<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111011110/636ccc489c7e80680e08bc14jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="750" height="452"/><figcaption>A narrow ridge that served as a helipad in Kalikot district back in 2004 when the Maoist War was on its peak. Photo: KUNDA DIXIT</figcaption></figure>Twenty-five years after the Maoist insurgency started on 13 February 1996, journalists who covered that war remember their own experiences reporting on <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/end-of-war-is-not-peace/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">the conflict</a>.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111011110/636ccc4b9c7e80680e08bc15jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="467"><figcaption>One of the many ruins left behind by a decade long Maoist War 1996-2006.</figcaption></figure>Shivering with fearWe reached Pandusen of <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=15778#.YCx9Si2B3R0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Bajura district</a> in September 2003. Men were ploughing a terrace with two oxen and sowing wheat. We took out our camera and tripod. But when the men saw us, they fled. Later one of them told us, “We are afraid of strangers. We thought you were soldiers.” He told us the army had come through and killed six people in the village, including Padam Bahadur Shahi.At Padam Bahadur’s house, relatives were in mourning. “He had gone to harvest paddy, he had done nothing wrong, ” his mother Koila told us, weeping. “They brought him here and hit him with rocks.”Padam’s father Gorakh Bahadur said the soldiers even kicked their baby grandson, injuring him. “They led my son away and I followed,” he told us. “They were beating him all the way, his teeth were scattered across the road, he was bleeding.”We climbed up the trail to <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=2027#.YCx9Ty2B3R0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Martadi</a>. Within half-an-hour we were at Ramlal Damai’s house. He had been killed with a bullet in his head, and his relatives were wailing as they removed his body from the house. Further up in the village of Angaupani, we came across a whole village in mourning for six men who had been killed by soldiers the previous day.We reached Kolti airfield where 12 police had recently been killed. Nearby, the army had killed another 10 villagers accusing them of being Maoists. A couple was in shock after their children aged 10 and five were killed after a Maoist pipe bomb they found in the forest exploded. All around us there was nothing but death and destruction.A year later, I went to <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/a-battered-future,3218" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Kailali</a> and Bardia which had the highest number of disappeared during the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/the-lingering-trauma-of-war/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">conflict</a>. Their relatives are still waiting for truth and justice.In war, people take to guns. But ultimately it is the gun that takes people away.Mohan Mainali<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111011110/636ccc4e9c7e80680e08bc16jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="669"><figcaption>A father trying to stop his young son who had decided to join the Maoists. Khotang 2004.</figcaption></figure>Families torn apartIn February 2000, we travelled to the Maoist heartland of <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=12393#.YCx-nC2B3R0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Rolpa</a>, <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=6164#.YCx-vC2B3R0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Rukum</a> and <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=2928#.YCx-yC2B3R0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Jajarkot</a>. Along the way, we noticed police sentry posts located on treetops for safety. The policemen were playing carom with guns slung on their shoulders. We knew we were entering a war zone. In Libang, we visited Maoist prisoners in the <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/the-spark-that-lit-the-Maoist-revolution,2870" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Rolpa</a> district jail. They spoke about being innocent, framed and tortured by the police. We interviewed a Maoist leader, Lokendra Bista. He told us the revolution was actually in response to state violence, but he said the resolution of the conflict was only possible through dialogue, not through violence.In Khalanga of <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=328#.YCx-ty2B3R0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Rukum</a>, there was also a lot of fear. Many who had been driven out or tortured by the Maoists had fled to the district headquarters for safety. We came across children cooking by themselves. One 11-year-old was kneading dough, but he wept as he told us: “The police killed our father and mother, I feel like drinking the blood from their hearts.”Four years later, we went to eastern Nepal. By this time, the army had joined <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=10616#.YCx-lC2B3R0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">the war</a> and Maoist influence had spread throughout the country. One indelible memory of that time was the farewell of a distraught father in Chisapani of Khotang for his ninth grader student son, Kiran Bista.In the video, the father clutches the boy’s legs and does not want to let go. The boy tries to placate his father: “Don’t do this, Dad. My friends all have fathers. We are all going to war, please don’t do this.”A confident speaker, Kiran later told us later on camera: “I am joining out of my own free will because I have understood that we have to fight for our country.”When we got to Mugu, local Maoists detained us for 22 hours. But it was not till we got to Mudbara of Doti that we found out just how badly the war had affected children. The army had attacked a school in September 2004 after they found out the Maoists had gone there to recruit. Six of the Maoists were killed, but so were four students.“I didn’t even know I had been hit, I was unconscious when they took me to hospital,” said one student Dharma Bhurtel. Her mother, Krishna Maya, broke down as she told us of the pain at seeing her only daughter wounded.Bishnu Prasad was hiding inside a classroom with other students, when soldiers kicked the door in and started shooting. He was hit, and paralysed. “I like to go to school, but I cannot walk now.”Teachers were on the frontlines of the war, and nearly 220 of them were killed by both sides. “After the war started, we were caught in the crossfire. Whichever side fires the guns it is us teachers who get killed,” Ram Bahadur Raut principal of the Chisapani Secondary School in Khotang told us then.Dhruba Basnet<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111011110/636ccc529c7e80680e08bc17jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="518"><figcaption>Many Maoist cadre associated carrying guns with being powerful and empowered.</figcaption></figure>Power of the gun<a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=12319#.YCx_3C2B3R0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Children</a> would follow us everywhere. They were very loyal to the Maoist party. Even 10-year-old <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=13190#.YCx_5i2B3R0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">children</a> had been so effectively brainwashed that they would speak in Maoist jargon, saying “When the revolution is successful, we will be also be rich and powerful.” And they believed it.We went to homes, and heard families talk about the fear of both the police and guerrillas. The Maoists had ordered every household to contribute at least one person to attend their revolutionary meetings and listen to speeches. We attended those cultural programs, as well. The Maoists cadre were full of enthusiasm and energy, <a href="https://www.google.com/url?client=internal-element-cse&amp;cx=bead8272edd0f2143&amp;q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/still-singing-and-dancing/&amp;sa=U&amp;ved=2ahUKEwiYw6ix8O_uAhUy83MBHRiACWYQFjAAegQIBhAC&amp;usg=AOvVaw06kcWD1ctXQGTrve9YQNmE" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">singing and performing revolutionary dances</a> about the liberation of the proletariat. Villagers watched with interest, but there was fear in their eyes.The armed Maoists looked like they were really empowered. I asked some of them how it felt to be carrying a gun? They used to reply: “I feel powerful, now no one can do anything to me.”Amrita Lamsalhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HzHLTaNnSDo&amp;feature=youtu.beThe smell of fearIn October 2004, we took a <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=1890#.YCybTI8zbAU" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">helicopter from Surkhet to Kalikot</a>, flying over the mountains of Dailekh and the Karnali River. On the left we could see Kotbada, where a year previously the Royal Nepal Army had <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2017/02/13/tears-of-joy-and-sorrow-in-kalikot/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">killed 36 workers building an airfield</a>, mistaking them to be Maoist guerrillas. We were in the heart of the conflict zone to understand how the war was affecting ordinary people in the Karnali.