Nearly 750,000 Nepalis went abroad for employment in the past year. Another 112,000 left initially on student visas, many of them also to <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/migration-not-a-wish-but-necessity-for-nepalis">work and emigrate</a>. These figures do not include those who went to India or left through unofficial channels. Back of the envelope, it would mean at least 1 million Nepalis left Nepal last year.&nbsp;
Besides these there are Nepalis settled permanently overseas, spread across North America, Europe, Australia, and East Asia. There are 290,000 documented people of Nepali origin in the US alone – their average yearly household income is more than $100,000.
Nepalis can run into compatriots in just about <a href="https://www.himalkhabar.com/news/143106">every corner of the globe</a>, and the money they send home annually just through official channels totals $11 billion. The real figure is much higher.&nbsp;
The decentralisation of the passport distribution in the 1990s for the first time made international movement easier for Nepalis. The Non-Resident Nepalis Association (NRNA), was established in 2003 and now has 97,000 members and chapters in 87 countries.
In 2008, the Nepal government introduced the Non-Resident Nepali Act, categorising Non-Resident Nepalis (NRNs) as either being an individual of Nepali origin who has acquired foreign citizenship, or a Nepali citizen residing abroad for more than two years. It excludes people of Nepali origin and Nepalis residing and working in SAARC member countries.
The 2015 Constitution stipulated that overseas Nepalis <a href="https://www.himalkhabar.com/news/143037">could ‘enjoy economic, social, and cultural rights in accordance with federal law’</a>. However, it took another eight years for Parliament to pass the Nepal Citizenship (First Amendment) Bill under which overseas Nepalis (except those in South Asia) had all the rights of Nepali citizens except the right to vote or run for political office.&nbsp;
The provisions laid down in the Constitution and law are not for dual citizenship, but for second citizenship. &nbsp;
Indeed, those who have gone through the process of obtaining an NRN citizenship have described it as <a href="https://www.himalkhabar.com/news/143112">needlessly convoluted</a>. District Administration Offices refuse to issue US-based NRNs a second citizenship without their Social Security number despite American laws prohibiting the disclosure of the number outside of the US. If they obtain Nepali citizenship, NRNs have had to pay visa fees even though there is a government directive that they do not have to do so.&nbsp;
The idea was to make it easy for many to invest in Nepal, or retire in their motherland in the hope that this <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/poor-cash-rich-nepal">would boost the economy</a>. Many first and second generation Nepali émigré across the world have children and grandchildren who want to know about their heritage.
Non-Resident Nepalis can acquire property in Nepal through purchase, inheritance, or investment. Those with foreign citizenship can obtain 10 year visa. They are also entitled to run any industry or business in Nepal, to set up bank accounts, and to bring in either Foreign Direct Investment (FDI) or make investments just like Nepali citizens. NRNs are exempt from taxes on investment, and may repatriate the investment and profits to their home country.
Despite these stipulations, the country’s investment climate is not conducive even for people of Nepali origin. There is just too much bureaucratic rigmarole, restrictions, kickbacks and payoffs every step of the way.&nbsp;
Inheritance rights <a href="https://www.himalkhabar.com/news/143037">only exist on paper</a>, NRN citizens are made to jump through too many hoops to purchase property and many have just given up. The word has spread in the NRN community that despite the 2022 Act, Nepal is not for the faint-hearted.
<a href="https://www.himalkhabar.com/news/143112">Tara Baral from Jhapa</a> spent 20 years and is a US citizen. After the 2022 NRN Act was passed by Parliament, he decided to move back to the motherland last year. He and his wife got NRN citizenship papers and wanted to buy an apartment in Kathmandu. Even though he was not buying real estate, just a flat, bureaucrats told him foreigners were not allowed to buy property.&nbsp;
Even though NRN citizenship allows people of Nepali origin to get a 10 year visa for free, Baral was asked by bureaucrats at the Immigration Department to pay for his visa renewal. Basudev Ghimire an American with NRN citizenship is asked at Kathmandu Airport to pay a visa fee every time he enters Nepal. He has not been able to buy any property. There are hundreds of examples like Baral and Ghimire.&nbsp;
NRNA founding chair Jiba Lamichhane says that rather than NRN citizenship, Nepalis who have acquired foreign passports should be allowed to have dual citizenship, unless they renounce it voluntarily. Lamichhane has lived overseas for almost four decades but still carries a Nepali passport.
Nepal’s main political parties have maintained strong ties with the diaspora for their dollars. Leading politicians make frequent fund-raising forays abroad. This has ended up <a href="https://www.himalkhabar.com/news/143121">politicising the NRN community</a>, reflecting the divisions back home. The power struggle for leadership is so strong that fist fights have broken out during NRNA elections in North America.&nbsp;
Nepal’s parties have been loath to address the issue of NRNs because they feel overseas Nepalis are inherently anti-incumbent. Many who left Nepal say they did so because they got fed up with bad governance, corruption and lack of jobs and a stagnant economy. This is also why parties in Parliament have stalled a bill that would give Nepali passport holders working and studying abroad absentee voting rights.&nbsp;
Heaping blame on just the politicians would be unfair. The bureaucracy has become a den of thieves, and despite acts of Parliament and laws they put hurdles every step of the way for overseas Nepalis to enjoy their constitutionally-given rights.&nbsp;
Based on Diaspora Discussion held by our sister publication Himalkhabar on 13 October. Watch full video in Nepali <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPdgbKAglrE&amp;t=2s">here</a>.

