img width="640" height="479" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5b49c7e80680e07bc1bjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img width="640" height="830" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5b89c7e80680e07bc1cjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>It had been rainy in Ghunsa on 23 September 2006, as the Mi-8 helicopter took off and <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=12536#.X2lxfi0w0Wp" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D12536%23.X2lxfi0w0Wp&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600834563133000&amp;usg=AFQjCNG9uQ7yXtrsOngM5mc0o9mK47-57Q">disappeared into the clouds</a>. I was supposed to be on it, but had to make space for the dignitaries who had come for the handover ceremony of the Kangchenjunga Conservation Area (KCA) to the community.  <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=13985#.X2jR2C0w0Wo" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D13985%23.X2jR2C0w0Wo&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600834563133000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEOO3FuIvqs0IS3N7A5tTwMbpM6wQ">Twenty-four people died</a> in that tragedy this week 15 years ago, among them Nepal’s conservation heroes: <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=12572#.X2mNRxAzaUk">Harka Gurung</a>, veteran geographer and planner; <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=16569#.X2mNeBAzaUk">Chandra Gurung</a> who designed the model of using tourism income to pay for conservation; <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=12581#.X2mPNhAzaUk">Mingma Norbu Sherpa</a>, who helped establish the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/municipalities-want-to-manage-annapurna/">Annapurna Conservation Area</a>; <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=10375#.X2mO9RAzaUk">Tirthman Maskey</a>, who paved the way for people and parks to coexist. Nepal also lost Forest Minister Gopal Rai, Secretary Damodar Parajuli, and Director Generals Sharad K Rai and Narayan P Paudel. Also on board was the first Chair of the KCA Management Committee, <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=12574#.X2mPlxAzaUk">Dawa Tshering Sherpa.</a>The shock of the deaths posed a pressing question: were Nepal’s achievements in conservation now in jeopardy? The model of participatory conservation pioneered in Nepal was an example to the world, but could the path-breaking work of these visionaries be sustained? <figure><img width="1012" height="1092" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5ba9c7e80680e07bc1djpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Fifteen years on, looking at the accomplishments since, we can proudly say that the country has honoured those leading lights of Nepal’s conservation movement by carrying on their work, and come out even stronger. We have witnessed a remarkable shift in various facets of conservation in Nepal: from the recovery of species numbers to the expansion of protected areas systems with growing participation of people from all walks of life.  <figure><img width="1444" height="964" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5bd9c7e80680e07bc1ejpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Nepal’s tiger population has crossed 235, indicating a dramatic increase from 121 in 2009. The number of rhinos increased from 435 in 2008 to 645 in 2015, with zero rhino poaching for the first time since 2011. Snow leopard conservation and research has advanced, with Nepal now holding the fifth largest population among 12 snow leopard range states.  There have been similar successes among other species, including blue sheep, Himalayan tahr, gaur and gharial. The species recovery of rhinos, blackbuck, wild water buffalo in their former ranges are other important milestones of our conservation journey.  After KAC, Nepal has added three more protected area systems: Gauri-Shankar Conservation Area, Api Nampa Conservation Area, Banke National Park – covering 4,632square km across two landscapes, Kailash and Chitwan-Annapurna. These conservation initiatives have placed emphasis on ensuring equal benefits to communities promoting a harmonious existence between humans and wildlife. The community-based conservation initiatives have been critical in protecting species as well as ensuring a sustainable future for people living in and near wilderness areas.   While the sudden loss of so many professionals put a dent on Nepal’s environmental movement, their legacy has continued with a new generation of committed specialists who were trained and mentored by them. This new crop of young conservationists received scholarships established in the memory of the pioneers who died 15 years ago. They have gone on to do exemplary field work, and are now in key decision-making positions in Nepal to guide future conservation efforts.  <figure><img width="640" height="428" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5c09c7e80680e07bc1fjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img width="640" height="428" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5c39c7e80680e07bc20jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>In <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/page/go-eat-to-kanchenjunga">Kangchenjunga</a> itself, the KCA has led by example for 15 years, presenting a strong case for participatory conservation where the local community is entrusted with the stewardship of the natural and culture resources of the<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/tracing-past-glacial-floods-in-kangchenjunga/"> region below the world’s third-highest mountain. </a>The concept of participatory conservation has been around since mid-1980s after Mingma Sherpa and Chandra Gurung first introduced it in the Annapurna Conservation Area followed by the Manaslu Conservation Area. Now, the KCA has gained recognition across Asia as an exemplary model in championing this approach. There were a slew of underlying factors that laid the basis for KCA’s success – primary among