Nepal’s public sphere is replete with <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/nepal-s-corruption-carousel">tales of corruption</a> in high places and the powerful stealing the hard-earned deposits of cooperatives. But there are ordinary Nepalis showing extraordinary <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/cruelty-and-compassion?%2F=">compassion</a> and sacrifice like Nirmala Rawal.&nbsp; Rawal lives in Jayagad village in an isolated corner of Achham, and had just returned to her home and climbed to an upstairs room when she heard a commotion outside. There were cries of a fire. Looking out the window, she sees an inferno moving up the sloping market town. Nearby houses and stores were<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/protecting-nepals-forests-from-fires"> in flames</a>, and she rushed outside for safety. The fire had started at 7pm after a gas cylinder exploded in one of the houses. Police and army teams arrived, but they were too ill equipped to tackle the flames which were too high and spreading quickly, fanned by winds.&nbsp; A <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/business/german-firetrucks-for-nepal">fire truck</a> arrived but there was no paved road up to the fire.&nbsp; Jayagad’s bazar area is made up of 150 densely-packed houses and within one hour 15 houses had gone up in flames. The only way to stop the flames was to create a fire break by <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/demolishing-kathmandu-to-rebuild-it,2288">demolishing a house</a>.&nbsp; No was willing to do so, except 45-year-old Nirmala Rawal. It was a difficult decision, but after her house was bulldozed, the fire was contained and the village was saved.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025050709050_ab668eff4b4da0438d2e123680bfd20f3bde05a60ba9aaf77a1337bfdb1514ba.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="2025050709050_ab668eff4b4da0438d2e123680bfd20f3bde05a60ba9aaf77a1337bfdb1514ba" data-rendition-name="original" width="378" height="494" loading="lazy" alt="Ordinary Nepali's extraordinary sacrifice"> </figure>  Jayagad’s village chief Navaraj Saud says bringing down Rawal’s house was the last resort: “We could not have contained the fire any other way. It was just too big.” It has been a month since the fire, but Rawal is now faced with a new reality. She has lost not just her home but all her possessions. All of Rawal’s valuables were destroyed in the blaze. She lost loans taken out to pay her mortgage, and significant <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/fusion-fashion">old jewelry</a> and has not been able to return to her job at the rural municipality office. “Even the clothes I am wearing were given to me, I lost everything,” she says. “I had to sacrifice my house to save others.” Like many girls at the time, Rawal dropped out of school in Grade 8 to be married to a husband who owned a general store in Jayagad. He died of a <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=18115">heart attack</a> in the store, and she has been living in the house he built for the family.&nbsp; As a widow, Rawal had to contend with <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/banning-banishment-is-not-enough">stigma and hardship</a>. The job in the municipality was a respite. It gave her life a welcome daily structure, although raising her four children on a Rs18,000 salary was still a struggle. Rawal’s eldest daughter is already married. Her other daughter is doing a BSc in Agriculture in Punjab, and one of her sons is studying <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-on-my-mind">hotel management </a>in Kathmandu. Her youngest son is in Tikapur, where Rawal is originally from. All of her relatives have migrated to <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-tarai-s-shrinking-forests">the Tarai</a>, and her land in the village is barren. She is in no position, financial or otherwise, to rebuild. Rawal’s children have now heard about the fire. “My son is considering heading to India to find work, so we can rebuild our home,” she says. All of the 30 families who survived the fire are living in temporary arrangements and do not know how to start over. Most lost their businesses as well. Achham police estimate the damage of goods to be Rs80 million, although they have not yet put a number on <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/lost-and-damaged">property damage</a>. A request has been sent to the Sudurpaschim provincial government, and a minister has visited from Dhangadi. Rawal is not hopeful, and does not expect much since she has experienced firsthand how slow government processes take. “<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/managing-the-monsoon">The monsoon</a> will soon be here, and we will need permanent houses,” says Rawal. Her trouble keeps her up at night. “I don’t know if I should put my salary towards a new house or to my children’s education.” Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/before-the-next-monsoon">Before the next monsoon</a>, Amit Machamasi