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Home is where the heart is

Ayan Dallakoti spent his childhood in Japan, speaking Japanese and for all intents and purposes, considered himself Japanese. It was only as he grew older that he realised he was actually from Nepal. &nbsp; Ayan was eight years old when his mother Pratibha brought him and his younger brother Avan back to Nepal. Their father Anjay, who is still in Japan, had decided to send the boys home so they could “become Nepali”. Ayan was somewhat familiar with the Nepali language and the country, but in Kathmandu, everything felt foreign, including the education system. “Things were a little easier when he had a classmate who had also returned from Japan, but making Nepali friends did not come easily for them,” remembers Pratibha.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240922040928_c4a683bc4723ce1f5b5683d41add972c915ea6b6fc229a44b713c707381d8787.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20240922040928_c4a683bc4723ce1f5b5683d41add972c915ea6b6fc229a44b713c707381d8787" data-rendition-name="original" width="5856" height="3904" loading="lazy" alt="Japan-born Nepali children NT 3"> <figcaption>All photos: GOPEN RAI</figcaption> </figure>  Japan is now a major destination for Nepali families like the Dallakotis. Officially, there are 180,000 Nepalis in Japan and 35,000 more left just in the past year – a 30% increase from the year before that.&nbsp; Japanese embassy figures show that of those who left last year, 23,124 were on student visas, 8,566 were on working visas and 7,849 were dependents. While most of the older generation of Nepalis in Japan are cooks who went as ‘skilled labour’, the new crop of migrants are mostly on student visas, working part-time. For the Japanese government, a student visa is a carefully calibrated temporary migration system to fill the country’s labour shortage in the service sector. Unlike the Gulf, Korea, Malaysia and other countries, Nepalis in Japan can also take along their families. Which is why Nepali schools have sprung up in large cities in Japan. These schools teach Nepali language, culture, and also English. But for families who work far away from those cities, the children have no option but to get a Japanese education.&nbsp; Anjay Dallakoti initially went to Japan as a student, but extended his stay with a working visa. Pratibha joined him a few years later as a dependent. Ayan was born in Japan, and six years later Avan. After 12 years, Pratibha is back in Nepal with both her boys.&nbsp; In many Nepali families in Japan, it is the children who are having to adjust to being caught in between two worlds. Many have to cope with the double adjustment of first arriving in Japan, and then returning to school in Nepal. According to Masako Tanaka, a professor at Tokyo’s Sophia University, nearly 20,000 Nepalis in Japan are minors. Tanaka has been working closely with Nepali migrants in Japan, and says many mothers are bringing their children back to Nepal because of worries that they are losing touch with their identity and culture back home. The other reason is that the children are not learning enough English, and the parents fear they will lose out in later life. &nbsp; “Returning to Nepal and studying in schools here helps create an environment for the children to either stay and work in Nepal in future or go to a third country,” says Sapana Kharel, who also returned to Nepal with her two children. For Nepali families who have not yet got permanent resident status, staying on in Japan and continuing their children’s education is too uncertain. They worry that this could interrupt their children’s education if they have to leave Japan midway through school.&nbsp; “There is fear that the children will neither have a place in Nepali schools nor there in Japan,” adds Kharel. Others say that they would have returned to Nepal for the sake of the children no matter what, even if they got permanent residence in Japan. Indeed, there are Nepali mothers who are already permanent residents who have opted to return with their children.&nbsp; Take the Subedi family who have permanent resident status in Japan, but brought their daughter Shibika to Nepal after she completed Grade 1 in Japan.&nbsp; Many migrant children like Shibika had to repeat grades they had already studied in Japan. She had to repeat Grade 1, and is now in Grade 9. Her mother Nitu Bista Subedi feels that repeating a year was necessary to strengthen her daughter’s foundation in the Nepali curriculum.&nbsp; “Shibika has fond memories of Japan and misses being together with the whole family there, and she worries that her Japanese classmates are getting ahead of her,” says Subedi. Ten-year-old Ahana Odari had her own struggles when she was brought to Nepal by her mother a year ago. She too had to repeat Grade 3. “She just wouldn’t speak for the first few months because of the language problem,” remembers her mother, Balika Odari. “Ahana took a whole year to adapt and adjust to Nepal and its ways. But this was necessary.”&nbsp; Like a lot of parents, Balika feels that although Japan’s education system is one of the best in the world, children there are more reclusive and do not socialise as much. “We were worried our children would turn out the same way, and that is why we decided to bring them back and introduce them to their country and culture,” she explains. In more extreme cases, migration can hinder the psychosocial development of returning children. &nbsp; “Early-age children are good at learning dual or multiple languages, but because of the limited vocabulary they are exposed to, they might not always have words to express how they are feeling. And that is where the problem lies,” says Srijana Adhikari, a clinical psychologist at Happy Minds.&nbsp; “For healthy development, the environment the child grows up in and the needs to be stable,” she adds. “If not, this may lead to problems adjusting, separation anxiety and struggles in building relationships.” Sneha Khatri, now 14, oscillated between Nepal and Japan over the years. She was born in Japan but was brought to Nepal when she was six. She studied here until Grade 3 and then went to the Nepali-run Everest International School in Tokyo.&nbsp; Sneha came back to Nepal a month ago to appear for her Basic Level Examination (BLE) but is worried about her results. She is taking extra tutorials in mathematics.&nbsp; Ayan is now in Grade 7, and is also worried about his BLE next year. He says in Japanese-accented English: “Social Studies is my first hardest subject, and Nepali is the second hardest.”&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240922040932_3ddaf6b56253baac855f2b4de4f9a646b1c80a677cc8e9d73d469a3c37496ea7.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20240922040932_3ddaf6b56253baac855f2b4de4f9a646b1c80a677cc8e9d73d469a3c37496ea7" data-rendition-name="original" width="5477" height="3651" loading="lazy" alt="Japan-born Nepali children NT 4"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240922040932_3b59646b4c1f30831b039caf8c5e9018fb0ce23349dacebfa0cbee024b4bd885.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20240922040932_3b59646b4c1f30831b039caf8c5e9018fb0ce23349dacebfa0cbee024b4bd885" data-rendition-name="original" width="5928" height="3808" loading="lazy" alt="Japan-born Nepali children NT 5"> </figure>  Speaking Nepali with family and friends is not hard for the returnee migrant children, but Nepali as an academic subject is difficult.&nbsp; Professor Tanaka says migrant children have fallen through the cracks between Japan and Nepal. She asks rhetorically, “Who will think about the welfare of the migrant children? Who is responsible for them?”&nbsp; Tanaka was in Kathmandu recently for a workshop on Nepali language education for migrant children during which she presented research findings of her Migrant Children Language Education project. Tanaka’s conclusion is that mother tongue Nepali language education is the best way to help the reintegration of children returning from Japan. “The government can start by developing Nepali language learning resources for online or home learners abroad, training teachers abroad, and organising and encouraging events for Nepali children overseas,” Tanaka told Nepali Times.&nbsp; “Nepal can learn from countries like Myanmar, Thailand, Vietnam and Brazil which are working on national language education for their migrant children in Japan.” To be sure, there are also students who are doing well despite the culture shock of moving back and forth between Japan and Nepal.&nbsp; Sapana Kharel’s daughter, Saurya was born in Japan. She came to Nepal when she was six to study in Nepal. Soon after, she went to Japan. She came back when she was 12 to appear for the Nepali BLE. She initially struggled and had low confidence, but soon overcame it and did well. “Now, I’ve realised the importance of learning my mother tongue and have taken up Nepali classes as part of my course,” says Saurya, now 17, in flawless Nepali. But for other migrant children whose parents do not speak enough Nepali when they were in Japan, mastering the mother tongue is still a big hurdle.&nbsp; Ayan’s mother looks at her two children playing at her home in Kirtipur, and says, “The sacrifice we made as a couple, living far from one another, is for our children, their education and for a better future.”&nbsp; <h2>Nepali in Nippon</h2>  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20240922040928_bb476f3818df3d28240779b520cb93b2aee216f9a1023e0bbe0fccd3abbcd6f6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20240922040928_bb476f3818df3d28240779b520cb93b2aee216f9a1023e0bbe0fccd3abbcd6f6" data-rendition-name="original" width="6000" height="4000" loading="lazy" alt="Japan-born Nepali children NT "> </figure>  In June, when the SEE (Secondary Education Examination) results came out, one of the students who passed was a Zambian national student from Japan. He was studying at the Everest International School Japan (EISJ) in Tokyo which follows the Nepali curriculum, and accommodates the need of families in Nepal and other countries in Japan to also learn English. Initially started in 2013 by the Nepali community, this school came under Nepal’s Ministry of Education (MoE) in 2015. EISJ is the only school in Japan that is certified to take Nepal’s SEE in Japan.&nbsp; Other schools that follow the Nepali curriculum have also opened up, over the years. But only two of them, Tokai Batika International School in Nagoya and Himalayan International Academy in Tokyo are certified to conduct Nepali curriculum as per Nepal’s Ministry of Education. But both provide education only below Grade 10.&nbsp; “As of now, the only country to have schools that follow Nepali curriculum is Japan,” says Parshuram Tiwari, director at the Education Review Office at the MoE in Kathmandu. The majority of Nepali families and a few non-Nepali families working in Japan decide to send their children to schools like EISJ because of the English medium. But these are private international schools, unlike the Japanese government schools which are free of cost. And because these schools are not certified, the Japanese government provides no subsidy, no transportation discount among other privileges to these schools, says Professor Masako Tanaka at Sophia University in Tokyo. &nbsp;“Most importantly, graduates of EISJ cannot get visa status independently even after graduation from high school level, while the migrant students who graduate from Japanese schools are eligible.” Many Nepali families enrol their children to such schools without knowing this, adds Tanka. But even those who know about drawbacks want to provide their children with the opportunity to get international exposure with English language skills. Nepali curriculum schools are mostly based in and around Tokyo, and many Nepali families who live in the suburbs of Japan opt to come to Nepal for their children’s education. (Adjoining article) “We lived in Niigata. It would take us six hours to travel to Everest International School in Tokyo. So, we came to Nepal to give our children English medium education,” says Pratibha Dallakoti, who returned from Japan with her two sons in 2020. While schools that follow the Nepali curriculum in Japan have been a relief for Nepali parents who want their children to pursue Nepali curriculum education, these schools getting certified by the Japanese government would be better. “There are several other international schools in Japan that are certified by both Japanese and foreign dual standards like the &nbsp;Kyoto Kokusai School,” wrote Professor Tanaka in an email interview. “It is for the better that these Nepali curriculum schools like EISJ become similar to KKS which makes it easier for the children as they can get a certificate from both the government. ”