them were concrete legal, institutional and financial mechanisms.The KCA project was launched in March 1998 by the government in partnership with WWF Nepal to address both the livelihood needs of local people and biodiversity conservation. In the lead-up to the handover of this protected area in 2006, numerous legal and policy instruments were put in place, including conservation area management regulations and plans. A community-based Kangchenjunga Conservation Area Management Council (KCAMC) was formed, and entrusted with running the KCA with full authority to take care of the region’s natural resources. A community-based women’s group was also formed and trained, and now has 33% representation in KCAMC. We can take this as an example of how integrating communities into conservation efforts can yield multipronged benefits. To date, 35 mother’s groups have provided 206 scholarships to socio-economically excluded girls, many of whom have grown up to be professionals working at KCA and elsewhere.  <figure><img width="640" height="427" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5c69c7e80680e07bc21jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><figure><img width="640" height="427" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5c99c7e80680e07bc22jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>For conservationists, the handover of KCA in 2006 was a significant milestone, it also ended up being an unimaginable tragedy and setback. Merely 12 hours after celebrating the transfer to the community in Taplejung, and soon after taking off from Ghunsa, the helicopter carrying Nepal’s top conservationists flew into a cliff hidden by cloud. Ever since, 23 September has been marked as Nepal’s National Conservation Day in memory of these Conservation Heroes.Chungla Sherpa, a former scholarship recipient and now a ranger at the Forest Research and Training Center in Pokhara says, “<a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=17700" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D17700&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600834563133000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGvuk9RrrOEW-r4HMvCVLrTdmKY0Q">The Mingma Norbu Sherpa Memorial Scholarship</a> had a profound impact on my life. It built my future, and I hope that I will be able to follow the footsteps of the conservation heroes who made this possible. I hope that I can someday give back to others.” <figure><img width="640" height="800" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5cc9c7e80680e07bc23jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The leaders continue to make a positive impact on Nepal and the world long after their departure. We may have lost our heroes on that fateful day, but their work has carried on through a new generation which was given the opportunity for the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/out-of-the-ashes/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/out-of-the-ashes/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600834563133000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEGjAKCnYGoX4DlTmPwHwtk8ixzdQ">best conservation education</a> through <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=18587" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D18587&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600834563133000&amp;usg=AFQjCNG5J15BsMLu9gHX-qebEeGjPCmELg">scholarships created in their memory</a>. I feel fortunate and grateful to have been one of them. Now, we need to <a href="https://wwf.panda.org/wwf_news/?174861/Conserveation-Heroes-remembered" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://wwf.panda.org/wwf_news/?174861/Conserveation-Heroes-remembered&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600834563133000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHuF4uHclPRUQbPiD7B9PpcazTDjA">pass the torch to yet another generation</a> to help preserve our natural heritage, just like our predecessors once did. Fifteen years down the line, Nepal has taken great strides in conservation despite the tragedy, and despite facing multiple challenges since.  Let us mark this day with a renewed commitment to the goals set by our conservation pioneers, so we can overcome obstacles that lie ahead as we grapple with the pandemic and its aftermath. <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/11-day-trek-is-now-a-days-drive-in-nepal/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/11-day-trek-is-now-a-days-drive-in-nepal/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1600834563133000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHnCe3SmMkuGzBulo3cotjccIyIHQ">Ghana S Gurung</a> is the Country Representative of WWF in Nepal and Snow Leopard Champion for the Global WWF Network. The views expressed here are personal.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109151112/636bb5ce9c7e80680e07bc24jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="150" height="146">

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Remembering Nepal’s conservation heroes

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Who9k1JGrgsEver since it was launched in 1984 the Annapurna Conservation Area Project (<a href="http://www.ntnc.org.np/project/annapurna-conservation-area-project">ACA</a>P) has been a successful model for using <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Conserving-conservation,151">eco-tourism income to lift living standards</a>, not just in Nepal but in other parts of the world. Now, as Nepal decentralises under a federal system, local governments in the very place where ACAP was born are calling for it to be scrapped.On 22 December, locals of Ghandruk removed the ACA signboard and padlocked its checkpost to protest the decision by Nepal Trust for Nature Conservation (NTNC) which manages the project to charge fees also for Nepali tourists. But the dispute has now escalated to a demand for ACA to be handed over for local municipalities to manage.