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Ordinary Nepali's extraordinary sacrifice

<figure><img width="1310" height="834" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110131156/636cf53b9c7e80680e09da16jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>A gory battle scene from the Mahabharata depicted in a Nepali painting from the 1800s. Photo: harekrsna.com </figcaption></figure>Even eleven years after it was first published, The Difficulty of Being Good by Indian author <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gurcharan_Das" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gurcharan_Das&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1624856018937000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFSPA3za-pll0LYf5joq4b13sXZ_A">Gurcharan Das</a> is more relevant than ever. Two-thousand years after it was written, so is the Mahabharata.For those who want to read the Mahabharata but are intimidated by the very thought, Das’ interpretation of the epic is well worth the time. Das does not just go to the holy city of Banaras, but to the Regenstein Library in Chicago with its fabulous collection of South Asian text, to explore the Hindu classic.  His ‘academic holiday’ of several years there resulted in this magnificent and riveting book. Das felt that places of learning in Banaras, the natural choice, would discourage him from ‘interrogating’ the text, but that the University of Chicago with its Sanskrit scholars like Sheldon Pollock and Wendy Doniger, would be more suitable. And indeed, the book proves that this was the right decision. The Mahabharata is made up of almost 100,000 couplets, and is seven times longer than Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey combined. But it is just as gory. Besides the length, the big difference with the Greek classics is that every time there is a showdown in the Mahabharata, amazingly, there is a battle-stopping discourse, and the warring parties weigh in and discuss moral pros and cons of the violence they are unleashing on each other. The Iliad, on the other hand, just gets on with the action. Like many religious texts, the Mahabharata also has its share of wacky stories. For example, the Kaurav brothers, who are fighting their Pandav cousins, create an impenetrable military formation called the ‘Chakra Vyuha’ on the twelfth day of the Mahabharata war to kill Pandav warriors like Yudhishthir. When Arjun, from the Pandav side, is fighting elsewhere in the battlefield, his son, Abhimanyu, successfully penetrates the military formation and stops the Kaurav’s menacing advance towards Yudhishthir. However (and this is the incredible part) Abhimanyu had learnt about how to enter the Chakra Vyuha when he was in his mother’s womb, as Arjun was describing it to her. Unfortunately, she fell asleep before Arjun could explain how to exit the treacherous mêlée.As a result, Abhimanyu did not hear about the exit strategy from this battle formation and so he is trapped and mercilessly killed by the Kaurav generals including Karna, Drona and Ashwastthama. Another riveting episode in the Mahabharata is Pandu, the father of the Pandav brothers. He is actually not their biological father because he has been cursed to die if he has coitus. Kunti, his wife, being a resourceful woman, utilises a gift from the ill-tempered sage Durvasha whereby she could invoke any god and have a child by him. And this she does.Gurcharan Das’s book shows us how the Mahabharata differs from other sacred texts, chiefly because rather than handing the reader a clear-cut cook book of instructions for the entry criteria to heaven, it bewilderingly asks more questions than it answers. Almost confirming that the ultimate truth may not even be available here on earth, it shows us that we can only have intimations of the truth -- a core belief in sophisticated Vedic thinking.   <figure><img width="640" height="437" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110131156/636cf53e9c7e80680e09da17jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Mahabarata is also true to life with flawed characters populating the text, quite unusual for a holy book. For example, Yudishthir’s weakness for gambling, Duryodhan’s jealous streak, Karna’s status anxiety, Krishna’s guile  -- all add up to make it more human and readable.  In fact, as Das points out, the Mahabharata almost humanises the Kaurav (who are the bad guys) in an attempt to portray the good Pandav guys with empathy (Tat Tvam Asi), to kindle a universal moral sentiment. In contrast, the Ramayana, the other Hindu holy text from an earlier era has more black and white answers with an idealistic Ram and an evil Ravan.   The climax of the Mahabharata is when Yudhishthir is about to enter heaven. Indra, heaven’s gatekeeper, comes in his celestial chariot and requests Yudhishthir to please get in so they can ride into heaven together. The self-effacing Yudhishthir, looking a bit puzzled, asks Indra’s permission if they can also take in a stray dog who has been following him for a few days.  