Pinki Sris Rana

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Japan-born Nepali children struggle to ‘be Nepali’

Human history is woven in stories of migration for work and livelihood. The trend continues to be a legacy for most Nepali men, who have migrated for work to India, Burma and beyond for centuries, working odd jobs, or defending other countries.   <img width="1181" height="530" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181148/636be85b9c7e80680e087853jpeg.jpg" alt=""/>The more recent phenomenon in the past two decades is the outflow of workers to the Gulf and Malaysia, who battle challenges starting from agents at home to difficult weather conditions and foreign employers. In 2018-19, the government issued 236,208 permits for overseas work, and it is estimated that at least 4 million Nepalis at any given time are working abroad. Khushiram Gurung, Sultan Tika and Ram from different regions of Nepal, have spent a large part of their lives toiling in foreign countries, while their hearts stayed back home. Now, their children are following their fathers’ footsteps in this inter-generational trend.  <figure><img width="650" height="451" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181148/636be85c9c7e80680e087854jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Khushiram Gurung has been working in Bahrain as a security guard since 2010.He was first introduced to Bahrain in 2003, when he was a 15-year-old boy in Lamjung. His father, an Indian Army returnee, was waiting to hear from a Kathmandu-based recruiter regarding a security guard job in Malaysia. But the agent came back with a possible opportunity in Bahrain instead.The family had never heard of Bahrain, but after learning that the salary would be over Rs30,000 per month, they said yes. In the next few days, Khushiram’s father arranged Rs100,000 via informal loans, and left for Bahrain. Five years later, Khushiram’s brother joined him in Bahrain. After 7 years, it was Khushiram. Having grown up without his father around, it was in Bahrain that he spent more time with him.  <figure><img width="1152" height="864" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181148/636be85e9c7e80680e087855jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“When we were growing up and my father was away in India, we didn’t know when he would return. My siblings and I would wake up some days and he would just be sitting in the kitchen, having arrived late in the previous night.” When his father left for Bahrain, his presence became the letters that arrived at great intervals. “We used to go to the Hulak post office to see if there was a letter. The day the letters arrived, we would run home from school at around 4PM and wait for my mother to return from the fields. But once she was back, my siblings and I would sit around and my elder brother would read out the letter,” recalls Khushiram.By 2012, with three family members in Bahrain, finances had improved and they were building a house in Kathmandu. But their lives came crashing when his mother was diagnosed with cancer. “The ones left behind rarely get the attention and credit they deserve for keeping families intact. We are viewed as the providers, but to me, it was my mother who was the real leader of our family,” says Khushiram.The family gave the mother the treatment they could afford, but there came a time when the doctors said nothing more could be done. Khushiram and his brother decided to send their father home. “We had to convince our father it was time he left, without telling him what the doctors had said. He agreed. We cried.”The two were able to spend a few months together before she passed. “But we were not able to spend time with our mother even in her last days. That is the dilemma of foreign employment. Between our duty hours and the news of our mother’s cancer, much remains a blur,” he says. <figure><img width="1241" height="1448" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181148/636be8619c7e80680e087856jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Khushiram, now a father of a six-year-old boy, hopes that his son will not have to opt for foreign employment. “While I want him to stay in Nepal, our politicians, with their self-interest and cronyism, will likely chase my son abroad just like they did my father, brother and I."***Sultan Tika left Gulmi for Malaysia in 1991. He used his connections to arrange a visit visa as there were no work permits, and Nepalis went via Thailand. “I went to Malaysia because I had been told that there is an option for citizenship if you stay there for a few years, only to realise it wasn’t true,” Sultan recalls. <figure><img width="960" height="720" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181148/636be8649c7e80680e087857jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>  The term ‘setting’ where transnational networks operated were already a thing then. He had to pay Rs80,000 to the agents. “For someone who had barely seen 500 rupee notes, this amount was really large. At that time, you could buy 1 बिघा (0.4 hectare) land at Rs50,000.” Sultan was paid Rs240 a day to do agricultural work.   The reluctance to hire foreign workers in Malaysia was as real then as they are now. Sectors like agriculture were facing shortages, however, and without legal pathways, illegal options were the only route. Sultan says Nepalis started coming “in droves” to Malaysia from 2001, when the government introduced work permits for foreign workers, first for agriculture workers then for security guards. As a veteran migrant worker in the agriculture sector, Sultan leased land and started his own initiative in Penang. He also became the go-to person for many Nepalis who had escaped their abusive employers or were seeking work. “For many, it was a transit job so they could earn enough to buy their tickets home,” he says.In 2017, Sultan decided to pack up and come home. He has set up an agriculture farm in Gulmi, where he is raising 90 goats and has set up a greenhouse for vegetables farming.  <img width="720" height="960" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181148/636be8679c7e80680e087858jpeg.jpg" alt=""><img width="720" height="960" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181148/636be86a9c7e80680e087859jpeg.jpg" alt="">Sultan Tika in his home village in Gulmi. “When I went to Malaysia in 1991, it felt like Nepal and Malaysia were similar. By the time I left, Malaysia had advanced so much,” he says now. But he is optimistic about the opportunities promised by mechanised agriculture in Nepal, with the right incentives and policies in place.****Ram first went abroad for work in 1998.  “Everyone said Arab is the place to be, so I too wanted to go,” he says. The names Qatar, Saudi Arabia and Dubai sounded familiar but it did not matter to him where he landed up as long as he could leave Nepal.Ram was charged Rs55,000 for a security job in Dubai. There was not much documentation and process in those days. There were not many Nepalis in Dubai in 1998 but it was exciting to bump into them and ask how long they had been there.“If they said 4 or 5 years, I would feel a mixture of shock and pity for them. The idea of being in a foreign country for so long was new to me,” he says. “Little did I know that I would still be here in 2020.”In Ram’s memory, Dubai almost looked like Nepal when he first arrived. “There were no tall buildings. Even the airport was small and dingy. Look at this place now. Dubai has changed a lot, but I have not changed at all.” “Back then, a 30 dirham phone card lasted 3 minutes. I used to use one to talk to the shopkeeper with the phone to arrange the time for the call. And another one to talk to my family at the pre-arranged time. I would make up my mind in advance about the things I wanted to say in those three minutes. The rest went in the letter,” he recalls.Working as a security guard everyday for two decades have been a repetition of the previous day for Ram. “No career progression. No change in routine. Some clever Nepali guards become group leaders, but the rest of us are always security officers.”Every year, he spends over 4,000 hours guarding either private residences or commercial buildings. “I usually get the 12-hour night shifts from 5PM to 5AM. It is difficult to feel rested when you sleep during the day. And it takes a toll on your health.” With low incomes, saving is a challenge. And there are always new expenses. There’s children’s education and bigger investments like land and house. “Then it is your children’s wedding. And your parents’ health costs. Just when you think you are done some other expense shows up, and you keep postponing your return home.” Ram’s elder daughter got married recently and he could not be home. “Remittances helped me pay for my daughter’s wedding. But my job did not let me go back to attend it.”Now in his 50s, Ram says that unlike the lyrics to the song Saili that says, “we will return home at 40”, he is late by a decade. “My visa expires in 18 months. I think I will now head home for good. It is time.”