<a style="background-color: #ffffff; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="http://himalaya.socanth.cam.ac.uk/collections/journals/nepalitimes/pdf/Nepali_Times_219.pdf" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Kalikot was remote then</a>, as the highway was still being built. At the end of the first day’s walk in Pili, we saw small children slither down from tree tops and scamper off to the village. We found out they were Maoist ‘wholetimers’ on sentry duty.The local Maoists held a village gathering that evening and paraded us on the stage, accusing us of being military spies and “royal mongrels”. The language they used during interrogation that night was straight out of the Khmer Rouge. Two years later, 55 soldiers were killed in a <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=721#.YCyBmi2B3R0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Maoist attack in Pili</a>.Finally let off the next day, we were detained again in Jubitha by 12-13 year-olds with guns. They could not read, and held our press passes upside down. “We are now in the armed struggle phase of our revolution,” said one youngster.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111011110/636ccc559c7e80680e08bc18jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="467"><figcaption>Comrade Mukti in Kalikot in 2004.</figcaption></figure>Along the trail, we passed a group of women guerrillas who gave us red salutes and gripped us in firm handshakes. It was a surprise to see such empowered young women in what was at that time, a part of western Nepal most steeped in patriarchy.As we got closer to <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/No-peace,432" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Jumla</a> amidst the spectacular scenery of golden terraces of ripening paddy, the blue-green Tila River and the snow-capped Kanjiroba in the distance, there were signs of war damage. Ruins of destroyed homes, charred buildings, empty silent streets. There was no laughter from children, they peered at us from behind upstairs windows, no one talked to strangers. You could smell the fear in the air.Kunda Dixit<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111011110/636ccc589c7e80680e08bc19jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="362"><figcaption>Baburam Tamang, one of the 18 Maoist cadre massacred in Ramechap in 2003.</figcaption></figure>The National Human Rights Commission was sending a team to investigate the <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=4639#.YCylnY8zbAU" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">massacre of 18 Maoist cadre in Doramba</a> of Ramechhap on 17 August 2003. It included former Chief Justice Krishna Jung Rayamajhi, former Attorney General Bhim Bahadur Bista, forensic physician Harihar Awasti, advocate Hari Phuyal and myself. We reached Doramba 11 days after the killings and found the fresh graves.Local Maoists had gathered at the home of Yubaraj Moktan. The army encircled the house, and those who could, escaped. The others were rounded up, and were led off up towards the Sailung forest with hands tied behind their backs. The army unit was led by Major Ram Mani Pokhrel. Down in the village, people heard calls for help, and then gunshots.The villagers helped us exhume the bodies, and Harihar Awasti went down to examine them one by one. He would dictate the details, which I noted down and shared with Hari Phuyal. The stench of rotting bodies was overpowering. Villagers would recognise the faces, and point to them, saying: “That is Bishnu Maya. That is Lila.” Most had been shot at point blank range in the forehead.A young man handed me a 35mm film roll. We developed it, and found images of the bodies had been thrown over the edge after being killed. And there was a photograph of a local man named <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=18623" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Baburam Tamang</a>, the only one without a gunshot in the forehead, but in the arm. It looked like he had bled to death.Villagers told us that night they had heard someone up the mountain call out for help “Ama, ama.” But they were too afraid to go up and check. We think it was a dying Baburam Tamang.The villagers had later buried the bodies, wrapping them in cloth and flag. Nearby was a pile of half-burnt personal effects of those who had been killed. Among them, I found a notepad belonging to Bishnu Maya Thapa Magar, one of those who had been killed.Kanak Mani Dixit

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From the frontlines of Nepal’s war

<figure><img width="1280" height="960" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191124/636bf0b24b0ad905ca02f027jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Bhawana Gurung interviews a resident of Matatirtha in Kathmandu.</figcaption></figure>The first person infected with SARS-CoV-2 was in Wuhan as far back as December 2019, but it was not until late January that there was international concern, and it was finally declared a pandemic in February. In the thick of it was Nepali journalist Bibek Bhandari, working at Shanghai-based <a href="http://www.sixthtone.com/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.sixthtone.com/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEyXl1wLmco9a86gmJVpF_TG2dDuA">Sixth Tone</a> as news editor. “My last day in the office was on 23 January before the weeklong Lunar New Year holiday,” Bhandari recalls. “It was cold and drizzling when I left work that evening. We had already been <a href="http://www.sixthtone.com/news/1005221/coronavirus-latest-updates-%28jan.-16-31%29" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.sixthtone.com/news/1005221/coronavirus-latest-updates-%2528jan.-16-31%2529&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEGDCAT1cN1u7we7DEoWZxGZhE3YA">writing</a> extensively about the novel coronavirus, and the holidays were grim.”   Shanghai was not just deserted, but there was an air of despair and fear hanging over the city. Bhandari and his colleagues covering the holiday shift were told to work from home. “We were all living in the unknown, trying to figure out what the news the next day would bring,” says Bhandari, who flew to Nepal in February and was supposed to go back on 31 March. By then, Nepal was in lockdown and all flights halted. He was stuck in Kathmandu till September. In Nepal itself, journalists were also forced to adapt. Bhawana Gurung and Asha Thapa decided to use the lockdown period to start a podcast from their home to disseminate health information. “As soon as we heard about Covid-19, we felt there was a gap in lifesaving information. We thought a podcast would be an effective medium,” says Gurung who runs <a href="https://anchor.fm/sankatma-sathi" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://anchor.fm/sankatma-sathi&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNExmzRbJyWJMVvPu39tfjXv-XZbog">Sankatma Sathi</a> with Thapa, about safety during the pandemic. <figure><img width="963" height="722" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191124/636bf0b54b0ad905ca02f028jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“We recorded our first episode in bed, on the phone,” laughs Thapa, who spent the first five months of the lockdown at her home in Matatirtha, producing stories from her neighbourhood. The podcast, targeted at a rural Nepali audience, was soon hooked up by 20 community radio stations.But working from home comes with its own challenges. “In the beginning it was fun because I could work from bed, but eventually, you’re always staring at your four walls, especially if you live alone,” says Gurung.In India, however, the opposite was true for Hashim (who goes by his first name), a journalist with <a href="https://dataleads.co.in/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://dataleads.co.in/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHWX9flIbBzzIG0b3gNLrxg9ownXQ">Data Leads</a> in New Delhi. He says, “Everyone is not privileged. If you’re living in a one-BHK (one bedroom, hall and kitchen) apartment in Noida with six family members, it can be challenging.”Hashim was also filming tutorials for journalists on reporting from home, which required him to turn his