Political intimidation, ownership pressures, the rise of AI, and economic constraints are calling into question the future of press freedom – nowhere more conspicuously than in the United States, where these forces have combined to fuel growing anxiety about the fate of an institution that has been fundamental to democracies everywhere. At this year’s International Press Institute World Congress, Project Syndicate Deputy Managing Editor Rachel Danna sat down with Martin Baron, former executive editor of the Washington Post, to discuss the state – and fate – of journalism today. Project Syndicate: You’ve said that journalism’s core mission is to hold powerful institutions to account. In today’s climate, in which media owners, particularly in the US, fear political retaliation, how can editorial independence be maintained? Martin Baron: Journalists must insist on their editorial independence. That’s the first thing: not to concede anything, and to make it clear that their job is to report on what’s happening – what their government is up to, and what the most powerful institutions and individuals in their countries are doing, for good and for ill. The core of our mission is to hold the powerful to account and listen to people who would otherwise go unheard. The alternative is to become either stenographers or propagandists. James Madison, the principal author of the US Constitution, talked about the importance of freely examining public figures and government measures. I always focus on the word “examining,” because it means to investigate, inspect, and assess – the opposite of stenography and propaganda. America’s founders wanted a check on government. They wanted somebody to guard against corruption and abuse of power, and we should live up to those assignments. But ownership remains a point of vulnerability for media outlets. There’s no perfect form of ownership – they all come with pressures, especially when owners have other commercial interests. These pressures have only grown since Donald Trump returned to the White House this year, willing and eager to target those interests. Owners who yield do a disservice to the journalists who work for them and to democracy itself. Their primary goal should be to defend the rights that allowed their media businesses to exist in the first place. You said that you don’t think there’s a “perfect form of ownership,” and considering your experience following Amazon founder Jeff Bezos’s purchase of the Washington Post, you may know this firsthand. But are there other models? Should the media be profit-driven, or should it aspire to be more like a public utility? Are there different models we should be exploring that might work in the US or elsewhere? I haven’t seen anything that’s very promising. Joseph Stiglitz sort of advocated government funding during his talk at the IPI’s World Congress, but I think that’s a major trap. Public broadcasters in the US received government funding, and Trump used it as a way to clobber them. Trump and state officials aligned with him would use government funding as a cudgel to pressure media outlets, when what we need to do is eliminate sources of – or potential sources of – pressure so we can operate with independence. That requires finding a way to be self-sustaining, whether as a nonprofit or as a commercially oriented enterprise. Many independent media organisations around the world, operating in very challenging environments, have been the recipients of American assistance through USAID. Now that USAID has been shut down, they are not getting that money, creating a huge crisis for them. Other outlets have been financed by philanthropic organisations, and they are finding that funding has dried up as well. That is particularly true of news organisations operating in exile or in countries like El Salvador, Venezuela, and Myanmar. Suppose US media organisations relied on government funding. In such a case, Trump would insist that they adhere to the standards he has set, just as he is doing with other recipients of public funding, like universities and school districts. And his standard for the media is to serve as his propaganda outlet. He does not want a free and independent press. The only press he considers legitimate is the kind that repeats what he says word for word. Given this context, and drawing on your experience leading the Washington Post during Trump’s first term, what do you think the media got right – and what did it miss – in covering a president openly hostile to the press? What do you think of the coverage of the second Trump presidency so far? For the most part, the press has done a really good job, both during the first term and now in the second. We know a lot about what happened during the first Trump presidency. We knew much of it at the time, and we know even more now. The same is true today: every day, there is another revelatory report about what’s happening in this administration. Many front-line journalists, and the editors who work directly with them, are committed to holding the government to account – to finding out what this administration is really up to, who’s influencing it, and how its policies are affecting people. I deeply admire them for it. The real failure regarding Trump’s first term actually came before he became a candidate. We didn’t do a good enough job of understanding how we could end up with a president like Trump. We didn’t understand America well enough. We didn’t spend enough time traveling around the country, listening to people’s grievances, and explaining them to others. We still don’t do enough of that. The press needs to serve as a bridge between communities, helping people better understand one another and what they’re going through. That requires reporting without a trace of contempt or condescension, grounded in real empathy. It’s also important to remember that most people don’t spend their days thinking about politics or democracy. They’re focused on making a living, ensuring their kids