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171152/636937ef9c7e80680e03fe6ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="700" height="513"/>A banner in Ghandruk demanding Annapurna Conservation Area Project be scrapped.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171152/636937f29c7e80680e03fe6bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="700" height="513">Locals padlocking an ACA checkopint in Birethanti on Saturday.Despite its success in balancing a local economy based on agro-forestry with the need to <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=5974#.XCYBItIza70">protect nature</a>, there has been growing resentment against ACA’s restrictions on harvesting fodder and grass, grazing and exploiting natural resources. There are also complaints that ACA does not share revenue from tourism fees with local governments.“They charge trekkers fees, but we never know where they spend it, and they give us the runaround to get permission for even small things,” said Bishnu Gurung, after padlocking the project checkpost at Birethanti on Saturday.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171152/636937f49c7e80680e03fe6cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125">The agitation has now spread beyond Ghandruk to other parts of ACA like Manang, Mustang, and Lamjung. The original agreement in 1985 stipulated that the project would hand over management of the conservation area to local councils, but 30 years later it is still being managed by the NTNC. Project officials say the handover was delayed by the war, during which ACAP’s offices were <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=1711#.XCYBi9Iza70">attacked and set on fire</a>.Head of ACA in Ghandruk Bidur Kuikel underplayed the seriousness of the agitation, blaming it on local hotheads. “All this can be resolved with just one meeting of local elected representatives and ACAP’s local committees,” he said.However, locals from Lwang Ghalel have gone to Pokhara with their grievances which includes lifting ACAP’s restrictions on local development and infrastructure projects, to allocating tourism revenue in proportion to where income is highest, and to remove the bureaucratic hurdles in harnessing forest and water resources.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171152/636937f89c7e80680e03fe6djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="213" height="300">ACA map“We are giving them one last chance to address our demands, otherwise we will also take action,” said Ram Gurung of Lwang Ghalel. Representatives of this scenic village below Machapuchre sent a petition to the federal government in Kathmandu last week demanding that the management of ACA be handed over to local governments.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171152/636937f99c7e80680e03fe6ejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Annapurna massif stretches nearly 7,700sq km from Marsyangdi in the east to the Kali Gandaki, and is Nepal’s biggest nature reserve spanning 16 rural municipalities. It has some of the greatest altitudinal variation on the land surface of the earth. From below1,000m above sea level, the terrain rises to more than 8,500m, giving the region its rich biodiversity.Nepal’s conservation pioneers like <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/conflict-and-conservation/">Hemanta Mishra</a>, <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=16569#.XCYAg9Iza70">Chandra Gurung</a> and <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=18587#.XCYAVtIza70">Mingma Sherpa</a> together with experts like Kathryn Fuller of WWF-US put together the concept of a ‘conservation area’ – as distinct from a national park so that locals could use tourism revenue for nature conservation. ACA was proof that Nepal did not have to deploy the Army, like it did in national parks, to successfully conserve nature – the job could be done by local communities.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171152/636937fc9c7e80680e03fe6fjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125">Now, it looks like the Annapurna Conservation Area is the victim of its own success. Nepal’s central, provincial and federal governments are competing to take control over it. There are already signs that this will be a three-way tug-o-war.Yubaraj Kunwar, head of Annapurna Rural Municipality said the constitution grants jurisdiction over natural resource and environment management to local governments. “This means it is now our responsibility to collect fees from tourists and invest it in local conservation and development,” he said.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171152/636937ff9c7e80680e03fe70jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="999" height="1500"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>However, in Pokhara, Gandaki Province Chief Minister Prithvi Subba Gurung said that since the conservation area spans the boundaries of many rural municipalities, ACA management should go to the provincial government. “The responsibility for management and conservation of the Annapurna Conservation Area should be the purview of the provincial government,” Gurung told us.Head of ACA Rajkumar Gurung says it is not important who controls the project as long as its model of community-managed conservation is preserved.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107171152/636938029c7e80680e03fe71jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1502" height="1000"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>

Municipalities want to manage Annapurna

International Mountain Day on 11 December should inspire celebration, not cynicism. It follows &nbsp;a small but rare diplomatic win: the agreement at COP30 in Belém to hold a dedicated global dialogue on mountains in 2026, and to include mountain-specific indicators in the new climate adaptation framework.&nbsp;
A welcome shift, certainly. But the old narrative lingers — mountains are fragile, disaster-prone, eternally vulnerable. But the uncomfortable truth is that safe and environment-friendly development in the mountains is simply too expensive than anyone wants to admit.