Indra initially declines, Yudhishthir pauses, looks around and says, “My Lord Indra, in that case I will forgo heaven.” This little episode with the dog was actually Indra’s test of compassion for Yudhishthir, which he passes with flying colours and he enters heaven with the stray. Das posits that the editors of the Mahabharata may have been influenced by the Buddhist concept of 'karunamaya', or compassion, as the book was written much later (between 400 BC – 300 AD) than the actual Mahabharata war in Kurukshetra (950 BC). In fact, the author asks a very important question: what would have been the outcome at Kurukshetra if Arjun’s charioteer had been Gautam Buddha instead of the clever Krishna? The Difficulty of Being Good is replete with graphic, lyrical, and evocative prose, as this passage by Das illustrates:  In the summer, I returned to India to visit my mother. On the way, the train stopped at a very sleepy station, about a hundred miles north of Delhi. I stepped on to the platform and discovered that this was no ordinary station: it was historic Kurukshetra where the Mahabharata’s futile war of annihilation had been fought. In the burning heat of the summer afternoon, I began to imagine the brutal magnificence of the raging, ruthless battles. I saw a dithering Arjun, the greatest warrior of his age put down his Gandiva bow and refuse to fight -- leaving his debonair and confident charioteer, Krishna, who is also God, with a problem on his hands. I visualised ruthless Drona grinding the exhausted Pandav armies into the dust. Suddenly he turns anxiously to his pupil, Yudhishthir to ask if the rumour about his son’s death is true. Yudhishthir -- who has never spoken false -- tells a white lie and his fabulous chariot, which always traveled slightly above the ground, sinks into the dust.  In a sense, this is a book review of The Difficulty of Being Good, which itself is a book review of the Mahabharata 2,000 years after it was written.  As we put down the book, it is hard to erase the image of Arjun folding his hands in front of the flamboyant Krishna, refusing to fight, while the ruthless Drona and remorseful Yudhishthir are carrying on a conversation in the heat of battle.  Buddha Basnyat is a physician at the Patan Institute of Health Sciences. Disclaimer: Gurcharan Das is his phuaju, uncle.The Difficulty of Being Good: On the Subtle Art of DharmaPenguin Paperback, 2012 ₹ 499.00by <a href="https://www.amazon.in/Gurcharan-Das/e/B001HD010S/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.amazon.in/Gurcharan-Das/e/B001HD010S/ref%3Ddp_byline_cont_book_1&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1624856018938000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHo1HTL86FzCkDyhd98zvMw0xvEKw">Gurcharan Das</a><a href="http://https://www.amazon.in/Difficulty-Being-Good-Subtle-Dharma/dp/0143418971"><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110131156/636cf5419c7e80680e09da18jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="200" height="313"></a>

Being good is not easy

<figure><img width="1310" height="834" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109121152/636b94819c7e80680e06f207jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>A gory battle scene from the Mahabharata depicted in a Nepali painting from the 1800s. Photo: harekrsna.com </figcaption></figure>Even eleven years after it was first published, The Difficulty of Being Good by Indian author <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gurcharan_Das" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gurcharan_Das&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1624856018937000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFSPA3za-pll0LYf5joq4b13sXZ_A">Gurcharan Das</a> is more relevant than ever. Two-thousand years after it was written, so is the Mahabharata.For those who want to read the Mahabharata but are intimidated by the very thought, Das’ interpretation of the epic is well worth the time. Das does not just go to the holy city of Banaras, but to the Regenstein Library in Chicago with its fabulous collection of South Asian text, to explore the Hindu classic.  