get a good education, and maintaining access to health care. We need to understand why people feel these things are under threat, why they believe they’re worse off than before, why their kids have fewer opportunities, and why the social problems in their communities are not being addressed. So, how should journalists approach the coverage of populist leaders who actively seek to delegitimize the press? How do you present both sides, or adhere to the cherished principle of impartiality, when one side is clearly lying? You’ve talked about the idea of “objective reality” in journalism. How should journalism today reflect this idea? I have long been an advocate for what’s been known as objectivity in journalism. I know that word can make a lot of people uneasy, but I think it’s been grossly mischaracterised. What I mean by “objectivity” is that reporters should start their work knowing they don’t know everything. That’s the whole reason for reporting. Reporting means finding out about things you don’t know about, or don’t know enough about. So, we should do our jobs without thinking we have all the answers. Instead, we should be focused on asking the right questions. Objectivity – approaching every story with humility, acknowledging what we don’t know, and being willing to learn – is how we preserve our independence. But objectivity is not “both-sidesism.” It doesn’t mean pretending every issue is split 50-50. If the evidence points in one direction, we should say so, rather than pretending otherwise. Only after we’ve done rigorous reporting can we tell people that what we’ve found is true. “Truth” is a big word, so I’m reluctant to use it. The goal is simply to get as close as possible to reality and understand the facts. And to do that, in any field – whether you’re a judge, a scientist, or a journalist – you have to begin with a hypothesis but keep an open mind, knowing it could be wrong. People used to describe journalism as the “first rough draft of history,” and that remains true: it is a draft, always incomplete and constantly evolving. I often think we’re looking at the world through a keyhole; we don’t see everything, yet sometimes we can push the door open a little and get a clearer view of what’s really going on. If we’re skilled and lucky, we can swing that door wide open and see the whole picture. That doesn’t happen every time, but with each discovery, the draft becomes more refined and our confidence in it grows.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251215141240_653d1ccac6b20b3d0d51e587477d90edc641f7ab4d11a8db54269e0645bb4547.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251215141240_653d1ccac6b20b3d0d51e587477d90edc641f7ab4d11a8db54269e0645bb4547" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1500" loading="lazy" alt="Martin Baron"><figcaption>Martin Baron</figcaption></figure>  It seems that many people today are eager to tell others what they know – or think they know – despite having no background or formal training in journalism. Influencers and “content creators” have built huge followings on Substack and social media. What does this mean for the future of the profession? I’m not attached to the traditional ways of doing things. Technology has fundamentally changed how people consume information, and that naturally changes how we convey what we know, or think we know. This shift has created an entire ecosystem of influencers, Substackers, YouTubers, and podcasters. The core principle everyone should follow is verification. Is the information you’re communicating authentic and accurate? Alternatively, is it misinformation, or even disinformation? Upholding that standard is critical. Everyone in this business has a duty to share only what they know to be true. Passing along information you haven’t verified is simply irresponsible. Share it only if it’s been checked and comes from trustworthy sources. But how do you do that? That’s the hard part. You need to rely on sources that have proven to be reliable over time. As much as people criticise traditional news organisations, when there’s a natural disaster, guess where they go for information? Whether it’s a hurricane, an earthquake, fires, floods, or war, people turn to the traditional news organisations. That suggests that they believe the information they find there will be accurate. What opportunities and risks does generative AI present? Is this, in your view, a turning point for news media and for journalists? People always sound wiser when they say everything is terrible. Doomsayers tend to sound more profound, and people are more inclined to believe them than the optimists. AI, of course, is a powerful tool capable of many great things. But like every technology, it comes with risks as well as benefits. Social media is a good example: it connected us in unprecedented ways while also deepening polarization. The same is true of AI. It’s an extraordinarily powerful reporting tool that can make journalists more efficient by allowing them to sift through vast amounts of data. Reporters have already used it to analyse bomb strikes, identify the weapons used, and piece together what actually happened. At the same time, the risks are enormous. AI makes it easy to fabricate images, video, and audio. You can hear a recording that perfectly imitates someone’s voice – tone, cadence, and speech patterns. It’s fake, but people may still believe it. Or they may conclude that distinguishing truth from falsehood is impossible and not even worth trying. That’s a precarious position. It threatens not just the press but democracy itself in ways we have yet to grapple with. When we can’t even agree on a basic set of facts, progress becomes impossible. That uncertainty enables people to exploit the situation for personal, commercial, and political gain. This is already happening in US politics. An unflattering image appears, and a public figure says, “That wasn’t me. That was AI.” You hear their voice on a recording, and they say the same