home into a makeshift studio. “You’re constantly asking everyone to quiet down during recordings and online meetings. It can take a toll on your family,” he says. “And if you’re freelancing, it is hard to sell a story without the Covid angle.”In India, <a href="https://www.ha-asia.com/covering-and-surviving-covid-19-in-india/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.ha-asia.com/covering-and-surviving-covid-19-in-india/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNE1T2XsUnR47IkDsTlxMN6AkMxMKw">44 journalists died</a> due to the virus, which made Hashim himself aware of his own mortality. He has not left his Delhi neighbourhood for six months as he continues to mine data for journalistic videos from home, while skipping to stay fit. “I’m exercising for the first time in my life,” he says on WhatsApp. <figure><img width="1080" height="608" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191124/636bf0b74b0ad905ca02f029jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Locked away in his apartment in Kuala Lumpur for four months, Bhutanese journalist Jigmey Thinley was running up and down the stairs of his condo as the gym was closed. He was working for the <a href="https://aibd.org.my/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://aibd.org.my/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEYZIvhgqXDRLEZbWWd_awIgE82kw">Asia-Pacific Institute for Broadcasting Development</a> in Malaysia when the pandemic hit, and decided it was time to head home.He arrived home in Thimphu in September, as Bhutan relaxed the lockdown temporarily.  But as a new <a href="https://www.livemint.com/news/india/seven-day-nationwide-lockdown-in-bhutan-from-today-11608681983042.html" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.livemint.com/news/india/seven-day-nationwide-lockdown-in-bhutan-from-today-11608681983042.html&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGfDWnon-gRAhWKMIOFjKr9j0iEkQ">national lockdown</a> came into effect in Bhutan on 23 December in response to a second wave, Thinley and his colleagues found that they could no longer go home after work. <figure><img width="1080" height="972" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191124/636bf0ba4b0ad905ca02f02ajpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“We stay at the office these days. We all brought our own bedding. We’ve turned our offices into working rooms-cum-bedrooms,” says Thinley, now General Manager of News and Current Affairs at <a href="http://www.bbs.bt/news/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.bbs.bt/news/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHuI5qlLZdFiy7Hx0yYyi9rPfibsA">Bhutan Broadcasting Service</a>.Logistic adjustments have been a universal experience for journalists elsewhere in Asia in 2020. Ruth Cabal works for CNN in Manila and had to manage from a temporary studio at home in the initial days of reporting COVID-19.“I live with my brother so he set up the camera with my phone and all,” says Cabal. “My Viber app served as the teleprompter because the scripts from the producer would be posted there.”Also a professor at the University of Philippines, Cabal says her broadcasts were punctuated by signal hiccups. She also had to do her own make-up while broadcasting from home and the coffees that constantly accompanied her in the live studio, was missing. <figure><img width="1231" height="998" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191124/636bf0bd4b0ad905ca02f02bjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>But the media industry has adapted well to the situation, she says, “When there’s a typhoon, a civilian stays away, but the opposite is true for journalists. We go to where the typhoon is supposed to make landfall. These are the kind of events journalists are trained for.” The ‘infodemic’ and disinformation that accompanied the pandemic have been other major challenges for the media industry, as online time went up globally.“During the lockdown, getting access to information is difficult. While we focus on the pandemic, there are many other, equally important issues that we could miss out on,” says Bhutan’s Jigmey Thinley.Which is why the pandemic has made the job of journalists all the more important, Ruth Cabal says, adding: “It is up to journalists to properly vet information and be aggressive in trying to interview the right people to give accurate information.”While the medium they work in may be different, journalists across Asia have been driving towards the same goal: sharing information that brings relief and hope to the public, sometimes at the cost of their own psychological and physical wellbeing. “It’s probably one of the biggest stories of our times globally. This means that a lot of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/pandemic-stress-grips-nepals-journalists/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/pandemic-stress-grips-nepals-journalists/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHFgQL8nmcwYjAtPBYpKqk6ZDX7pg">journalists</a> may have had to work relentlessly and with limited resources. We’ve heard stories about burnouts and then some pretty disheartening news about the layoffs,” says Bibek Bhandari, the Nepali journalist in Shanghai.Even with all the challenges, those doing crisis coverage have tried to find comfort in their vocation.“We did a lot of learning and creating together with colleagues, who went on to become good friends by the end of lockdown,” says podcaster Bhawana Gurung. “It’s been a year of tracing common grounds to heal — for our audience as well as for ourselves.”<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109191124/636bf0bf4b0ad905ca02f02cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="1000">Shanghai-based journalist Bibek Bhandari.

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Journalists reflect on a year of crisis coverage

<figure><img width="1280" height="960" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181156/636be9cc9c7e80680e0878dejpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Bhawana Gurung interviews a resident of Matatirtha in Kathmandu.</figcaption></figure>The first person infected with SARS-CoV-2 was in Wuhan as far back as December 2019, but it was not until late January that there was international concern, and it was finally declared a pandemic in February. In the thick of it was Nepali journalist Bibek Bhandari, working at Shanghai-based <a href="http://www.sixthtone.com/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.sixthtone.com/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEyXl1wLmco9a86gmJVpF_TG2dDuA">Sixth Tone</a> as news editor. “My last day in the office was on 23 January before the weeklong Lunar New Year holiday,” Bhandari recalls. “It was cold and drizzling when I left work that evening. We had already been <a href="http://www.sixthtone.com/news/1005221/coronavirus-latest-updates-%28jan.-16-31%29" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.sixthtone.com/news/1005221/coronavirus-latest-updates-%2528jan.-16-31%2529&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEGDCAT1cN1u7we7DEoWZxGZhE3YA">writing</a> extensively about the novel coronavirus, and the holidays were grim.”   Shanghai was not just deserted, but there was an air of despair and fear hanging over the city. Bhandari and his colleagues covering the holiday shift were told to work from home. “We were all living in the unknown, trying to figure out what the news the next day would bring,” says Bhandari, who flew to Nepal in February and was supposed to go back on 31 March. By then, Nepal was in lockdown and all flights halted. He was stuck in Kathmandu till September. In Nepal itself, journalists were also forced to adapt. Bhawana Gurung and Asha Thapa decided to use the lockdown period to start a podcast from their home to disseminate health information. “As soon as we heard about Covid-19, we felt there was a gap in lifesaving information. We thought a podcast would be an effective medium,” says Gurung who runs <a href="https://anchor.fm/sankatma-sathi" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://anchor.fm/sankatma-sathi&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNExmzRbJyWJMVvPu39tfjXv-XZbog">Sankatma Sathi</a> with Thapa, about safety during the pandemic. <figure><img width="963" height="722" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181156/636be9cf9c7e80680e0878dfjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“We recorded our first episode in bed, on the phone,” laughs Thapa, who spent the first five months of the lockdown at her home in Matatirtha, producing stories from her neighbourhood. The podcast, targeted at a rural Nepali audience, was soon hooked up by 20 community radio stations.But working from home comes with its own challenges. “In the beginning it was fun because I could work from bed, but eventually, you’re always staring at your four