His ‘academic holiday’ of several years there resulted in this magnificent and riveting book. Das felt that places of learning in Banaras, the natural choice, would discourage him from ‘interrogating’ the text, but that the University of Chicago with its Sanskrit scholars like Sheldon Pollock and Wendy Doniger, would be more suitable. And indeed, the book proves that this was the right decision. The Mahabharata is made up of almost 100,000 couplets, and is seven times longer than Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey combined. But it is just as gory. Besides the length, the big difference with the Greek classics is that every time there is a showdown in the Mahabharata, amazingly, there is a battle-stopping discourse, and the warring parties weigh in and discuss moral pros and cons of the violence they are unleashing on each other. The Iliad, on the other hand, just gets on with the action. Like many religious texts, the Mahabharata also has its share of wacky stories. For example, the Kaurav brothers, who are fighting their Pandav cousins, create an impenetrable military formation called the ‘Chakra Vyuha’ on the twelfth day of the Mahabharata war to kill Pandav warriors like Yudhishthir. When Arjun, from the Pandav side, is fighting elsewhere in the battlefield, his son, Abhimanyu, successfully penetrates the military formation and stops the Kaurav’s menacing advance towards Yudhishthir. However (and this is the incredible part) Abhimanyu had learnt about how to enter the Chakra Vyuha when he was in his mother’s womb, as Arjun was describing it to her. Unfortunately, she fell asleep before Arjun could explain how to exit the treacherous mêlée.As a result, Abhimanyu did not hear about the exit strategy from this battle formation and so he is trapped and mercilessly killed by the Kaurav generals including Karna, Drona and Ashwastthama. Another riveting episode in the Mahabharata is Pandu, the father of the Pandav brothers. He is actually not their biological father because he has been cursed to die if he has coitus. Kunti, his wife, being a resourceful woman, utilises a gift from the ill-tempered sage Durvasha whereby she could invoke any god and have a child by him. And this she does.Gurcharan Das’s book shows us how the Mahabharata differs from other sacred texts, chiefly because rather than handing the reader a clear-cut cook book of instructions for the entry criteria to heaven, it bewilderingly asks more questions than it answers. Almost confirming that the ultimate truth may not even be available here on earth, it shows us that we can only have intimations of the truth -- a core belief in sophisticated Vedic thinking.   <figure><img width="640" height="437" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109121152/636b94849c7e80680e06f208jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The Mahabarata is also true to life with flawed characters populating the text, quite unusual for a holy book. For example, Yudishthir’s weakness for gambling, Duryodhan’s jealous streak, Karna’s status anxiety, Krishna’s guile  -- all add up to make it more human and readable.  In fact, as Das points out, the Mahabharata almost humanises the Kaurav (who are the bad guys) in an attempt to portray the good Pandav guys with empathy (Tat Tvam Asi), to kindle a universal moral sentiment. In contrast, the Ramayana, the other Hindu holy text from an earlier era has more black and white answers with an idealistic Ram and an evil Ravan.   The climax of the Mahabharata is when Yudhishthir is about to enter heaven. Indra, heaven’s gatekeeper, comes in his celestial chariot and requests Yudhishthir to please get in so they can ride into heaven together. The self-effacing Yudhishthir, looking a bit puzzled, asks Indra’s permission if they can also take in a stray dog who has been following him for a few days.  Indra initially declines, Yudhishthir pauses, looks around and says, “My Lord Indra, in that case I will forgo heaven.” This little episode with the dog was actually Indra’s test of compassion for Yudhishthir, which he passes with flying colours and he enters heaven with the stray. Das posits that the editors of the Mahabharata may have been influenced by the Buddhist concept of 'karunamaya', or compassion, as the book was written much later (between 400 BC – 300 AD) than the actual Mahabharata war in Kurukshetra (950 BC). In fact, the author asks a very important question: what would have been the outcome at Kurukshetra if Arjun’s charioteer had been Gautam Buddha instead of the clever Krishna? The Difficulty of Being Good is replete with graphic, lyrical, and evocative prose, as this passage by Das illustrates:  In the summer, I returned to India to visit my mother. On the way, the train stopped at a very sleepy station, about a hundred miles north of Delhi. I stepped on to the platform and discovered that this was no ordinary station: it was historic Kurukshetra where the Mahabharata’s futile war of annihilation had been fought. In the burning heat of the summer afternoon, I began to imagine the brutal magnificence of the raging, ruthless battles. I saw a dithering Arjun, the greatest warrior of his age put down his Gandiva bow and refuse to fight -- leaving his debonair and confident charioteer, Krishna, who is also God, with a problem on his hands. I visualised ruthless Drona grinding the exhausted Pandav armies into the dust. Suddenly he turns anxiously to his pupil, Yudhishthir to ask if the rumour about his son’s death is true. Yudhishthir -- who has never spoken false -- tells a white lie and his fabulous chariot, which always traveled slightly above the ground, sinks into the dust.  