thing. Some denials may even be true. But as fake images and audio spread, even authentic ones will be dismissed. People will claim that anything that contradicts their narrative or casts them in a bad light was fabricated. Without a shared sense of what’s real, we lose any firm foundation for public debate. You’ve warned that democracy cannot survive without a free press, which underpins many other freedoms. What reforms or protections do you think are most urgently needed to safeguard press freedom around the world? First, it’s important to make clear that free-speech rights are not reserved solely for the press. They belong to everyone. In many countries today, including the US, even business executives are afraid to speak openly for fear of government reprisal. What we need is a broad coalition of people who understand that free expression is essential to a functioning society. Clearly, there have been many encroachments on free-speech rights in the US recently, and I worry about where they may lead. But we still have judges who recognise the importance of those rights, and many who continue to stand up for the rule of law. That’s the model other countries should aspire to: constitutional protections for free speech, judicial systems that enforce those protections, and governments that respect them. What lessons can emerging democracies draw from US efforts to protect press freedom and uphold institutional resilience at a time of democratic backsliding? You can’t just declare yourself a democracy and sit back. The greatest defender of US democracy has always been its institutions, and Trump is systematically trying to destroy them, with far too much success. Yet they still exist, and they continue, in their own way, to push back against these assaults. That is the key lesson for emerging democracies: you must defend your institutions and protect their independence while recognising how easily they can be subverted. People around the world are horrified by what’s happening in the US precisely because they saw it as a bastion of free expression and the rule of law. Emerging democracies should remember how fragile these pillars really are and resist the temptation to take them for granted. In the US, we’ve done that for too long, which is why so many people once asked, “How much damage can Trump really do?” We took the press freedom for granted. But many more people now understand that the press is often the only institution willing to listen to them, investigate wrongdoing, and hold the powerful to account. And they know that if the press isn’t there, none of that work gets done. And yet the press is increasingly demonised and blamed for various crises around the world. There is a notion that the news media finds itself in its current predicament because it has somehow failed. Do you think this criticism is fair? Has the media done a different – or lesser – job in recent years? It seems to me that many of these criticisms come from people who claim the press is irrelevant and then insist that, had we covered something differently, the outcome somehow would have been different. I don’t know how to reconcile those two ideas. If we’re irrelevant, why would our coverage make a difference? Often, the people who criticise the press haven’t actually looked into what we reported. In many cases, we did cover those issues – people simply weren’t paying attention because they didn’t see them as urgent at the time. When something doesn’t feel urgent, it’s easy to ignore. Some people seem to think the media runs the world. In the US, for example, there’s a notion that the press somehow got Trump elected in 2016. That’s complete nonsense. There was extensive reporting on Trump. At the Post, we published an entire series on his personal and professional history. We wrote so much that it eventually became a book: Marc Fisher and Michael Kranish’s Trump Revealed. If you read that book now, it’s striking how prescient it was. Yet people say, “You didn’t write about this,” or “Why didn’t you tell us that before he got elected?” Many of these criticisms just aren’t borne out by the facts. More often than not, the issues people say we ignore were, in fact, covered – and covered thoroughly. Or else we simply didn’t know then what we know now. Over time, new information emerges, documents surface, and more people come forward. So how can news organisations get people to pay attention, especially younger audiences? You’ve said that without younger readers, journalism has no future. What strategies do you believe are most effective in reaching them without compromising journalistic rigor? I’m not sure we’re communicating in the ways people actually want to receive information. People read less nowadays. They’re more passive consumers; they don’t want to go searching for information. We live in a digital age in which more people get their news visually or through audio rather than text. If I had my choice, it would be different, but that’s the way it is. We should study what works for audiences and apply those lessons ourselves, even if it makes traditional journalists uncomfortable. A journalist recently asked me, “What should I be focusing on? What should I be learning?” I told him, “Short-form video.” You’re a long-form writer? Great, you should still learn how to do short-form video. You may not want to, but you need to provide a tasting menu that makes people want the full course. Most people are not going to read a 10,000-word story or a ten-part series. They don’t have the time or patience. That said, merely adapting isn’t enough. We have to embrace these new formats with enthusiasm, because they’re teaching us how to reach people in a world where communication habits have changed dramatically. We could sit around blaming audiences for the current state of journalism, but that would be a waste of time. © <a href="https://www.project-syndicate.org/">Project Syndicate</a> Martin Baron is a former executive editor of the Washington Post.