walls, especially if you live alone,” says Gurung.In India, however, the opposite was true for Hashim (who goes by his first name), a journalist with <a href="https://dataleads.co.in/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://dataleads.co.in/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHWX9flIbBzzIG0b3gNLrxg9ownXQ">Data Leads</a> in New Delhi. He says, “Everyone is not privileged. If you’re living in a one-BHK (one bedroom, hall and kitchen) apartment in Noida with six family members, it can be challenging.”Hashim was also filming tutorials for journalists on reporting from home, which required him to turn his home into a makeshift studio. “You’re constantly asking everyone to quiet down during recordings and online meetings. It can take a toll on your family,” he says. “And if you’re freelancing, it is hard to sell a story without the Covid angle.”In India, <a href="https://www.ha-asia.com/covering-and-surviving-covid-19-in-india/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.ha-asia.com/covering-and-surviving-covid-19-in-india/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNE1T2XsUnR47IkDsTlxMN6AkMxMKw">44 journalists died</a> due to the virus, which made Hashim himself aware of his own mortality. He has not left his Delhi neighbourhood for six months as he continues to mine data for journalistic videos from home, while skipping to stay fit. “I’m exercising for the first time in my life,” he says on WhatsApp. <figure><img width="1080" height="608" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181156/636be9d29c7e80680e0878e0jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Locked away in his apartment in Kuala Lumpur for four months, Bhutanese journalist Jigmey Thinley was running up and down the stairs of his condo as the gym was closed. He was working for the <a href="https://aibd.org.my/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://aibd.org.my/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEYZIvhgqXDRLEZbWWd_awIgE82kw">Asia-Pacific Institute for Broadcasting Development</a> in Malaysia when the pandemic hit, and decided it was time to head home.He arrived home in Thimphu in September, as Bhutan relaxed the lockdown temporarily.  But as a new <a href="https://www.livemint.com/news/india/seven-day-nationwide-lockdown-in-bhutan-from-today-11608681983042.html" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.livemint.com/news/india/seven-day-nationwide-lockdown-in-bhutan-from-today-11608681983042.html&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGfDWnon-gRAhWKMIOFjKr9j0iEkQ">national lockdown</a> came into effect in Bhutan on 23 December in response to a second wave, Thinley and his colleagues found that they could no longer go home after work. <figure><img width="1080" height="972" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181156/636be9d59c7e80680e0878e1jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>“We stay at the office these days. We all brought our own bedding. We’ve turned our offices into working rooms-cum-bedrooms,” says Thinley, now General Manager of News and Current Affairs at <a href="http://www.bbs.bt/news/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.bbs.bt/news/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHuI5qlLZdFiy7Hx0yYyi9rPfibsA">Bhutan Broadcasting Service</a>.Logistic adjustments have been a universal experience for journalists elsewhere in Asia in 2020. Ruth Cabal works for CNN in Manila and had to manage from a temporary studio at home in the initial days of reporting COVID-19.“I live with my brother so he set up the camera with my phone and all,” says Cabal. “My Viber app served as the teleprompter because the scripts from the producer would be posted there.”Also a professor at the University of Philippines, Cabal says her broadcasts were punctuated by signal hiccups. She also had to do her own make-up while broadcasting from home and the coffees that constantly accompanied her in the live studio, was missing. <figure><img width="1231" height="998" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181156/636be9d79c7e80680e0878e2jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>But the media industry has adapted well to the situation, she says, “When there’s a typhoon, a civilian stays away, but the opposite is true for journalists. We go to where the typhoon is supposed to make landfall. These are the kind of events journalists are trained for.” The ‘infodemic’ and disinformation that accompanied the pandemic have been other major challenges for the media industry, as online time went up globally.“During the lockdown, getting access to information is difficult. While we focus on the pandemic, there are many other, equally important issues that we could miss out on,” says Bhutan’s Jigmey Thinley.Which is why the pandemic has made the job of journalists all the more important, Ruth Cabal says, adding: “It is up to journalists to properly vet information and be aggressive in trying to interview the right people to give accurate information.”While the medium they work in may be different, journalists across Asia have been driving towards the same goal: sharing information that brings relief and hope to the public, sometimes at the cost of their own psychological and physical wellbeing. “It’s probably one of the biggest stories of our times globally. This means that a lot of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/pandemic-stress-grips-nepals-journalists/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/pandemic-stress-grips-nepals-journalists/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1609221912718000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHFgQL8nmcwYjAtPBYpKqk6ZDX7pg">journalists</a> may have had to work relentlessly and with limited resources. We’ve heard stories about burnouts and then some pretty disheartening news about the layoffs,” says Bibek Bhandari, the Nepali journalist in Shanghai.Even with all the challenges, those doing crisis coverage have tried to find comfort in their vocation.“We did a lot of learning and creating together with colleagues, who went on to become good friends by the end of lockdown,” says podcaster Bhawana Gurung. “It’s been a year of tracing common grounds to heal — for our audience as well as for ourselves.”<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221109181156/636be9da9c7e80680e0878e3jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="1000">Shanghai-based journalist Bibek Bhandari.

<figure><img width="1400" height="1031" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107141112/636904bc9c7e80680e037d3djpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>UNDERPASS: It looks like you forgot that there is now a new law that forbids disclosure of the private information of public officials. Vatsyayan in Kantipur, 25 August</figcaption></figure>It has only been two weeks since Nepal’s new Penal Code criminalised photography (Section 295), slapped heavy fines and jail terms for recording conversations (Section 293), and announced strict punishment for sending, receiving or using online data (Section 298). Another privacy-related bill in Parliament will prohibit people from publishing personal information of public officials. But it has already had a <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/suppressed/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">chilling effect across the Nepali media</a>.A person who ridiculed the prime minister on Facebook was tracked down and arrested for photo-manipulating the prime minister's photo, which violates Section 295 of the Code. Editors of Nagarik, Annapurna Post and Kantipur were summoned to the Press Council for interrogation.Photojournalist Usha Titikshu was taking a photo of a damaged CCTV camera at an airport recently, when she was stopped. “Don’t you know the new rules about not taking photos?” she was warned.If enacted earlier, the new laws would have forced editors to spike their recent investigative reports on the Chief Justice’s doctored certificates, photos showing collusion between top politicians and medical college owners, and stories of corruption in high places.The Federation of Nepalese Journalists last week issued its Godavari Declaration demanding that the provisions be immediately rescinded. The International Federation of Journalists (IFJ), The Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), Reporters without Borders (RSF) and others <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/amend-criminal-code-rsf/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">all condemned the move</a>, demanding that Nepal adhere to the international standards and principles of freedom of expression.Although the constitution guarantees press freedom as an inviolable right, the laws try to enforce constitutional provisions protecting a citizen’s right to privacy more strictly, even extending it to public figures.