Upasana Khadka

Sons of their fathers

Human history is woven in stories of migration for work and livelihood. The trend continues to be a legacy for most Nepali men, who have migrated for work to India, Burma and beyond for centuries, working odd jobs, or defending other countries.   <img width="1181" height="530" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bef504b0ad905ca02ef9cjpeg.jpg" alt=""/>The more recent phenomenon in the past two decades is the outflow of workers to the Gulf and Malaysia, who battle challenges starting from agents at home to difficult weather conditions and foreign employers. In 2018-19, the government issued 236,208 permits for overseas work, and it is estimated that at least 4 million Nepalis at any given time are working abroad. Khushiram Gurung, Sultan Tika and Ram from different regions of Nepal, have spent a large part of their lives toiling in foreign countries, while their hearts stayed back home. Now, their children are following their fathers’ footsteps in this inter-generational trend.  <figure><img width="650" height="451" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bef534b0ad905ca02ef9djpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Khushiram Gurung with his family at their Kathmandu home. </figcaption></figure>Khushiram Gurung has been working in Bahrain as a security guard since 2010.He was first introduced to Bahrain in 2003, when he was a 15-year-old boy in Lamjung. His father, an Indian Army returnee, was waiting to hear from a Kathmandu-based recruiter regarding a security guard job in Malaysia. But the agent came back with a possible opportunity in Bahrain instead.The family had never heard of Bahrain, but after learning that the salary would be over Rs30,000 per month, they said yes. In the next few days, Khushiram’s father arranged Rs100,000 via informal loans, and left for Bahrain. Five years later, Khushiram’s brother joined him in Bahrain. After 7 years, it was Khushiram. Having grown up without his father around, it was in Bahrain that he spent more time with him.  <figure><img width="1152" height="864" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bef554b0ad905ca02ef9ejpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> Khushiram Gurung with colleagues when he first arrived in Bahrain.</figcaption></figure>“When we were growing up and my father was away in India, we didn’t know when he would return. My siblings and I would wake up some days and he would just be sitting in the kitchen, having arrived late in the previous night.” When his father left for Bahrain, his presence became the letters that arrived at great intervals. “We used to go to the Hulak post office to see if there was a letter. The day the letters arrived, we would run home from school at around 4PM and wait for my mother to return from the fields. But once she was back, my siblings and I would sit around and my elder brother would read out the letter,” recalls Khushiram.By 2012, with three family members in Bahrain, finances had improved and they were building a house in Kathmandu. But their lives came crashing when his mother was diagnosed with cancer. “The ones left behind rarely get the attention and credit they deserve for keeping families intact. We are viewed as the providers, but to me, it was my mother who was the real leader of our family,” says Khushiram.The family gave the mother the treatment they could afford, but there came a time when the doctors said nothing more could be done. Khushiram and his brother decided to send their father home. “We had to convince our father it was time he left, without telling him what the doctors had said. He agreed. We cried.”The two were able to spend a few months together before she passed. “But we were not able to spend time with our mother even in her last days. That is the dilemma of foreign employment. Between our duty hours and the news of our mother’s cancer, much remains a blur,” he says. <figure><img width="1241" height="1448" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bef574b0ad905ca02ef9fjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Khushiram Gurung at the airport in Bahrain with his father, seeing him off as he headed back home for good.</figcaption></figure>Khushiram, now a father of a six-year-old boy, hopes that his son will not have to opt for foreign employment. “While I want him to stay in Nepal, our politicians, with their self-interest and cronyism, will likely chase my son abroad just like they did my father, brother and I."***Sultan Tika left Gulmi for Malaysia in 1991. He used his connections to arrange a visit visa as there were no work permits, and Nepalis went via Thailand. “I went to Malaysia because I had been told that there is an option for citizenship if you stay there for a few years, only to realise it wasn’t true,” Sultan recalls. <figure><img width="960" height="720" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bef5a4b0ad905ca02efa0jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption>Sultan Tika in Malaysia, in front of Petronas.</figcaption></figure>  The term ‘setting’ where transnational networks operated were already a thing then. He had to pay Rs80,000 to the agents. “For someone who had barely seen 500 rupee notes, this amount was really large. At that time, you could buy 1 बिघा (0.4 hectare) land at Rs50,000.” Sultan was paid Rs240 a day to do agricultural work.   The reluctance to hire foreign workers in Malaysia was as real then as they are now. Sectors like agriculture were facing shortages, however, and without legal pathways, illegal options were the only route. Sultan says Nepalis started coming “in droves” to Malaysia from 2001, when the government introduced work permits for foreign workers, first for agriculture workers then for security guards. As a veteran migrant worker in the agriculture sector, Sultan leased land and started his own initiative in Penang. He also became the go-to person for many Nepalis who had escaped their abusive employers or were seeking work. “For many, it was a transit job so they could earn enough to buy their tickets home,” he says.In 2017, Sultan decided to pack up and come home. He has set up an agriculture farm in Gulmi, where he is raising 90 goats and has set up a greenhouse for vegetables farming.  <img width="720" height="960" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bef5c4b0ad905ca02efa1jpeg.jpg" alt=""><img width="720" height="960" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191120/636bef5f4b0ad905ca02efa2jpeg.jpg" alt="">Sultan Tika in his home village in Gulmi. “When I went to Malaysia in 1991, it felt like Nepal and Malaysia were similar. By the time I left, Malaysia had advanced so much,” he says now. But he is optimistic about the opportunities promised by mechanised agriculture in Nepal, with the right incentives and policies in place.****Ram first went abroad for work in 1998.  “Everyone said Arab is the place to be, so I too wanted to go,” he says. The names Qatar, Saudi Arabia and Dubai sounded familiar but it did not matter to him where he landed up as long as he could leave Nepal.Ram was charged Rs55,000 for a security job in Dubai. There was not much documentation and process in those days. There were not many Nepalis in Dubai in 1998 but it was exciting to bump into them and ask how long they had been there.“If they said 4 or 5 years, I would feel a mixture of shock and pity for them. The idea of being in a foreign country for so long was new to me,” he says. “Little did I know that I would still be here in 2020.”In Ram’s memory, Dubai almost looked like Nepal when he first arrived. “There were no tall buildings. Even the airport was small and dingy. Look at this place now. Dubai has changed a lot, but I have not changed at all.” “Back then, a 30 dirham phone card lasted 3 minutes. I used to use one to talk to the shopkeeper with the phone to arrange the time for the call. And another one to talk to my family at the pre-arranged time. I would make up my mind in advance about the things I wanted to say in those three minutes. The rest went in the letter,” he recalls.Working as a security guard everyday for two decades have been a repetition of the previous day for Ram. “No career progression. No change in routine. Some clever Nepali guards become group leaders, but the rest of us are always security officers.”Every year, he spends over 4,000 hours guarding either private residences or commercial buildings. “I usually get the 12-hour night shifts from 5PM to 5AM. It is difficult to feel rested when you sleep during the day. And it takes a toll on your health.” With low incomes, saving is a challenge. And there are always new expenses. There’s children’s education and bigger investments like land and house. “Then it is your children’s wedding. And your parents’ health costs. Just when you think you are done some other expense shows up, and you keep postponing your return home.” Ram’s elder daughter got married recently and he could not be home. “Remittances helped me pay for my daughter’s wedding. But my job did not let me go back to attend it.”Now in his 50s, Ram says that unlike the lyrics to the song Saili that says, “we will return home at 40”, he is late by a decade. “My visa expires in 18 months. I think I will now head home for good. It is time.”