To build a kilometre of two-lane highway in the Tarai costs Rs200 million. That same kilometre on a Himalayan slope with retaining walls, drainage, bioengineering, and landslide protection costs more than Rs1 billion. Add tunnels, viaducts or highways designed for minimum 80km/h speeds and that figure can easily triple.
This pattern repeats across all sectors. A 50MW run-of-river hydropower plant that costs $80 million in low-ling valleys costs four times more in the mountains. The headrace tunnels have to be longer, desanding basins must trap the silt, the access roads cost more than the entire project. And there is no way to prevent the scheme from being washed away by a glacial collapse flood.
Nepal's annual road budget is only Rs150 billion. It is scattered thinly across 753 municipalities, most of them perched on steep, unstable slopes. When resources are inadequate and political cycles are short, the incentives for corruption are predictable &nbsp;— shaving a mountain flank at 70 degrees instead of 45, taking a shortcut on drainage canals, skimping on asphalt thickness, or skipping the Gabion.
In high Nepal, the bulldozer is the engineer. We hang on the prayer that the monsoon will be merciful. July arrives, and reality returns. Mountains fall on roads, flash floods wash away swathes of expensive highways.
The entrance to the Siddhababa Tunnel in Palpa collapses yet again. The Nagdhunga Tunnel faces another landslide delay. The Melamchi headworks go under — again. Each failure costs more to repair than proper engineering would have cost when that infrastructure was built.
We are not just paying once. We the taxpayers are signing up for a subscription to disaster. The real fragility of Nepal’s mountains is of governance, not geology.
This is what the international climate conversation habitually misses. Mountain communities are repeatedly told to ‘respect nature’ and avoid linear infrastructure, often by the same countries proudly announcing new expressways and airports in their own countries.
Mountain people are not anti-development. They want what everyone else wants: electricity that does not flicker, roads that survive the monsoon, schools their children can reach in winter. What they lack is not aspiration, it is the budget required to build things safely that is not stolen by politicians and their crony contractors.
If the world truly wants to protect the Himalaya, Andes or Alps, and the billions who rely on them for water, the answer is not more romantic slogans about fragility of the mountains. It is concessional, patient financing that narrows the gap between cheap and dangerous versus expensive and resilient. And it is transparent government that spends that money wisely.
This means money for tunnels instead of unstable surface cuts. Money for bioengineered slopes instead of naked bulldozer scars. Money for hydropower built for 1-in-100-year floods, not 1-in-25-year budgets.&nbsp;
This is not charity. Mountain infrastructure safeguards global water, carbon, energy and biodiversity systems. It is a global public good, and should be financed as such.&nbsp;
In Syangja, small investments under the Climate Adaptive Equitable Water Management Practices have restored nine community ponds, protected recharge zones and increased dry-season spring flow by about a third. All of this for less than the cost of repairing a single kilometre of poorly built hillside road after the next landslide.
Our experience from the Subnational Governance Programme (SNGP) in some districts of mountains and plains show that when municipalities receive practical guidance backed by scientific research, they can scale these solutions with modest, targeted budgets. Local governments are not the problem — they are the missing link. &nbsp;
The tragedy is not technical incapacity; it is chronic under-financing of the most cost-intensive terrain on earth. Lets stop romanticising mountain poverty on 11 December, International Mountain Day. Let us retire the language of fragility that excuses inaction.
Mountains are not pleading for sympathy. They are demanding fairness: that the true cost of safe development in the world’s steepest geographies be acknowledged and shared. Until that bill is paid, the monsoon will continue to do the accounting, one landslide, one road, one abandoned promise at a time.
Ngamindra Dahal is a water and climate adaptation practitioner based at the Nepal Water Conservation Foundation, Kathmandu.