In a sense, this is a book review of The Difficulty of Being Good, which itself is a book review of the Mahabharata 2,000 years after it was written.  As we put down the book, it is hard to erase the image of Arjun folding his hands in front of the flamboyant Krishna, refusing to fight, while the ruthless Drona and remorseful Yudhishthir are carrying on a conversation in the heat of battle.  Buddha Basnyat is a physician at the Patan Institute of Health Sciences. Disclaimer: Gurcharan Das is his phuaju, uncle.The Difficulty of Being Good: On the Subtle Art of DharmaPenguin Paperback, 2012 ₹ 499.00by <a href="https://www.amazon.in/Gurcharan-Das/e/B001HD010S/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.amazon.in/Gurcharan-Das/e/B001HD010S/ref%3Ddp_byline_cont_book_1&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1624856018938000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHo1HTL86FzCkDyhd98zvMw0xvEKw">Gurcharan Das</a><a href="http://https://www.amazon.in/Difficulty-Being-Good-Subtle-Dharma/dp/0143418971"><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109121152/636b94889c7e80680e06f209jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="200" height="313"></a>

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108141156/636a60d99c7e80680e056e9ejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1337"/><figcaption>Illustration: DIWAKAR CHHETRI</figcaption></figure>As befitting a country whose patron deity is The Lord of Animals, Nepal’s autumn festival cycle is about offering buffaloes, goats and fowl to the goddesses, and worshipping cows, dogs and even crows.But our reverence for animals does not carry over into our day-to-day treatment of the animals in our midst. Owners are unmindful of how firecrackers frighten pets, municipalities lynch dogs, abandoned cattle roam the highways, buffalo calves die of suffocation in the backs of lorries, and the ultimate in cruelty: Gadimai Mela. How a country treats its animals tells us a lot about its culture.All this fatalistic brutality hardens us as a society, and translates into abuse of fellow human beings. State neglect condemns many to die due to lack of health care, and decrepit roads kill 2,000 people every year. No one has atoned for war crimes committed during the war. For a decade, Mohamad Aftab Alam got away with burning dozens alive in a brick kiln. An excavator driver in Baitadi last week swung his boom at people, injuring eight.For festivals to be really about the triumph of good over evil, we have to fall back on what all religions teach us: compassion, tolerance, non-violence against sentient beings and a reverence for nature.Read also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=35062&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">In an Animal Farm</a><a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=35114&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Waiting till the cows come home,</a> Kunda Dixit<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=35133&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Saving Nepal’s last wild dogs,</a> Yadav Ghimirey<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=35155&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">A dog with altitude</a>, Sonam Choekyi Lama

Creatures of Culture

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108141156/636a60dc9c7e80680e056e9fjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="776"/><figcaption>Illustration: DIWAKAR CHHETRI</figcaption></figure>George Orwell wrote 1984 to warn us about tyranny perpetuated by fear, and Animal Farm to tell an allegorical tale of the decay of communism. As history steps into the new decade of the 2020s, it looks frighteningly like 1984 has already arrived in the post-truth world.Animal Farm may have been a parody of Stalin’s Soviet Union but it has many parallels today, perhaps nowhere more so than post-revolutionary Nepal, where just about every character from Orwell’s farm has a corresponding political figure. Just fill in the blanks: Farmer Jones (……), Napoleon the pig (…..), Boxer the horse (…..) Moses the raven (…..) The 9 Dogs (…..)  and Benjamin the donkey (….). History is recurring farce.Nepal may now be a secular republic, but the country’s patron deity is still Pashupati Nath, the Lord of Animals. Paradoxically, for a country that worships animals Nepal is increasingly known as a country that mistreats animals. We love our animals to death.Animals are ascribed godlike qualities, only to be tortured and killed. All this comes into sharp focus during Dasain and the upcoming Tihar festival. You cannot eat meat without killing an animal -- we get that. But why kill in the cruellest way possible? Take a peek at the buffalo trucks that transport the animals to Kathmandu’s slaughterhouses. It is guaranteed to put you off buff momos for good. See how goats are unloaded at the Balkhu market, or how a dozen chicken tied to the backs of motorcycles are taken to the butchers with their beaks scraping the asphalt.Read