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/strongman-rule/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Strongman rule</a>, Om Astha RaiPress adviser to the prime minister and former editor Kundan Aryal admits that a free press is important, but says the Nepali media has failed to self-regulate."Journalists do not rein themselves in, they feel free to make derogatory comments, especially about women. It is necessary to regulate the press,” he told Nepali Times. Such talk has already had a dampening effect, with editors and reporters now more wary of publishing information in the public interest. The fear is that the laws are so broadly defined and open to interpretation, anyone can be hauled over for anything.The crackdowns started coming thick and fast after the Nepal Communist Party government was elected to power in January: it consolidated the surveillance arms of the state in the PMO, proposed restrictions on advocacy through the National Integrity Policy, and banned popular areas for protest. Photographer Chandra Ale of Onlinekhabar recently faced questions when he was at Kalimati vegetable market where traders had locked up government inspectors. “A person asked me if I had permission to take photos. He followed me, and forced me to delete my pictures,” Ale relates.Photojournalist Usha Titikshu thinks there is a systematic plan to gag the media. “Threats to journalists are more common across South Asia, and we have not connected the dots to see that the same is happening in Nepal,” says Titikshu, citing the rape and deaths of journalists in India and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-death-of-democracy/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">the arrest of noted Bangladeshi photographer Shahidul Alam</a> who is being mistreated in jail. “We see our own government moving towards similar intolerance in Nepal.”Ujjwal Acharya, South Asia coordinator of IFJ and digital media watcher says: “Today one thinks twice before posting anything on social media. By the looks of it, the government intends to curtail all kinds of expression, especially investigative journalism.”Says Nagarik editor Gunaraj Luintel who answered an unprecedented summon from the Press Council: “It was overstepping its mandate, even asking me to explain a mistake in print to the parties involved. The council is only supposed to promote ethical journalism, but it has become an arm of the government. The aim is to increase censorship in a planned way.”Narayan Wagle, editor of Kantipur, was also summoned by the Press Council for the first time in his 30-year career, and says the it has outlived its usefulness.“The practice in democratic countries is that the government does not monitor the press. The press monitors itself through a code of ethics. But in Nepal, a new law about the Press Council is in the offing, which proves the government wants to further tighten the noose around the press.”Bikas Karki, president of Photo Journalists’ Club, agrees that the government’s real intention is control: “The Constitution has become like the elephant’s tusks, it is there just for show. The laws are the real teeth inside, which bite.”Nepal has gone through censorship before. The Panchayat system banned political parties, and the royal palace strictly controlled the press. In 2005, King Gyanendra tried to take the country back to those dark days. Some say the new Code is even worse than the Panchayat.“There were threats then, but they were verbal or even unspoken,” recalls photojournalist Gopal Chitrakar, who started out at Gorkhapatra during the Pancahayat. “I don’t remember such draconian measures. These new rules are in writing, they are backed by the law. That gives them legitimacy which is more dangerous.” Kundan Aryal reassured us that the Code and laws can always be amended. But this does not convince journalists who say the laws that restrict media freedom are inherently anti-democratic, unconstitutional and remove its check-and-balance function. Laws that are broadly defined are even more dangerous, and can be a path to authoritarianism.Read also: <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/varying-press-freedom-in-burma,1261" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Too little, or too much freedom</a>, Kunda Dixit <h4>The right to say the emperor is naked</h4> Satire flourishes best and is most prolific when there are controls on free speech, and Haribansa Acharya should know. He says he performed his most fulfilling and creative skits during the Panchayat.“Saying ‘17 Sal’ out loud was banned, since it was the year of King Mahendra’s coup. So we got away by saying ‘the year between 16 and 18’,” remembers Acharya. “We also called Prime Minister Surya Bahadur Thapa ‘Gham’ instead of Surya. We played cat and mouse with the censors, and it was more fun and creative. Today’s satire seems to lack that art.”Satire, in fact, seems less necessary when there is full freedom, but it is a lifeline during restrictive times. Even during the absolutist Rana and Shah reigns, the royals knew citizens needed to let off a little steam. So, they allowed one day in a year on Gai Jatra (on 27 August this year)when people had freedom to say anything. <figure><img width="1200" height="841" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221107141112/636904bf9c7e80680e037d3ejpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Culture expert Tejeswor Babu Gongah remembers Gai Jatra revelers burning an effigy of the Panchayat, an act that would have people locked up on any other day of the year."Humour is one space where you can raise issues that you cannot elsewhere, therein lies its power to question authority,” he adds.Some have noted that this year’s Gai Jatra seemed subdued, with fewer shows. On social media, there were comments that satirists had already started self-censoring because of the new Criminal Code.Satirist Manoj Gajurel, who has made a career out of lampooning kings, prime ministers and guerrilla commanders, says: “Humour has a social responsibility to carry the people’s message to authority when it refuses to listen to direct communication.”However, an elected government now wants to take away that right of Nepalis to poke fun at power. Section 306 of the Code specifically prohibits ‘satire’ and categorises it under libel, and Section 295 prohibits caricatures.“I feel a great sense of dread,” admits cartoonist Durga Baral, who went underground during the Panchayat but continued to produce cartoons under the pen-name Batsyayan, despite threats."Freedom of expression is our basic right, and if we are not free to speak out, it all gets bottled up inside.”Nepali cartoonists are pushing back. Last week, Rabin Sayami drew a savage cartoon that tore the government to shreds over its callousness in not investigating the Kanchanpur rape case, and killing a protester. It depicted a smiling Pushpa Kamal Dahal and a smug Prime Minister Oli with a smoking gun in his hand (above). The rapist holds a bloody knife, and has his back turned. Two photos of the rape victim and a dead protester hang on the wall.Sayami was warned by friends to be careful, and that he might be sent to jail. He says the cartoon was a test: “To see if we are still a democracy.”Read Also: <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/saparu-the-festival-of-death-and-rebirt,2543" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Saparu</a>, Sonia Awale<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=11225#.W4fAI84zbIU" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Festival of death and satire</a>, Desmond DoigCode wordsWhile Nepal's journalistic community is up in the arms about the latest Criminal Code, lawyer Madhav Basnet says it is not as worrying as perceived, for the following reasons: <ul><li>The 1990 Constitution was the first one to clearly mention the right to privacy.</li><li>Nepal has a long history of laws against slander and libel, even in Jang Bahadur's Muluki Ain of 1853.</li><li>The Criminal Code does not specifically mention any profession like writers, journalists or photojournalists.</li><li>The conduct of journalists is covered by other laws related to the media, which remain unchanged. The Criminal Code mentions that it will not supersede laws relating to specific professions.</li><li>With social media, it is not just journalists and photographers who take photos, collect and disseminate information, but everyone. The Code is only prescribing limits for them.</li><li>The law, however, does apply to journalists if they are not transmitting through the mass media.</li><li>The Criminal Code is not the guarantor of freedom of expression, the Constitution is. That freedom is not without its limits, and the limits are also mentioned in the Constitution. However, nothing can take away that freedom. And if any law seems to infringe upon it, then there are Constitutional remedies.</li></ul>Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/nepal-has-press-freedom-but-no-freedom-after-press/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Nepal has press freedom, but no freedom after press</a>, Shashank Shrestha