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Defending press freedom in the age of Trump

Nepal’s month-long cricket carnival ended on a sunny Saturday in Kathmandu with a final game in which the Lumbini Lions dominated the Sudurpaschim Royals with both bat and ball.&nbsp; The Royals were bowled out for an embarrassing 85, thanks to Namibian Ruben Trumplemann’s three wickets for three runs, and captain Rohit Paudel’s hat-trick in the eleventh over. Only opener Ishan Pandey’s 33 run-innings was of any note.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025121315120_ced9258f9503a03fe53760d5ff420136ea9cfbaf3001512399ec5cafeef25364.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2025121315120_ced9258f9503a03fe53760d5ff420136ea9cfbaf3001512399ec5cafeef25364" data-rendition-name="original" width="1366" height="909" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213141232_0b712b438a97b49747029e4b3884b0eeba8ec0ff0bfbc5fd3d61cbb2002a16c2.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251213141232_0b712b438a97b49747029e4b3884b0eeba8ec0ff0bfbc5fd3d61cbb2002a16c2" data-rendition-name="original" width="1345" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>  The Lions came out with virtually no pressure on them, and Dinesh Adhikari’s 42 off 13 including 27 off the first over bowled by Dipendra Singh Airee won the match. Rohit Paudel came in to finish the match calmly, with 11 overs to spare, scoring two stylish fours and a six before holing out with the Lions on 83.&nbsp; The Lions took comically long to get the final two runs to win the game, losing one more wicket. But it was merely a matter of time, and a single ended the Royal’s misery.&nbsp; As dusk fell, the big fluffy lion mascot was on the field dapping up the Lions as red fireworks went off and Lumbini fans leaped from their seats in the packed stands.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213141232_ba4c4fde1865c583cf324d253563a0fc96002c31e8381ee85850f71c67515ea9.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251213141232_ba4c4fde1865c583cf324d253563a0fc96002c31e8381ee85850f71c67515ea9" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1365" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>  This capped off an incredible run from the Lions who had finished dead last in NPL Season 1, and had only one win and three losses after four games. They won the remaining three, finishing fourth, barely qualifying.&nbsp; This meant that they had to play an eliminator last week against the Kathmandu Gorkhas and then a qualifier against the popular Biratnagar Kings, whose squad included Sandeep Lamichhane, Faf du Plessis, and Martin Guptill. They won both in style. For the Royals, however, this was the second disappointing final in a row after being the best team in the group stage in both seasons of the NPL. National team batsman Binod Bhandari had had an excellent tournament for the Royals, but was in tears at having come this far again and fallen short.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213141228_a90fd0afaeec366416efe314464d6b1152bd9cca011346b77914c2037b6b156e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251213141228_a90fd0afaeec366416efe314464d6b1152bd9cca011346b77914c2037b6b156e" data-rendition-name="original" width="2048" height="1366" loading="lazy" alt="NPL 2"> </figure>  Despite the final being disappointingly less action-packed for the neutral viewer, the final marked the second successful execution of the NPL. The addition of seats and floodlights at the TU Cricket Stadium overlooking Kathmandu made evening games possible and improved the experience for fans.&nbsp; The floodlights also made for some gorgeous photography as the sun set behind Chandragiri, illuminating the Himalaya to the north in gradually fading shades of orange.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251205041256_280bea0db1d097c88d478f5ba7197b5e2faa05623ebf9c0438af46d85bdb891e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20251205041256_280bea0db1d097c88d478f5ba7197b5e2faa05623ebf9c0438af46d85bdb891e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1366" height="911" loading="lazy" alt="Cricket carnival NT"> <figcaption>Photo: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption> </figure>  Adam Rossington’s 323 runs, including a century, and Sandeep Lamichhane’s 17 wickets were the standout individual performances across the tournament in the past month.&nbsp; The tournament brought out characters much loved by the vociferous crowd, including ‘Taklu’ Irish commentator Andrew Leonard who worked in a Dhaka Topi, British presenter Jess Crowe who donned a Sari for the final, and Chitwan Rhinos’ charismatic mascot Mr Gaida who entertained the crowd with enthusiastic nonstop dancing.&nbsp; The tournament was such a draw that the university grounds looked like a carnival with food and merchandise stalls. The capacity 10,000 stadium drew such a crowd that Kathmandu streets were relatively quiet on Saturday with people also watching the game live on tv at home.&nbsp; Kathmandu’s residents were genuinely delighted at being able to talk about <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/cricket-carnival">a Nepali cricket tournament</a>, and not about the Indian or English Premier Leagues. And while everyone appreciated the cricket no matter who was playing, fans showed up for their provinces in loud numbers.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251205041256_e96211da042ec3043940f2feca4cd59dd00351af41a4ca029169871f69f51957.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20251205041256_e96211da042ec3043940f2feca4cd59dd00351af41a4ca029169871f69f51957" data-rendition-name="original" width="1366" height="911" loading="lazy" alt="Cricket carnival NT"> <figcaption>Photo: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption> </figure>  The organisers having proven themselves, future NPLs may need more stadiums in other provinces, even better overseas players.&nbsp; Sambhav Sirohiya of the Kathmandu Media Group ambitiously tweeted that he believes that the league could already become the second most valuable franchise cricket league NEXT SEASON, especially if the government would loosen up its regulations of advertising, especially that of alcohol. Nepali cricketers and fans are now better prepared for the T20 World Cup in India and Sri Lanka in February, with the experience of playing in the NPL and with the access to world-class cricket talent and seeing how they go about excelling at the sport.&nbsp;