also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=35036&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Creatures of Culture</a><a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=35114&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Waiting till the cows come home,</a> Kunda DixitWhen faced with criticism about blood sacrifices, Nepalis get defensive and go on the offensive, pointing at factory farms and assembly line abattoirs in industrialised countries. True, the west has perfected the art of mass killing of animals for food. But there is now a backlash: cruelty to animals and the climate impact of eating meat have led to a dramatic increase in vegetarianism and veganism in Europe in the past five years. Ten percent of Britons are vegetarian, and one-third of women there do not eat meat.This Tihar, Nepalis will worship crows, cows, dogs and bulls by garlanding and offering them treats. The festival is imbued with deep spiritual meaning, much of which has been lost. Despite this reverence of animals, Diktel Municipality last month beat dozens of community dogs to death with iron rods. In Kathmandu, dogs scalded with boiling water or acid land up in shelters every day. While we worship our pets on Sunday, hundreds will be so frightened by firecrackers they will get lost trying to get as far away from the explosions as possible.We will worship cows on Sunday even as thousands of abandoned street cattle roam the East-West Highway. A ban on cow slaughter and the lynchings of Muslim traders across the border in Uttar Pradesh has meant that cattle forsaken by their Nepali owners are now homeless.Read also:<a style="background-color: #ffffff; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=35133&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Saving Nepal’s last wild dogs,</a> Yadav Ghimirey<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=35155&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">A dog with altitude,</a> Sonam Choekyi LamaSacrificing goats during Dasain is a ritual, and the meat is consumed during family feasts. But how does one explain the mass bloodletting of sacrificial animals at Kot? Or the unconscionable slaughter of thousands of buffaloes, goats, fowl and even pigeons at Gadimai? It is difficult to justify carnage on such a horrifying scale in the name of tradition, killing for the sake of killing just so the wishes of those doing the killing are granted. In 2015, the Supreme Court ruled that the Gadimai slaughter was indefensible cruelty, but next month organisers once more expect 6 million visitors to the temple in Parsa, and more bloodshed.It is worth pondering whether all this fatalistic brutality hardens us as a society. Forget animals -- look at how we treat fellow humans. State neglect condemns mothers and infants to die unnecessarily, corruption in the medical sector is a death sentence to many, our highways are in a perpetual state of murderous disrepair.In 10 years 17,000 Nepalis were killed at the hands of fellow Nepalis, and no one has atoned for the unspeakable crimes against humanity committed then. Mohamad Aftab Alam got away with ordering eight supporters to be burnt alive in a brick kiln to destroy evidence of bomb-making in the 2008 elections. This week, video emerged of an excavator driver in Baitadi swinging his boom at people, injuring eight of them.For festivals to really represent the triumph of good over evil, we have to go back to the basics of what all religions teach us: compassion, tolerance, non-violence against sentient beings and a reverence for nature.<h2>Ten Years Ago</h2>The front page of<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/issue/473" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> Nepali Times #473 of 23-29 October</a> 2009 reads as if it could have been written this week:At a time when India-China relations are returning to near-Cold War levels, the Maoists have been trying to play Nepal’s two giant neighbours off against each other. Having concluded that Delhi masterminded its downfall from government in May, Maoist chairman Pushpa Kamal Dahal has been cosying up to China. Beijing, which was happy with the way the Maoists cracked down on pro-Tibet activities while they were in power, seems to be only too happy to play along. Dahal’s visit to China last week, during which he also met briefly with Premier Hu Jintao, was either perfect, or disastrous, timing.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108141156/636a60df9c7e80680e056ea0jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="321" height="500">We don’t know what China’s message was, but sources say Beijing underlined the need for stability in Nepal and Premier Hu was worried about the growing political drift in Kathmandu. What Dahal’s visit seems to have done is made the Indians even more paranoid, and to conclude that the Maoists can’t be trusted.

In an Animal Farm

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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