The Himalaya is not fragile

This is the 76th 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. We did not have a whole lot, but did not grow up in scarcity either. When I was in Grade 7, my father migrated to Malaysia but returned just after 18 days and was heavily in debt. It is the interest and not the principal from loan sharks that ruins borrowers. As we grew up, family expenses rose and my father migrated again to Qatar, determined to make it work this time. I used to watch him via IMO in buildings under construction eating rice out of plastic bags. There was no AC, no oven, no shade. Those images are etched into my memory.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6" data-rendition-name="original" width="600" height="800" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Family picture from 2014 sent to Anil's father who was working in Qatar.</figcaption> </figure>  After Grade 10, I was encouraged to take up computers in +2 as I was a bright student. I did not have access to a computer, and the 30 minutes we got weekly at the computer lab was just not enough. My parents could not afford to buy a computer, but a friend had both a desktop and laptop at home.&nbsp; I did his homework in exchange for using his computer. When my father in Qatar, found out he bought me a laptop. Today, a decade later, I am still using it. Maybe I valued the computer more because it was bought with my father’s sweat. The laptop reminds me of how he toiled overseas.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil still uses the laptop his father bought him ten years ago.</figcaption> </figure>  The money he sent home did help with household expenses. My mother did tailoring, although the income was not stable. After my father returned from Qatar, we he bought a three-wheeler which he still uses in Makwanpur. After completing Grade 12, I came to college in Kathmandu to study IT. It cost Rs20,000 a month in tuition, rent and food just to survive. I could not complete my bachelor’s. Although my father kept saying, “Don’t worry, I am here,” he just did not have the money to pay for me. So, I took up a data entry job which helped cover living expenses. The pandemic meant my father could not earn money from his auto-rickshaw. We had no savings and had outstanding loans. Migration was the only way to get us out of the rut. I told my father that both of us should go abroad to earn some money. He could return earlier and I would stay on.&nbsp; My father agreed, and I visited recruiting agencies with both our passports. After reviewing our CVs, they said it was easy to find jobs for my father but not for me, given my educational background and my experience in software. “How can we send you for jobs as a cleaner or security guard?” they asked. I finally found a job in Romania, and decided to have my father stay back because going to Europe would have doubled the cost. My mother and sister came to see me off at Kathmandu airport. It felt just like my father leaving for Qatar many years ago. Perhaps some day, my brother would also leave in a similar manner, I thought.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's sister hugging him at the airport before he left for Romania.</figcaption> </figure>  In Romania, I work in a factory making car seat belts. It is not physically demanding and it is indoors. Even though I did not share it with my family, the initial period was difficult as I had no experience standing and working for so many hours at a time. Once, when I was tired at work, I wondered how my father managed in Qatar in a much more physically taxing job. Here I was not carrying heavy loads, my work was not outdoors. I was so emotional, I wrote a ghazal in my head. The words “खाडीको तातो घाम” kept repeating in my head. After work, I jotted down the verse in my diary:&nbsp; बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot become like you कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot imagine how hard it is म मान्छे हेर्दा मात्रै ठूलो I only look like a grown man बानी अझै बच्चै छ But I am still childish किनकि जता त्यतै जान मन लाग्छ I feel like roaming around जे देख्यो त्यो खान मन लाग्छ Eat whatever I see. न पैसा बच्छ I cannot save. न खाएको कुरा सबै पच्छ The food doesn’t agree with me&nbsp; कहिले काहीँ त मलाई म्याकडोनाल्डको बर्गर पनि पच्दैन Not even a burger at McDonalds तर प्लास्टिकमा पोको परेको त्यो चिसो भात But how did my father eat that cold rice खाडीको त्यो तातो घाममा सेक्दै खाँदा मेरो बुवालाई कसरी पच्छ? Under the hot Gulf sun? मेरो पेटले यस्तो पचाउन सक्दै सक्दैन I would not be able to eat that. बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot be like you. कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot say how difficult it is.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil Gole's diary entry of his ghazal compares his migration with his father’s journey.</figcaption> </figure>  I posted it online, and it went viral. But more importantly, people found the words relatable and engaging. My sister first saw it on Tiktok and shared it with my mother. It moved them to tears while my father kept watching it on repeat, deep in thought. Even though my birth father decided to leave my mother when I was less than a year old, my step father never made me feel the absence of anything. My friend from Grade 6 in Makwanpur, Sharan, introduced me to ghazal. He was six years older because he had to pause his studies during the Maoist conflict. He worked in a brick factory in Kathmandu, saved money, and returned to school. He was very talented and we became friends through the school children’s club.