Lumbini gets the lion’s share

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

People like myself were too young during the decade of the Maoist War to remember its horrors. We often wonder what life was truly like back then. Perhaps the closest we have come to experiencing a national crisis of that scale – with the protests, violence, curfews, and political maneuvering – was the GenZ movement in September. How did people cope? What did they fear? What was it like in the cities and &nbsp;villages? How was it that the king still held so much power? What motivated the guerrillas? And, how did &nbsp;ordinary people adjust and endure the war? My curiosity about the war that ended 20 years ago &nbsp;was met with a rollercoaster of emotions with Monica Rana’s debut novel, The Paths We Choose. The novel is not a retelling of events from the vantage of leaders, rebels. It is not about the violence, but a carefully curated perspective of ordinary people caught up in it. It is a glimpse into how the war altered or defined their paths. This is the 'People’s War' from the people’s own perspective. Readers are immediately invested into the lives of two central characters, the sister duo, Sumnima and Rita. The elder radiating from the beginning with her brave and cunning aura, and the latter, more timid and obedient, much of her time absorbed in awe of her sister. The writer’s language flows as effortlessly as the sisters’ strides up the hills to steal mangoes from Dhire Dai’s trees, only to race back down to Rato Mato, carrying us through their journey into adolescence. Amidst the rolling hills, mango trees, life is filled with laughter, adventures, and everyday banter, scenes so serene that they carry an unsettling calm that hints at what lies ahead. Village life is not all painted in romantic hues. The stark reality of poverty, subsistence, and contrast with the comfort of city living are never far away. Amidst these reminders, there runs a humbling truth: happiness once rested on small things, not on the material excess that define urban life. As the pages turn, the title begins to resonate: two sisters, once bound by the same bloodline, shared dreams, and the same roof, are caught in the crosshairs of war and forced onto separate paths. One by choice, and the other by necessity. The story unfolds with the seasons: the relentless monsoon rains, the scorching heat of summer, and a liberating winter that carries bittersweet truths. The year is 2001, as the insurgency intensifies. Against this backdrop, the cousins’ lives diverge. Sumnima is drawn into the rebels’ ranks to 'fight for equality and freedom', while Rita is uprooted, carried across distances, and placed in Seto Bangala as a helping hand among the higher-ups, in her family’s desperate attempt to secure her a better life after their village is reduced to a 'ghost city' by violent attacks. There are betrayals and beginnings, high palaces and humble hills, royals and rurals, identity and ideology, loss and lament, distance and discovery. Through upheavals, tears, and struggles, one thing remains constant: both sisters wonder about the other. They care. They long to reconnect. They hold fast to the dream they once shared to open a guesthouse in their village someday. A dream to simply live with no fear. To be free. To be happy. And, to be together. The writing illuminates vital themes: innocent people caught up in strife, the vast chasm of class from royals dining on silver plates to villagers back home hiding their last grain to save it from looters. And discrimination so stark it was as if people carried labels on their foreheads, marked by caste, skin colour, and gender. The sisters eventually reunite, but their journey is not an easy one, and what lies ahead is far from the future either of them once imagined. One might romanticise it as fate, or might recoil at the harsh reality Monica Rana lays bare: it is often the innocent who bear the heaviest burdens of war. Civilians are trapped between warring sides, enduring hunger, displacement, and violence through no fault of their own. Wars continue to rage across the world. Though the novel does not particularly focus on exposing the horrifying depths of war crimes, it remains a timeless reminder of what the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish once said: “The war will end, and leaders will shake hands. The old woman will keep waiting for her martyred son. And those children will keep waiting for their hero father. I don’t know who sold our homeland, but I saw who paid the price.” &nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251213031240_2f7c62e392a430082c1627719e014f82b857118e226299e1590d74503387ae93.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251213031240_2f7c62e392a430082c1627719e014f82b857118e226299e1590d74503387ae93" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="The paths we choose book review"> </figure>

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