Gagging the press in installments

<img width="1140" height="457" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110714118/636903e39c7e80680e037cedjpeg.jpg" alt=""/>Nepali journalists could face up to three years in prison if they publish information that is deemed to be “confidential” under the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/strongman-rule/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&amp;q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/strongman-rule/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1534600447559000&amp;usg=AFQjCNGWxMmKhx8j3vF7t9ukxILUUvlF1w">new criminal code</a>. Several of its articles relating to the protection of privacy pose a <a href="http://kathmandupost.ekantipur.com/news/2018-08-16/privacy-and-the-press.html" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&amp;q=http://kathmandupost.ekantipur.com/news/2018-08-16/privacy-and-the-press.html&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1534600447559000&amp;usg=AFQjCNH08bpzmOGAQCAlcAwBIROeyRYGhQ">serious threat to journalistic practices</a>.Sections 293, 294 and 295 criminalise publishing private information, recording conversations or taking pictures without permission. Under article 306.2, showing “disrespect” towards someone either directly or through satire is also punishable by up to three years in prison.“We call on the Nepal authorities to immediately rewrite these provisions because, in their current form, they would seem to constitute an unacceptable censorship tool,” said Daniel Bastard, the head of RSF’s Asia-Pacific desk.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/strongman-rule/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Strongman rule</a>, Om Astha Rai“They must take account of the need to be able to gather news and information in the public interest. By leaving too much to the judge’s discretion, these articles could be used to criminalize all investigative journalism and criticism of public figures. If they are not amended quickly, Nepal is liable to fall sharply in the World Press Freedom Index.”The preamble of <a href="http://www.wipo.int/edocs/lexdocs/laws/en/np/np029en.pdf" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&amp;q=http://www.wipo.int/edocs/lexdocs/laws/en/np/np029en.pdf&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1534600447559000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEiwge96a0fg7c-RYTj6SWBQ-2MUQ">Nepal’s 2015 constitution</a> proclaims full freedom of the press, while article 19 prohibits censorship. Journalists are nonetheless often subjected to pressure from various authorities, as when the head of the Supreme Court <a href="https://rsf.org/en/news/nepals-chief-justice-tries-gag-newspaper" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&amp;q=https://rsf.org/en/news/nepals-chief-justice-tries-gag-newspaper&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1534600447559000&amp;usg=AFQjCNF-zLo0-vt7q6RENCBxY_pqBb_wmA">tried to prevent the publication of any reports criticizing him</a>. He was later removed.Nepal is ranked 106th out of 180 countries in <a href="https://rsf.org/en/ranking" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&amp;q=https://rsf.org/en/ranking&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1534600447559000&amp;usg=AFQjCNEyHj8Ii7uCpCaW3mMuTZmZwDsGfw">RSF's 2018 World Press Freedom Index</a>, and could fall further if the current Code is implemented.

Amend Criminal Code: RSF

One smoggy winter morning in February 2019, Ekta regretted coming to her sculpture class. It was the first day of her period, and the 19-year-old wished she was home, curled up in bed with a hot water bag to soothe her cramps.
Her class was at Kalapremi Ceramic Studio, a dark room on the ground floor of a house in Maharajganj, and Ekta’s teacher was the artist Gopal Das Shrestha ‘Kalapremi’, a noted sculptor.
Two other students were already there, using all their muscle strength to knead the sculpting clay. Ekta, now 24, recalls how Kalapremi asked her if she was feeling all right. She avoided him, as she did not want everyone to know she was menstruating.
Kalapremi repeatedly asked Ekta what was wrong. She finally muttered that she was having her period, after which he grabbed her hand and led her to a partitioned corner of the studio and sat her on a chair. Before she could stop him, he slid his hand under her dress, and started massaging her abdomen.
“I was horrified,” Ekta recalls. “I told him to stop, but he didn’t listen, asking me not to be shy, saying he knew how to relieve my pain. He stopped only after I protested furiously.”&nbsp;
The art tutor then said, “You’re like my daughter. I’m doing it out of love to make you feel better, but you’re so stubborn.”&nbsp;
“Instead of saying sorry he acted like I was the one having crazy thoughts,” remembers Ekta, adding that from April 2016 to August 2020 beginning the time she was 16, the artist sexually abused and harassed her on several occasions. &nbsp;
Now, Ekta and the artist’s other former students are finally sharing their experiences and some are pressing legal charges against him, hoping that others do not have to endure what they did.&nbsp;
Award-winning artist and teacher Gopal Das Shrestha ‘Kalapremi’ (the name means ‘Art Lover’) is known for his ceramic art, sculpture, and contemporary pottery. He was <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/review/the-house-of-kalapremi">profiled in Nepali Times after a collaborative exhibition</a>, ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ at the Siddhartha Art Gallery three years ago.&nbsp;
His pieces, titled Gaalis, featured sculpted female figures with the heads of dogs, sheep, and donkeys (pictured) to depict derogatory terms for women. Some critics said the collection was a satire on feminists.
Kalapremi started his artistic and teaching career in 1983 and over the years taught at Bhanubhakta School, Kathmandu University School of Arts, Lalitkala Campus and at his private Kalapremi Ceramic Studio. He has also lectured at Jeonju University in South Korea and recently at Tabor Academy in the United States.
Seven of Kalapremi’s former students were interviewed for this story. Five female students said he touched them inappropriately in his studio or at Kathmandu University. Two male students said they witnessed him abuse and harass the women. In all cases, the students struggled to recognise the abuse when it occurred, and the lack of reporting systems left them to cope on their own for years.&nbsp;
Earlier this year, students shared a social media post hinting at Kalapremi’s history of abusive behaviour following which more students of the artist reached out sharing similar experiences. Some students spoke of abuse that happened as long as 20 years ago.
Kalapremi, 60, has denied the allegations. He told Nepali Times: “Some years ago, there was a movement encouraging people to hug and kiss. I used to do it purely out of friendship and love. But after seeing posts on social media last year calling out my behaviour, I realised my actions may have hurt some people. I understand now that I should have been more mindful.”
He added: “I am also an auxiliary health worker, so I know the exact points to massage to relieve menstrual pain. It’s not just menstruation, I take anyone who is ill to the hospital.”
Sexual abuse is much more rampant than reported given how difficult it is to prove it in court. The law defines sexual abuse as occuring when someone touches another’s private parts, coerces them into touching theirs, uses vulgar language, shows degrading images, or behaves indecently towards them without consent.&nbsp;
Ekta and her fellow students are consulting lawyer Suneeta Regmi Pokhrel, who says they know that even if the court decides in their favour, it is difficult to survive after speaking up, and influential men defend themselves saying they are being framed.&nbsp;
“They are in a lot of pain and weep when recalling how he abused them,” Regmi Pokhrel told us. “They are angry and have filed a case against him, but they are also terrified. They know he is a powerful man and they have seen how our society treats women who speak up against abusers. Unless people speak up, perpetrators will be emboldened.”
Art and academia in Nepal simply reflect the power imbalances in society where people with intersecting identities experience worse forms of abuse. Theatre actors Raj Kumar Pudasaini, Rajan Khatiwada, and Sunil Pokhrel were called out during the #MeToo movement in the Nepali theatre scene in 2019. Even after the allegations Pokhrel went on to receive national awards, while others continued to work without repercussions.