&nbsp; Sharan and I spent most of our time together, sharing meals to save money and even skipping classes. One day, in Grade 9 when our teacher was absent, he wrote a ghazal on the spot and explained the form, the rhyme, the meter. I listened half-heartedly as it was not of interest. We left it at that. Shortly after, Sharan was diagnosed with leukemia and he could not finish exam. Because he was a sharp student, the teachers decided to not hold him back. He died just before Grade 10. I cried. I do not have any pictures of Sharan. He had small ears, and I used to tease him that people with small ears do not live long. That still haunts me. <div class="embed-block"><div style="max-width: 56vh;"><div style="left: 0; width: 100%; height: 0; position: relative; padding-bottom: 177.7778%;"><iframe src="https://cdn.iframe.ly/api/iframe?url=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutube.com%2Fshorts%2FLpizGQWTbMs%3Ffeature%3Dshare&key=87ca3314a9fa775b5c3a7726100694b0" style="top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; position: absolute; border: 0;" allowfullscreen scrolling="no" allow="accelerometer *; clipboard-write *; encrypted-media *; gyroscope *; picture-in-picture *; web-share *;"></iframe></div></div></div> At the school assembly at the start of the new year, we were asked to share a talent. I did not know what to do, but I wrote a ghazal just as Sharan had taught me and dedicated it to him. Halfway through, I started crying and the principal took me to his office and calmed me down.&nbsp; I do not write much poetry except a few posts on social media here and there. But a video of me reciting went viral on TikTok and that encouraged me to write more. That made me feel validated, and I began writing more about real life experiences. It has been three years in Romania. My brother will also be joining me soon. Things have improved for us financially, but we are not where we want to be. We will get there. When we do, I will resume my studies. I’m interested in programming, especially back-end development and working with databases. It is on hold right now.&nbsp; I do not have big dreams, I just want to make sure my parents get what they deserve. It is okay if I get delayed if my parents are able to access what they had scarified for us when they were of my age. For now, my family is my priority.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34" data-rendition-name="original" width="2016" height="1512" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's family.</figcaption> </figure>

My father’s son

Singha Bahadur Lama worked for six years in Malaysia, but back home in Nepal he is now earning more than he ever did overseas. Here in his village 60km east of Kathmandu, Lama now harvests Buddhachitta seeds from sacred trees that grow in the mountains, and turns them into prayer bead necklaces revered in Tibetan Buddhism. The Buddhachitta tree (Ziziphus budhensis) is indigenous to Nepal and grows in the mountains of Kavre district, and demand boomed after the Dalai Lama proclaimed that the seeds found in Nepal were the best. People from Kavre had gone to Bodh Gaya 12 years ago and presented the Dalai Lama with Buddhachitta prayer beads. Not long after, while speaking in Taiwan the Dalai Lama told followers that the seeds from Nepal had special powers.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141220_dd1fddffc2f22652f57b0fdebe5d0612aa48c79c1e5c1a82da10b1d0a0af69b8.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251209141220_dd1fddffc2f22652f57b0fdebe5d0612aa48c79c1e5c1a82da10b1d0a0af69b8" data-rendition-name="original" width="737" height="536" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> </figure>  Lama shows a visiting journalist different types of Buddhachitta seeds. Single-faced beads are the rarest and most valuable, as are the smallest 8mm beads. A prayer necklace made of 108 beads would easily cost Rs1.5 million (over $10,630). “We cannot say if our trees will give smaller beads or even how many faces or clear eyes, it’s all natural,” says Lama, who now works as a consultant, advising people all over Nepal about planting the tree, and has since spread it across the country. Four years ago, a Chinese middleman made 7mm plastic cups to cover the seeds, hoping the trees would produce smaller pods. It did not work, and the trees died. Such is the demand for high-quality Buddhachitta beads that a group of 20 men employed by a Chinese dealer cut down a tree along the Rosi River last year. The harvest from that tree had made $212,600 the year before. With that kind of price, the trees are in danger of being chopped down. &nbsp; Lama himself used to make Rs10 million ($70,880) from the seeds of each tree. With this money, he built new houses and sent his daughter to Japan, all with Buddhachitta income. But the market for the seeds is volatile.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141224_0fd29cdc36db0c3ad5f5add513b8b220d0101760e1c42d5c54266eac7c2dfe75.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251209141224_0fd29cdc36db0c3ad5f5add513b8b220d0101760e1c42d5c54266eac7c2dfe75" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> </figure>  Lama invested Rs10 million when prices were high ten years ago, but he lost most of that when the prices collapsed for bigger seeds.&nbsp; He adds: “That year the demand was only for small seeds, and it has only been three years since the prices have risen again for seeds that make no sound when you shake them.”