https://youtu.be/NR6mf_rrRb0Learning from the success of overseas Chinese and Indians investing in their homeland, the Nepal government hurriedly passed two foreign investment related bills recently. But non-resident Nepalis are not impressed.The Public Private Partnership and Investment (PPPIA) Bill was passed by Parliament on 18 March, and the Foreign Investment and Technology Transfer (FITTA) Bill on 22 March, but investors say it does not go far enough in allying their concerns.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110811118/636a2b239c7e80680e04595ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="211" height="182"/>Read also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/maze/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Maze</a><a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/invest-in-investment/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Invest in investment</a>, Editorial<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=23939&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Curb corruption before wooing investors</a>, Ramesh KumarNot only do the bills have contradictory provisions with an extended negative list, a minimum limit for investments, and requirements of multiple approvals, experts say they do not address the central concern of transparency, policy continuity and rule of law.FITTA has extended the negative list (sectors in which foreign investment is prohibited) to include agriculture, horticulture, and dairy, sectors which many overseas Nepalis are eager to modernise and create jobs back home.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepal-inc/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Nepal, Inc.</a>, Suman Joshi<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=23951&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">A roller coaster ride</a>, Shyamal K Shrestha “When you prohibit so many areas for foreign investment, you are giving the wrong message to investors, especially to non-resident Nepalis. Not only does it render some sectors completely off limits, it also scares investors that their current investments may become off limits in future,” says <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/bottom-up-approach/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Siddhant Pandey of Business Oxygen</a>. “Investment should be welcomed in all areas so as to help economic growth, technology transfer and to bring Nepal’s human resources up to speed.”The Non-resident Nepali (NRN) Association is concerned about shortcomings in the Acts, and has said so through a document published by its policy research wing Nepal Policy Institute (NPI) which rues the fact that the Acts treat overseas Nepalis, foreign citizens of Nepali origin, and other foreign investors alike.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/two-experts-on-nepals-investment-climate/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Nepal’s investment climate</a><a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/how-nepal-can-invest-in-improving-the-investment-climate/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">How Nepal can invest in improving the investment climate</a>, Anil Chitrakar Says Khagendra Dhakal of NPI: “The government says it needs the negative list to protect small-scale industries, but people of Nepali origins have special emotional ties to Nepal even if they may not have enough capital for large scale investments. NRNs and foreign citizens of Nepali origins should be given the same rights as Nepali citizens.”The NPI report recommends scrapping the negative list and lifting restrictions on foreigners from investing in businesses worth less than $150,000 for overseas Nepalis.“If a business worth $100,000 is employing at least 20 Nepalis and training them in new technology, it should be open to investment for NRNs and foreigners of Nepali origin too,” says Dhakal.However, FITTA authorises the Industry and Investment Promotion Board to approve companies investing Rs5-10 billion, while PPPIA directs companies above Rs6 billion to the Investment Board Nepal (IBN).Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/early-investors-didnt-sell-nepal-short/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Early investors didn’t sell Nepal short</a>, Lisa Choegyal<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=23904&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Napoli Nepali</a>, Kunda Dixit<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110811118/636a2b249c7e80680e04595bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1000" height="428"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Amidst concern that PPPIA concentrates power in the IBN, which does not have much to show for itself, the real question at the Summit this week is whether these hastily-passed bills will remove misgivings of foreigners and NRNs about investing in Nepal.Economist and former Nepali ambassador to the United States Shankar Sharma believes that the law itself is not the problem when it comes to attracting foreign investment, but its execution.“We have good laws but their implementation is weak, which is the real problem,” says Sharma. “There is supposed to be a one-door policy, but in reality investors are made to jump through hoops to register companies or repatriate profits. The process is cumbersome, full of hassles. We need detailed guidelines about how these laws will be simpler and easier to implement.”Former president of NRN association Jiba Lamichhane agrees, stating that though the laws are all right there are other problems. “Overall our laws are quite liberal, but they fail to create a conducive investment climate with extortion, hassles over repatriating profits. If we want to attract investment, we must learn from best practices around the world. African countries attract huge investments from China while we have not been able to do so despite being next door,” he says.Investing in Nepal is more expensive than in other Asian countries due to the lack of skilled manpower and infrastructure, and experts say that without improvements the two bills are not going to make much of a difference.On the positive side, FITTA and PPPIA have eliminated many of the hassles related to registering FDI companies. Investors who needed to get approval from at least five agencies, now need to go to only two.The World Bank’s Nepal Country Manager Faris Hadad-Zervos told Nepali Times: “Nepal is entering a new chapter in its development, and it is not just about one law or policy but a change in the narrative where Nepal has survived several crises and is moving to rebuilding. The actual impact of the bills will depend on regulations to operationalise these laws.”

Overseas Nepalis are not impressed

Sha Bahadur Gurung was 30 years old when he was arrested for participating in a peaceful protest. He died aged 65 last week in Bhutan’s Chamgang Central Prison. He was among 31 prisoners of conscience in Bhutan, many of whom are serving long sentences for opposing the regime’s forcible expulsion of 100,000 of its Lhotsampa people in the early 1990s. ‘Mr Gurung died on 15 December in his prison cell under circumstances that raise serious concerns about custodial negligence and long-term abuse,” said a statement by the Global Campaign for the Release of Political Prisoners in Bhutan (GCRPPB) based in The Hague which demanded an external probe, justice and release of remaining political prisoners. Gurung was from Chirang and was arrested in 1990 while serving in the Royal Bhutan Army, and accused of having sympathies for the Lhotsampa people. He was mostly held at the notorious Rabuna Prison in Wangdi Phodrang District.&nbsp; Gurung’s relatives in the United States said he had endured prolonged physical and psychological abuse during his imprisonment, and repeatedly subjected to torture and inhumane treatment. They believe the decades of ill-treatment had damaged his health, ultimately leading to his death. Earlier this month, Gurung was transferred from Rabuna to Chamgang Central Prison. On 14 December. He had gone to bed after dinner without any visible sign of distress. He was found unconscious in his cell the next morning.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224151248_5fc8305ecd320d89b9e343c04a1a897dc1353353da55b6d277f5398034b265ea.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251224151248_5fc8305ecd320d89b9e343c04a1a897dc1353353da55b6d277f5398034b265ea" data-rendition-name="original" width="902" height="1103" loading="lazy" alt="Sha Bahadur Gurung NT"> <figcaption>Sha Bahadur Gurung, who died at age 65 in prison in Bhutan after serving 30 years for expressing political opinion.</figcaption> </figure>  He was referred to a hospital in Thimphu, suggesting that he was still alive during transfer to a local health post. But it appears that he had already died before being taken from prison. Gurung’s death occurred two days before Bhutan’s National Day on 17 December, when families, supporters, and human rights advocates worldwide had hoped for the release of political prisoners through a royal amnesty. Instead, the death of one of the longest-serving political prisoners has caused grief and anger in the Bhutanese diaspora.&nbsp; “We strongly condemn the treatment and death of Gurung, a peaceful and justice-loving Bhutanese citizen,” the V statement said. ‘This tragedy raises serious questions about the treatment of political prisoners in Bhutan and stands in stark contrast to the country’s international image under the principles of Gross National Happiness, compassion, and mindfulness.’ Earlier this year, The <a href="https://www.ohchr.org/en/special-procedures/wg-arbitrary-detention/opinions-adopted-working-group-arbitrary-detention/opinions-adopted-working-group-arbitrary-detention-its-101st-session" target="_blank">United Nations Working Group on Arbitrary Detention</a> said the Bhutan government was detaining citizens without parole for <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/detainees-in-dire-straits-in-bhutan-s-prisons" target="_blank">expressing political opinion</a>. The New York-based Human Rights Watch (HRW) said in 2023 that there were least 37 <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2023/03/13/bhutan-free-long-term-political-prisoners" target="_blank">political prisoners</a> in Bhutan’s jails. Of them, 32 belong to the Nepali-speaking Lhotshampa community, which has faced <a href="https://www.hrw.org/news/2003/06/18/nepal-bhutanese-refugees-rendered-stateless" target="_blank">decades of discrimination and abuse</a> and eviction. Most of them were convicted because of prohibited political activity between 1990 and 2008. One political prisoner, <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/no-country-for-dissent?fbclid=IwAR07lpitMBWAYSkny_3d_smQBlmoxAOQm1OxdNtl-27h8mV0RNO9IxVY2qs" target="_blank">Madhukar Monger</a>, who was released in 2023 after serving 29 years described brutal conditions in <a href="https://www.hrw.org/asia/bhutan" target="_blank">Bhutan</a>'s jails. Political prisoners were not given enough food, and medical care, he said, urging the internaitoonal community to press for the release of prisoners of conscience.&nbsp; In March, <a href="https://www.hrw.org/about/people/meenakshi-ganguly" target="_blank">Meenakshi Ganguly</a>, Deputy Asia director at Human Rights Watch, urged Bhutan’s international partners to call on the Bhutan government to release all remaining political prisoners immediately.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224161216_9d11a78ed5490091c595341900e4c26f5c0dd0328718f6930ef19c1e9b7f95a6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="20251224161216_9d11a78ed5490091c595341900e4c26f5c0dd0328718f6930ef19c1e9b7f95a6" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1422" loading="lazy" alt="Bhutan political prisoners NT"> </figure>   <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251224161216_176855f3d3df42d24ac7e77372bbf49115695b732a6c094a66267e969111dfca.jpg" data-media-id="editor_9" data-image-id="20251224161216_176855f3d3df42d24ac7e77372bbf49115695b732a6c094a66267e969111dfca" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1420" loading="lazy" alt="Bhutan political prisoners NT"> </figure>  &nbsp;