“If you speak up against abusers, you gradually get sidelined from projects,” explained a theatre artist who wished anonymity fearing professional setbacks. “The theatre scene in Nepal is quite small, you just have to make peace with the perpetrators and work with them if you want to sustain yourself.”&nbsp;
In academia there is a history of faculty members sexually harassing students and getting away with it. After Tribhuvan University (TU) lecturer Krishna Bhattachan was accused of harassing women students, the university said it would follow Nepal’s sexual harassment law and set up a reporting mechanism. But nothing happened to the professor, who had already retired. Instead, he counter-accused the students of 'attacking the indigenous people’s movement with baseless allegations' as <a href="https://kathmandupost.com/letters/2019/01/29/bhattachan-responds">he told the Kathmandu Post in 2019</a>. He continues to be featured as a prominent speaker including at TU.
Other faculty members previously accused of sexual harassment include Jagadish Murti Koirala from TU, Bishnu Prasad Acharya from Ratna Rajya Campus, and Bodha Raj Tripathee from Lalitpur Madhyamik Vidhyalaya. A woman staff member from TU also filed a sexual abuse complaint against Dambar Chemjong from TU.
Prominent figures like <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/the-rise-and-fall-of-nims-purja">mountaineer Nims Purja</a> have been <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/05/31/sports/mountaineering-sexual-harassment-abuse-nims-purja.html">accused of sexual assault</a>, and cricketer Sandeep Lamichhane, actor <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/celebrity-rape-case-spotlights-nepal-laws">Paul Shah</a>, and former speaker of Parliament <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/mahara-arrested">Krishna Bahadur Mahara</a> have been accused of rape, but society-at-large has let off the alleged perpetrators amdist a larger debate about justice for survivors and punishment of perpetrators.&nbsp;
‘Gaushala-26’ is the court name given to the 18-year-old who accused Sandeep Lamichhane, former captain of Nepal’s national cricket team and skipper of Biratnagar Kings in the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/here-comes-the-nepal-premier-league">ongoing Nepal Premier League</a>, of rape. She left the country citing society questioning her character affecting her mental health while Lamichhane got an outpouring of support. In May, the Patan High Court overturned a prior verdict that found Lamichhane guilty of rape and had sentenced him to eight years in prison. During the 23-month legal battle to pursue justice, Gaushala-26 faced threats of gang rape and acid attacks.&nbsp;
Exhausted by the struggle, Gaushala-26 sought to “move to a new world” where she could live free without hiding her identity.
Actress Samragyee Rajya Laxmi Shah in an Instagram video now deleted detailed the harassment she faced from a filmmaker during a movie shoot. She did not name any name but veteran actor Bhuwan KC filed a defamation case against Rana, but the court ruled that the charge lacked sufficient evidence.&nbsp;
Former Kathmandu mayor <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/theytoo">Keshav Sthapit also mocked the #MeToo movement</a>, calling accusations against him by journalists Rashmila Prajapati and Ujjwala Maharjan “a rape of men’s rights”.
Serial Abuse
Back at the Kalapremi Ceramics studio, another former student, 24-year-old Rajiv, says he felt the need to speak out after seeing his female classmates being abused.&nbsp;
“He frequently kissed them on their cheeks,” he told Nepali Times. “Whenever they walked into the studio he flailed his arms like a child asking for a hug. They awkwardly hugged him from the side, but he pulled them closer, held their chin, and kissed their cheeks.”&nbsp;
Rajiv says he also saw Kalapremi pull the women’s bra straps, touch their breasts, and slap their buttocks. The young students would freeze, not knowing how to react, and if they protested, he would say it was “normal in art”. Rajiv, 19 at the time like his classmates, remembers thinking perhaps the well-respected artist was right after all.
Another student, Luna, who took lessons at Kalapremi’s studio from 2020 to 2022 did try to confront the tutor after he made an obscene proposal to her. She recalls: “One day when the other students had left the studio and it was just the two of us, he told me that God had given him special artistic talent and he could transfer those powers to me. But to do that both of us will have to be naked, inside a dark room, and have sex.”
Luna, who was 18 then, was livid and told him she did not want any of his powers, but she says he laughed at her as if he was joking. She did not tell her family about the incident because she thought no one would believe her.&nbsp;
“They were all in awe of this famous artist and felt I should be grateful that to be learning sculpting from him,” she says. “I was scared to be alone with him in case he talked about sex again. My coping mechanism was to be rude so he wouldn’t try to come close to me.”
Seeing how some classmates were standing up to Kalapremi, Ekta too tried to push back against his advances, but she said he found ways to coerce her. Since Ekta, Rajiv, and Luna could not afford Kalapremi’s Rs30,000 monthly fee for lessons, he had offered them all a stipend to assist him in the studio.
“He had spondylosis and took me to his therapy sessions to learn massage techniques, then he often made me and other students massage him,” says Ekta. Whenever she refused, he would feign pain to make her feel sorry for him. “He would insist that I put my hands under his shirt so that I could massage him better,” she adds.
The art tutor often tried to “seduce sympathy” from Ekta by sharing how he had never been loved as a child and was “sexually frustrated” as an adult.&nbsp;
“At 7PM, he would pour himself Signature whiskey and immediately go off again about how he was sex-starved. I didn’t know how to respond. It took me time to realise alcohol was just an excuse to talk about sex,” Ekta says.
If convicted, Kalapremi could face financial penalty and/or a prison sentence of up to three years according to Section 224 of National Penal (Code) Act 2017.&nbsp;
Data suggests that victims of child sexual abuse on average take nearly 24 years to tell someone about their trauma, and some may never disclose it at all.&nbsp;
“In our culture, children are rarely taught about boundaries. They often react, show anger when adults pinch their cheeks. But adults insist they did it out of love, and force the children to accept it,” says Sita Lama, a psychotherapist at Manka Kura. “And even when someone touches them inappropriately they struggle to identify and verbalise it.”
When perpetrators claim to be “acting out of love”, Lama says survivors are likely to perceive it as something safe, rather than recognising it as abuse.&nbsp;
“It may take years for them to realise they were abused,” she explains. "And even when they become aware, the power imbalance with the abuser and the associated shame often prevents survivors from speaking up."
Other former students from the School of Art at Kathmandu University have also come forward years later, saying Kalapremi sexually abused them. As young adults, they felt his behaviour was off but were uncertain if it was inappropriate, illegal, or they did not know how to respond. After having understood that it was indeed abuse, they say they are speaking out now to protect others.&nbsp;
Amina Singh, a visiting faculty member at Kathmandu University, says there is no clause against sexual abuse in contracts of teachers, and there is no formal grievance handling mechanism for the students.&nbsp;
“So the only way students can to deal with sexual abuse is approach someone they trust,” she says.