&nbsp; HISTORY Legend has it that Guru Rinpoche left seeds of Buddhachitta while meditating in the Temal region of Kavre district in the 8th century as a blessing. He is known in the Himalaya as the ‘Second Buddha’ whose birth was foretold by the Buddha himself, and spread Buddhism in Tibet. Now, almost every household from the Tamang community here has on average 50 trees. The tree thrives on gravel and sandy soil, needs to be protected from excess water, and can grow up to 10 meters high. It starts bearing fruit annually from its third year and one tree lives for 90 years. The fruits are handpicked every June and July, and then have to be processed by boiling the seeds to remove their hard outer skin. The seeds are then dried in the sun for a few days.&nbsp; “Our families have been growing Buddhachitta for generations, but it started becoming hugely profitable only about 12 years ago, it has become a cash crop and has even replaced staples like maize,” says Dev Lama, 55.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141224_7820e90f918489045c0668465190df37120167cc7d4401bb128adf931e156bc3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251209141224_7820e90f918489045c0668465190df37120167cc7d4401bb128adf931e156bc3" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> <figcaption>Dev Lama</figcaption> </figure>  What helps is that Buddhachitta is not a high-maintenance crop, it just needs some weeding, watering, and protection from hailstorms and pesticides. Once it matures, it does not need much care, and farmers intercrop it with other grain.&nbsp; “You don’t have to work on it every year like maize, which needs to be planted year after year,” explains Shova Shrestha, 33. “We also continue to grow other vegetables and spices, all of which help to preserve soil nutrients.” Generally, farmers do not sell directly to Chinese traders but deal with local middlemen who take a cut before they take it to the Chinese traders who lodge in Kathmandu during the harvest season. But the bulk of the profit is made by Chinese wholesalers across the border. &nbsp; And now with the proliferation of the plant, and with nearly every family growing several trees, farmers sometimes struggle to find buyers and are often severely short-changed, as was the case with Maiya Tamang’s family.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141220_2d82949a8a32b272216e4f288e976c5af68abf65f52500947ba366526a9b2a2c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251209141220_2d82949a8a32b272216e4f288e976c5af68abf65f52500947ba366526a9b2a2c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> <figcaption>Maiya Tamang</figcaption> </figure>  “I wasn’t home that day two years ago, but my sons later told me that my husband sold an entire tree for just Rs1,500,” recalls Tamang, 60. “We asked him why he sold it for a price that wouldn’t even buy a sack of rice, and he just shrugged.” Tamang did make a profit two years ago, but last year’s crop was destroyed by a hailstorm. Despite this, the bead business has augmented the income of a family dependent on subsistence agriculture. &nbsp; A neighbour, Sonam Tamang, had a few Buddhachitta trees in his backyard and has bought saplings from a nursery to expand. Saplings cost Rs500, but it is double that for plants that give high value seeds. Says Sonam Tamang: “The middlemen sometimes cheat us by offering much less than the seeds are worth, and they don’t allow us to speak directly with the Chinese buyers. But even if we did, there would be a language barrier.” Meanwhile, Singha Bahadur Lama who started out as a Buddhachitta farmer now owns a nursery and is a dealer in saplings himself. Some Nepalis have tried to sell directly in China, but face added costs of travel and hotel while there. &nbsp; With contributions from Qian Sun, Global Voices.

Sacred seed feeds boom

Dimar Chaudhary was born and raised in Old Padampur, the village inside what is now Chitwan National Park before it was dsignated a protected area. His Tharu community, as well as other indigenous groups, traditionally relied on Chitwan’s jungles and rivers for generations. Chaudhary himself had grown up collecting medicinal plants and wild vegetables, gathering wood, and grazing cattle in the forest. Chitwan, along with much of Nepal’s Tarai, was plagued by malaria until a US-supported DDT spraying campaign to wipe out the disease in the district in the 1950s. This opened the valley up to trans-migration of farmers from the hills. Before that, Chitwan was inhabited entirely by indigenous people: 90% of the district’s population was Tharu, and the rest were Bote, Mushar, Darai and Majhi communities. In 1973 Chitwan National Park became Nepal's first protected area and in 1996, the Nepal government introduced the Buffer Zone Management Rule under the National Parks and Wildlife Conservation Act to manage forests surrounding protected areas, and ensure local participation in parks management. Old Padampur was subsequently relocated outside the park. Ntional parks formed buffer zone user committees (BZUCs) to manage and oversee community forests. Hundreds of thousands of local people were directly involved in managing buffer zone community forests across the country. Over three decades, these forests have not only made conservation collaborative, but also helped to mitigate wildlife-related crimes and human wildlife conflict. In 2014, 2015 and 2016, Nepal achieved zero poaching for its three flagship species: rhinos, tigers and elephants. But while these user communities have made wildlife conservation participatory, the process hasn’t been inclusive of Nepal’s indigenous and underserved communities. In 2022, WWF supported Community Conservation Nepal to collect data on natural resources used by Tharu indigenous people before the establishment of Chitwan National Park. The project also looked into the inclusion of indigenous, women, Dalit and disabled communities in the Baghauda, Paachpandav, Meghauli, Mrigakunja, and Amaltari Buffer Zone User Committees (BZUC) as well as the Someshwor, Gardi Chure, Radha Krishna, and Baghmara Buffer Zone Community Forests (BZCF).  