Bhutan political prisoner dies in detention

When Winston Churchill addressed the Canadian Parliament in December 1941, he recalled that generals of Nazi-occupied France had said that England would “have her neck wrung like a chicken”. Churchill went on to quip: “Some chicken.” As the laughter and applause subsided, he added: “Some neck.” (Even longer laughter and applause) We do not know who first started calling the narrow corridor that joins India to its northeastern states a 'Chicken’s Neck', but there also was the hint of a Churcillian connotation. Akhilesh Upadhayay in his new book In the Margins of the Empires: A History of the Chicken’s Neck, uses this strip as an entry point to explore a region adjoining Nepal, Bhutan, China, Sikkim, Darjeeling, India’s northeast and the tectonics that shaped its geo-strategic terrain.&nbsp; Upadhyay’s Chicken Neck is an organic whole, connected through centuries by transboundary traders, travellers, monks, spies, missionaries, mountaineers, and more. And as infrastructure and connectivity improves, smaller countries like Nepal and Bhutan (and earlier Sikkim) are caught up in the region’s rivalries. The tri-junction of the Chicken’s Neck is a potential flashpoint that has obsessed India’s military strategists ever since Partition in 1947 and the formation of East Pakistan, and the Chinese annexation of Tibet. India found itself squeezed between Chumbi Valley in China to the north and Pakistan to the south. So, when Sikkim started acting too independent for its own good 50 years ago, India engineered its annexation and turned it into its 22nd state. The 1962 Sino-Indian war elevated its strategic importance even more. Alarm bells ring in New Delhi each time there is trouble around the Chicken’s Neck: the Naxalite uprising had to be swiftly crushed, the Indian military moved in to liberate Bangladesh, Gorkhaland and ULFA activities were dangerously nearby, Bhutan had to be appeased. Every once in a while things would flare up between India and China, as in the 2017 Doklam standoff.&nbsp; And last year’s regime change in Bangladesh has rattled New Delhi enough to deploy its Rafael fighters and BrahMos cruise missiles in the Chicken’s Neck. It is now the most densely militarised strip of real estate in this part of the world. &nbsp; As a journalist and former editor of Kathmandu Post, Upadhyay also peers at the Chicken’s Neck through Nepal’s perspective. After all, Jhapa (where the author is originally from) sits right there astride India’s strategic lifeline.&nbsp; Geopolitics is at the front and centre of the book that takes readers back to the time Nepal was a closed Himalayan kingdom.&nbsp; Nepal may be a yam between two boulders, but it may just as well be a thicker Chicken’s Neck as far as New Delhi and Beijing are concerned. Nepal’s rulers have always had to walk the tightrope between China and India. Khampa guerrillas, covertly helped by American and Indian intelligence, raided Chinese military convoys from bases in Nepal, and King Mahendra had to do some intricate diplomatic footwork. India is often described as Nepal’s closest friend, but our relations with China go back as long in terms of the Lhasa trade, Bhrikuti and Arniko, religious exchanges and people-to-people relations. While Nepali researchers are wary of touching on Chinese, Indian or American sensitivities, Upadhyay’s journalistic background means he has no qualms about tackling the subject head-on, and objectively. He spent more than a year researching the book, sniffing around Siliguri, Bagdogra, Naxalbari, Darjeeling and the villages on the Jhapa side. Then he travelled to Olangchung Gola to listen to ordinary people of the Himalayan rimlands. Despite the perception about rigid frontiers between nation states, the book hints at how absurd the notion is. The Chicken’s Neck is also a wild elephant migration corridor, disturbed by the India-Bangladesh border fence, new expressway embankments, airport runways, and expanding cities. Similarly, the people on the Nepal-tibet border used to cross over to graze yaks — this expanded the gene pools of not just the yaks but also the nomadic humans who moved with the herds.&nbsp; Despite the hard borders, trade flourishes. Upadhyay marvels that a shop in Phungling in Taplejung has embroidered saris from Siliguri and fluffy jackets from China. he finds that residents in the northeastern and southeastern tips of Nepal have more in common with kin across the border in Tibet or India than with someone from Kathmandu. Nepal was once one of the biggest trade hubs in ancient times, and our products were treated as equals in Indian border cities. People too, could move freely, especially if they were and are from bordering Tarai cities.&nbsp; Nepal’s rich history and culture was shaped by the proximity to neighbours, and despite borders it is still cemented by marriages and trade — especially in the Nepali-speaking lands to the east. Its geographical positioning makes Nepal not landlocked but land-linked, adjacent to the largest emerging economies of the world. Nepal needs to deploy its soft power with effective diplomacy to take advantage of these two empires, and not be choked by their rivalry. The book was going to press when the GenZ protests ignited in September, but Upadhyay nevertheless managed to insert the current political transition into the pages with deft editing. &nbsp;The final section of the book examines at least three possible scenarios that may unfold as South Asia continues to be shaped by great power rivalries and imperial contests that have weakened the unilateral influence of the west.&nbsp; Akhilesh Upadhyay extrapolates from the Chicken’s Neck, zooming out for a wider perspective on the Subcontinent. &nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025121912124_0ae772e7736a65f53a99599b5724ca133a64fdea0e61c7170ea81f9dd95c7af0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2025121912124_0ae772e7736a65f53a99599b5724ca133a64fdea0e61c7170ea81f9dd95c7af0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="In the Margins of Empires: A History of the Chicken’s Neck NT"> </figure>

Some chicken, some neck

‘Get out of my house.’ ‘All my sickness is because of you.’ ‘You’re a millstone around my neck.’ Arundhati Roy heard these admonitions from her mother over and over throughout her life.&nbsp; This must be a singular, yet universal experience. There must be very few daughters who make it through life unscathed by their mothers. And vice-versa.&nbsp; How many of our mothers look at us and see in us the potential of all of the lives they could have lived? How many resent us for it, or want us to live those lives in their stead? And how many of us look back at our mothers and imagine what they would have achieved had they not been expected and assigned to play the role of wife, daughter-in-law, mother — had we never existed in their lives? How many mothers project their experiences onto their own daughters and continue the cycle? No daughter seems to escape it — no matter how well-behaved, docile, unruly, or rebellious. Certainly not the child who would go on to become a Booker prize-winning author. Arundhati Roy’s memoir Mother Mary Comes To Me chronicles her complex relationship with her mother Mary, or Mrs Roy, as her educator mother had her two children refer to her. In December, Arundhati Roy was in Kathmandu to sign books and briefly interact with readers at two bookshops in the city. She describes a childhood overshadowed by her mother’s volatility towards her and her brother. Mary herself was raised by an abusive father to escape whom she married the first man who proposed — Arundhati’s father who in her mother’s words turned out to be an alcoholic ‘Nothing Man’.&nbsp; Mary left her husband in Assam and eventually wound up with her two children in her town of Aymanam in Kerala, encountering other family members along the way who did not treat her, or her children with respect. The trauma and cruelty her mother endured could not be contained in her body, and spilled out onto her two children, towards whom she was physically, verbally, and emotionally abusive.&nbsp; While she treated her children with disregard, she would build a school in the nearby town of Kottayam from the ground up, educate thousands of children, take up a legal fight that led to the Supreme Court granting Syrian Christian women in India equal inheritance rights, and uplift many orphaned children and women in Kerala.&nbsp; Arundhati lived with both her mother’s brutality and brilliance. And like her daughter, readers must reconcile the indefensible parts of Mary Roy’s personality — the cruelty of calling her nine-year-old daughter a bitch, or shooting the family dog that mated with a stray — with her unyielding drive to educate thousands, fight for equal rights, and challenge the way her world viewed women.&nbsp; Mrs Roy had little kindness for her own children, but plenty for the students, children, and women whose lives she shaped, and made better. And her kindness was not rooted in empathy, but in anger at the hand she had been dealt in life. Eventually, Arundhati decided to temporarily cut all contact with Mrs Roy — not because she did not love her, she writes, but so that she could continue to love her. Her desire to get away from her abusive mother, and her fascination with the ideas inspired by the architect who built her mother’s school, would lead her to the Delhi School of Architecture at age 16. In Delhi, Arundhati became roommates with Hisila Yami before she and her Maoist ideologue husband Baburam Bhattarai went underground to lead Nepal’s decade-long armed struggle. &nbsp; But architecture was not her calling. In Delhi, the heart of India’s statecraft, Arundhati came into young adulthood against a backdrop of the country’s changing socio-politics, which began to take a turn for the hyper-nationalist, Hindu supremacist community that it has now largely become. The winds of those changes have now blown into Nepal. In the city, far from her mother, Arundhati met the man who would become her partner of many years, collaborating with him on several films and screenplays before finding the language (‘I needed to hunt [language] down like prey,’ she writes) she needed to become the writer she is now.&nbsp; She went on to write her Booker prize-winning novel The God of Small Things, but the wealth and status the book brought her did not sit comfortably. So she smashed her newly-built gilded cage, as she describes it, and became more political. Contrary to norm, she published several works of non-fiction, and would only publish her second novel, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, in 2017, 20 years after The God of Small Things. &nbsp;&nbsp; Her fierce opposition to India’s nuclear policies, to a dam that would displace millions of indigenous people and ecologically damage the Narmada Valley, her championing of Kashmiri self-determination, and her time spent with Maoist rebels in the forests of Chhattisgarh as they took up arms to defend their land and resources against corporate interests made her an enemy of the state.&nbsp; Meanwhile, being raised by a single mother had never sat well within her Syrian Christian community. ‘I wasn't Christian enough. I wasn't Hindu enough. I wasn't communist enough. I wasn't enough,’ Roy writes in her memoir. For all her love for India, the nation did not seem to reciprocate. The circumstances might be different, but it might strike a chord with readers in Nepal, many of whom marched on the streets in September hoping for a better tomorrow, but were gunned down by the very institutions meant to protect them. It might resonate with those who are not seen as citizens of this nation simply because they might not fit into an imagined idea of Nepali nationhood.&nbsp; Arundhati’s relationship with her mother, who was simultaneously proud and disdainful of her daughter’s accomplishments, continued to be tumultuous until the end of Mary Roy’s life.&nbsp; One of Mrs Roy’s last messages to her daughter before she passed was: ‘There is no one in the world whom I have loved more than you.’ Arundhati muses that her lifelong refusal to stop loving her mother must have finally breached her barriers. One wonders if that final declaration of love was solace enough, apology enough, for all the pain caused.&nbsp; But for Arundhati Roy, her love for her mother and her motherland outweighs the cruelty both have shown her. This, too, must be a singular, yet universal experience.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025122208128_32b171acb09df2184495367b74efd91fe2896b0f5ba75b276e1533276268761c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2025122208128_32b171acb09df2184495367b74efd91fe2896b0f5ba75b276e1533276268761c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="Mother Mary Comes to Me review"> </figure>