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251210141228_83a5b021c62b6c4a67888e5eee85d3fdcba3fd34d00e581996213d1ae10d6977.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251210141228_83a5b021c62b6c4a67888e5eee85d3fdcba3fd34d00e581996213d1ae10d6977" data-rendition-name="original" width="1342" height="941" loading="lazy" alt="BZUC map"></figure>  BARRIERS TO INCLUSION The survey found that women are underrepresented in all the BZUCs despite women user groups being larger. Nepal’s Buffer Zone laws dictate that each BZUC has 13 members. Each BZUC is made up of nine units, and as many representatives are elected from those units. The elected members have the authority to choose the remaining four members. This meant that indigenous peoples, marginalised groups, and women have a far lower chance of being elected. Indeed, out of the total members, Paachpandav and Mrigakunja BCUZs had four women, Meghauli had three women, and Baghauda had only one woman, whereas Amaltari user committee had no woman member. In contrast, the BZCF are relatively more inclusive of women, with two out of four surveyed BZCF comprising half women members. Additionally, some grassroots user committees are made up entirely of women. Most women members of the user committees are not appointed through elections, but chosen by elected male members, and are not given positions of leadership. “Women have been the ones protecting the forests ever since the concept of forest conservation initially emerged,” one female participant told us during a focus group discussion. People would get angry when the women stopped them from cutting down trees and grass, and grazing cattle in the jungles, she recalled, adding, “We were dedicated to the user committees. However, we are no longer involved in the committees, nor are we invited to meetings.” When asked about the absence of women in the user committees, one BZUC chairperson responded, “There are only men here because they won the election. Women are unwilling to run for the election. How will they fit into the committee if no woman has ever run for election?” However, not only are women deprived of the chance to contest elections, the chances of them winning polls are also very low because a majority of the positions in the committee will already have been allocated by political parties to their male cadres. Women from marginalised communities face further hurdles.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251210141228_7ee7dc43b925b4d6e97bfdc5a02df85d4d828e8a82eb00d3086217baf2438b43.png" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251210141228_7ee7dc43b925b4d6e97bfdc5a02df85d4d828e8a82eb00d3086217baf2438b43" data-rendition-name="original" width="959" height="508" loading="lazy" alt="BZUC "></figure>  “No male member from the Musahar community has been elected in the user community, if they had, they could have suggested that women from our community be included in the committee as well,” said a female participant from the Musahar community. While the native Musahar and Bote people lack representation in the BZUC, indigenous people did make up the majority of the members in the committees, while Dalit members were included in some collectives. However, only one committee is led by an indigenous person. The others are chaired by upper-caste hill migrants. In addition, no committee had any representative with disabilities. One of the key reasons for the under-representation of marginalised communities in Nepal’s BZUC is its non-inclusive policy. When Nepal’s Constitution was promulgated in 2015, residents living in proximity to protected areas across Nepal had hoped that policies relating to buffer zones and their governance would be reformed to reflect Nepal’s new socio-political reality. But this has not been the case. However, this has not discouraged indigenous Nepalis, who have continued to demand buffer zone policy reforms that ensure the inclusion of women, indigenous and marginalised communities. In addition to policy revision, it is necessary to reform the buffer zone election so that it is more participatory for underserved communities. Reforms should also regulate the number of members in a user group. Similarly, the budget allocated for buffer zones must be used on activities that benefit conservation instead of local infrastructure development. Women, people with disabilities, indigenous and marginalised communities should be the primary beneficiaries of budget dispensation. Crop damage compensation, which currently is Rs10,000, can be increased by five times to Rs50,000. Policy revisions should ultimately guarantee the rights of indigenous communities like the Sonaha, Bote and Musahar to practice their culture and traditional livelihoods and receive a formal education. Buffer Zone User Committees must apply indigenous conservation practices for park management. Birendra Mahato is an elected member of the Ratnanagar Municipality Ward 6 and Founder Chair of the Tharu Culture Museum Research Centre in Sauraha.

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My father’s son

Sacred seed feeds boom

Parks by the people and for the people