The sins of our mothers

Samrat Upadhyay’s newest novel <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/10/books/review/darkmotherland-samrat-upadhyay.html" target="_blank">Darkmotherland</a> imagines a Kathmandu in political turmoil after a large earthquake. In the aftermath, Home Minister Giridharilal Bhagirath Kumar stages a ‘koo’, and has convinced people that he is the answer to the crisis.&nbsp; He is now known as ‘PM Papa’, and picks up classic dictatorial ways — propaganda, statue-making, history-revising, and a gang of Shiva-worshipping ‘Fundys’.&nbsp; We are introduced to two complicated protagonists. The first is Kranti, a fetching young woman and ‘Madam Mao’, her Communist professor mother. The chef father loved classic rock and died by gas cylinder suicide. Kranti hates her mother, and the Communist group which congregates at her home to plot against PM Papa, although they seem to take forever to get anything done.&nbsp; Kranti has a complicated relationship with the handsome Bhaskar, the middle son of the Ghimirey family oligarchy that is aligned with the dictator. She loves him, but as Bhaskar gets more and more involved with her mother and the Communist group, finds herself heading out to the ‘Bhurey’ (Bhu-kampa Rey-fugee) tents, to spend time with poet Kabiraj.&nbsp; Kranti is also given to delusions, paranoia, and psychosis, convinced that Bhaskar’s family is spying on her, and that one in the Communist group has supernatural powers of suggestion that led to her father’s suicide. Despite mental issues, she marries Bhaskar and into the Ghimirey clan, and the complex nexus between business and politics.&nbsp; The second is Rozy, initially the genderqueer lover of PM Papa who he discovered in the streets, and is described as a ‘gorgeous homosexual’. She turns heads due to her sexuality and beauty, and gets more and more politically powerful as the story moves along.&nbsp; Upadhyay tells us Nepali writers writing in English often feel a pressure to create an “all-embracing world” (interview), but that is what he seems to be getting at with the monumental plot of his novel. Unlike the realism in his previous novels, this one drifts off into magical realism. His narrative blends the ever-present risk of a big earthquake and the actuality of political tremors. The speed of political upheaval seems a little unrealistic for anyone who lived through the 2015 earthquake, although the GenZ protests showed just how quickly a regime can be reduced to a heap of rubble. The age-old question: oppression can be overcome, but what comes after? The PM Papa character is a Gyanendra-Oli-Deuba-Prachanda-Modi-Trump-Papa Doc composite who is good friends with the not even thinly veiled President Corn Hair.&nbsp; Through the character of Kranti, Upadhyay conveys the dynamic between a parent and a child who is now a full adult, on relationships in Kathmandu as marriage looms, on pervasive corruption which one might denounce but have to take advantage of to get things done.&nbsp; Through Rozy, Upadhyay brings attention to the non-binary identity, one that has existed forever in Nepal, and although is discussed a lot in the West lately but not so much here. Upadhyay explores the origins, the present, and the various advantages and disadvantages of the queer.&nbsp; Storytelling in the early parts of the book oscillates between the real and absurd fantasy amidst the physical and political backdrop that does not have to be Nepal -- it could be Modi's India or Trump's America.&nbsp; The reader sees the world through Kranti’s psychosis, or PM Papa’s displays of power, such as when a ‘Sweej’ wrestler is beaten to death with a mace in a wrestling spectacle.&nbsp; These elements <a href="https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/authors/profiles/article/96329-samrat-upadhyay-wants-you-to-expect-the-unexpected.html" target="_blank">coagulate in the novel</a>, and Upadhyay has all the pages at his disposal to prod and push them against one another to see what happens. The novel is still at its best and most engaging when describing vulnerable scenes, of Kranti and her mister, or of Rozy’s messed-up childhood.&nbsp; Any Nepali reading his weighty novel can recognise the allusions and nudges such as the Tourist Area: Thamel, Open Stage: Khula Manch, Tri-Moon: Tri-Chandra etc. But anyone not from these parts may have a tough time keeping track. Keeping a notebook handy may be useful.&nbsp; Ultimately, the novel does work, it provokes and entertains. For best results, serialise the reading over 30 days, not 3 like this reviewer.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2025122005124_88d92d9a2c5718436354d9c1ce6a2576931ef3242a37f6b90d84da15fe96dd8d.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="2025122005124_88d92d9a2c5718436354d9c1ce6a2576931ef3242a37f6b90d84da15fe96dd8d" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="Darkmotherland NT"> </figure>  <h2>More things change, more they remain the same</h2> First US-published Nepali Samrat Upadhyay is the award-winning author of novels and short story collections like Arresting God in Kathmandu, The City Son, Mad Country, and Buddha’s Orphans. Upadhyay is also the Martha C. Kraft Professor of Humanities at Indiana University, where he teaches Creative Writing.&nbsp; Recently in Kathmandu, he talked to the Nepali Times over coffee in Boudha about his writing, his teaching, and his newest novel, DARKMOTHERLAND.&nbsp; Nepali Times: Darkmotherland is 732 pages long. What was it like writing a much longer book? Samrat Upadhyay: Torturous Ha ha ha. Around 2014 I started a story. I knew it was going to be a novel. It was about this woman who is accused of being a Mangalik. Then the big earthquake happened in 2015. I was in the US but my parents were still here, they were living in tents. Then I started thinking, what would happen if a dictator came to power. That’s how PM Papa was born. I think mostly because of his character the novel exploded. I had never written a character like him before. I don’t do any plot outlines when I write. Let’s see where it goes. I like the process of writing to lead to discoveries. If I knew everything then I’d get bored. Not knowing where the storyline might go is very exciting. All these different threads started coming in, the character of Kranti started taking on a big role. Her mother, a Communist-leaning professor, started taking shape. Kranti also had a love-interest from an oligarchical family. The novel just took off and I just continued writing. A novel is as long as it needs to be. The initial draft was 1,700 pages. I was writing pretty fast. I don’t pause to see if the sentences are pretty. I whittled it down, and by the time I sent it to my agent it was 1,100 pages. He was able to sell it to Soho Press. I worked with an editor who suggested some further cuts and expansions. The editing part was even harder than the initial writing, because by that time I was tired of looking at the novel. There was a bit of a delay because of Covid, then we got back on track. What’s your daily process of getting the words on paper? I am a morning writer. I get up in the morning and start writing. You can have all kinds of theories but there is this saying, Shut Up and Write. The writing is where the meat is. You encounter difficulties in writing that you may not encounter when thinking about it. I see this in my students. I knew this was a big project so I knew that if I wanted to get it out I would need to write a lot per day. I got a couple fellowships in the university that gave me a few semesters off teaching. I would write for about 4 or 5 hours. Sometimes I would give myself a 1,000 word deadline, but I’m flexible with it if I don’t get there. You have to be kind and patient. What is your inspiration behind the gender-queer character, Rozy? I’ve always been a strong supporter of LGBT. I would say that at this point half of my students are non-binary or on the gender spectrum. Some of them are going through transitions. In some ways Nepal has become more accepting, but in other ways not. I did a workshop with Blue Diamond Society, and heard pretty harrowing stories. I didn’t intend to create a gender-queer character, but it seemed like the novel was demanding that. Especially in terms of the tyrannical stronghold that PM Papa has over the entire country, it made sense that there would be a counterpart, I wanted to put these things in motion and see how they interact. As I was writing Rozy, her character became very formidable. How much do you draw from Nepali politics? Do you form characters off people you know? Not in a very concrete sense, but I’m always drawing from them. I grew up in the Panchayat System, and lived in Lainchaur. The palace was there. The monarchy was such an institution. But then I was in the US, so I wasn’t here when the pro-democracy movement happened. In some ways it felt like things had changed, but were the same in other ways. I feel the same way now. I do draw upon people. I think my father makes an appearance in my work in various forms, I disguise him, of course. You’ve taught creative writing for a while now, how is literature changing?&nbsp; My students are also writing non-binary characters, because they want to be reflected in the stories. This is something new that we didn’t have. White authors, characters were the default. People of Color on the margins. African American and then Hispanic, South Asian authors were always pushing back on this status quo. When I was growing up in the classroom we were reading a lot of white male authors, but in my own life I was reading Salman Rushdie, African, South African friends and writers. My students have a lot more interest in fantasy, many are writing dystopian. One student is writing a novel where the characters start playing a game, and then they enter the game, and an entire new world opens up. On the one hand there are complaints that students aren’t reading enough, which is true, but my students are producing smarter work. Writing that is a lot more insightful. The calibre of discussion in my graduate-level novel writing classes is mind-boggling to me, and makes me want to keep on teaching. Do Nepali writers who write in English feel a certain pressure, from the market or self-imposed, to make their stories more Nepali? My experience for a long time was that there was a pressure, I felt it true in my case, I was supposed to be the representative of every Nepali. But Nepali writers writing in Nepali are not asked, how are you representing Nepal. At that time there was a lot of pressure to write a novel that is all-embracing, that is supposed to speak on all aspects of the country. Politics felt like an integral part of it, that these novels had to make big political statements. I always felt like this was wrong. I mean, people have to write what they want to write. &nbsp;You write what you want to write, and if it resonates with readers, that’s great. If it doesn’t, that’s fine too. Art isn’t going to speak to everyone. We do a competition every couple of years called Writing Nepal. We make a call for stories, and we decide the best ones. I find it refreshing now that the writing isn’t all about Nepal. The best stories are quite varied. What are Nepalis writing about?&nbsp; Several of the stories are about the role of women in our society, done with a lot of nuance, about the sort of multitasking they have to do. Some of it was deeply historical, some dystopian, the coming of AI. Some of them have an old-timey type of feel, and some of them are very modern, contemporary. The general level of art in movies, TV shows, and novels seems to have regressed compared to say the 90s.&nbsp; I don’t think that’s entirely true. Publishing has been harder, for sure, but there are a lot of novels being published every year. My writing workshop had always been a good vehicle for short stories, but a lot of my students now—even undergraduates—are working on novels. I haven’t formulated my thoughts on AI, it is so new and has hit us so hard. Many of my students are using AI, especially when writing response papers to works of literature or peers, which I find appalling. That’s going to be a struggle. I tell my students, who are you fooling? If you feel that you want to be an artist, or a writer, then what’s the point of using AI? AI-generated stories are also just not that good. They’re almost too perfect, too well put-together, making moves that are easy to detect. There is something about human-written stories that are messy and exciting. But there are also plenty of students who want to do original work and don’t want anything to do with AI.

overseas-nepali

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The sins of our mothers

A dystopian motherland