Eight other former art students of Lalit Kala Campus and Srijana College of Fine Arts of Tribhuvan University and other private art studios in Kathmandu say they were also sexually abused by their art teachers. Three faculty members interviewed from these institutions said they saw the abuse, but felt it was futile to report it given how powerful the teachers were.
In the absence of a formal system, some longtime women artists warned each other about “problematic” artists. They shared &nbsp;a “heads-up” to be more cautious when collaborating with them, and avoided responding to their calls and texts after work hours.
To ensure art institutions are safe for all, galleries, museums, artist studios, and smaller art spaces need to develop policies on sexual harassment. This would include a code of conduct or studio policies that hold the leadership accountable and outline the principles of professional ethics.&nbsp;
Students and employees should inquire about accountability mechanisms for raising concerns, both formally and informally, advocates say.
Three years after Ekta left the ceramics studio, she learnt that Kalapremi had harassed many other women. Still trying to get a footing in the art industry, she attended a workshop in Kathmandu where women artists discussed ways to stay safe in the art sector.&nbsp;
Since it was a close-knit group Ekta opened up about how she felt violated and realised she was not alone, he had been abusing underprivileged students for years, and this was common knowledge among artists in Nepal.
Ekta says that even after she quit, Kalapremi continued sending her text messages like ‘I am thinking of you’, ‘Why have you stopped speaking with me’, or ‘I am waiting for your call’.&nbsp;
But what really forced her to act was when Ekta found out that he was sending similar texts to her younger sister.&nbsp;
“I’ve had enough,” she told us. “He abused me all these years but I won’t let him abuse my sister.” &nbsp;
Ekta, Rajiv and Luna are not the real names of the students.&nbsp;

‘Art Lover’ accused of sexual abuse

It was 8:15 in the evening of 25 March 1968 when everyone in the village of Batulechaur near Pokhara heard a deafening sound like thunder as a bright flashing object hurtled down to land in a field.&nbsp; That field belonged to Kul Timilsina, and the next morning he retrieved a sheet of metal about 2m by 1m and carried it home with the help of a few others, thinking it would be useful for his buffalo shed.&nbsp; Before he died at age 83 three years ago, Timilsina had told photo archivist Sunil Ulak that the black metal sheet was not rectangular and had rounded corners. There are a few witnesses still alive who have a clear recollection of the object that fell from the sky that night.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024120707128_75cc85aac56b9cc4a77366471f058d7b3eb6868776811b0923845c2d0a61f014.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="2024120707128_75cc85aac56b9cc4a77366471f058d7b3eb6868776811b0923845c2d0a61f014" data-rendition-name="original" width="1170" height="601" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara"> <figcaption>The field in Batulechaur belonging to Kul Timilsina where fragments of a flying object fell from the sky in 1968.</figcaption> </figure>  One of them is Timilsina’s wife Gyanu, who was 22 at the time. She had been at home, and remembers hearing the big bang and the sky becoming very bright. “We saw the thing in the field in the morning,” she told us. “It looked like a lid, a covering of some sort. The way it was stuck in the ground, it must have fallen from the sky. We thought we could use it to dry clothes on, and took it home.”&nbsp; Another witness is Kul Narayan Paudel. “I was only eight then. We ran to the field to see what had fallen. It was a four-sided metal sheet. The elders took it away, and I don't know what happened to it.” &nbsp; Ram Bahadur Baniya, a teacher at the local school, says he had heard the sheet had been brought to the school, and later handed over to the Zonal Commissioner at the time, Nanda Prasad Malla. “But that is all hearsay,” he says.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/2024120707128_0bf207a12063fb8155b3c8d9a00a94887b126380c9e0627527c84cf5e1101f54.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="2024120707128_0bf207a12063fb8155b3c8d9a00a94887b126380c9e0627527c84cf5e1101f54" data-rendition-name="original" width="1170" height="610" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara"> <figcaption>Gyanu Timilsina, wife of Kul Timilsina.</figcaption> </figure>  There are two versions of what happened to Kul Timilsina’s metal sheet. One is that an American Peace Corp Volunteer teaching at the nearby Bindyabasini School took it, and another is that it was handed over to the government. Recently declassified Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) and US State Department documents from the time say that the US Embassy in Kathmandu tracked down the object two years later and had it shipped back to the US. A telegram from the Department of State and Department of Defense tagged as ‘MOON DUST / Space Fragments’ dated 1 March 1972 stated: ‘1. Restored space fragment will be on board Embassy support flight 115 arriving Kathmandu on or about March 10. Fragment is packed in shipping crate (cargo no. 72-33365) marked in care of DAO.&nbsp; 2. State and Defense representatives examined fragments prior to shipment finding restoration acceptable.’  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241207071212_929d903ee06d41baa4f6040e981cd7c7d7bd75cc9c37c9b617d307fc8538d2df.png" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20241207071212_929d903ee06d41baa4f6040e981cd7c7d7bd75cc9c37c9b617d307fc8538d2df" data-rendition-name="original" width="856" height="568" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara"> <figcaption>Declassified CIA documents about the investigation into the object sighted in Pokhara. </figcaption> </figure>  The documents show that the US government, military and intelligence agencies investigated this incident thoroughly when it occurred, and have continued to revisit it ever since, as recently as five years ago. What is even more intriguing is that the object that fell in Pokhara was not the only unidentified space object that fell to earth that year. There were similar sightings of objects falling from the sky in Ladakh, Sikkim and Bhutan between 19 February and 25 March 1968.&nbsp; These mysteries were the subject of a CIA investigation in 1968 titled ‘<a href="https://www.cia.gov/readingroom/docs/CIA-RDP81R00560R000100070007-8.pdf">Sighting of Unidentified Flying Objects in Ladakh, Nepal, Sikkim and Bhutan</a>’, and the report is part of the recent online declassification of 800,000 top-secret documents from the period.&nbsp; &nbsp;Although unidentified flying objects (UFOs) have a connotation now of being alien craft, it could be pieces of satellite, missile, rocket or even aircraft. The CIA report documents six sightings in 1968 and quotes local sources as describing all of them having similar characteristics: bright blue or red streaks in the sky accompanied by loud sounds like lightning and thunder and objects falling to the ground. Aside from the metallic object that was found in Batlechaur, there were other items also found nearby in Tallakot, Tureypasal, Armalakot and Maidan. Whatever the object was, it seems to have disintegrated even before it hit the ground.&nbsp; The CIA report records the first sighting on 19 February 1968 in various parts of Sikkim and Olangchung Gola and Ghunsa in eastern Nepal. The light was said to be ‘long and thin’ and giving out ‘green and red light’. &nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241207071212_c3c825027d966a2aedc846970390eebe063957503c7eacc8e01e0517843f9bbb.png" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20241207071212_c3c825027d966a2aedc846970390eebe063957503c7eacc8e01e0517843f9bbb" data-rendition-name="original" width="892" height="596" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara "> </figure>  Two days later on 21 February, a soundless blue object was seen traveling fast across the sky above Thimphu in Bhutan. Then on 4 March there were multiple daytime sightings or white streaks in the sky at Chang La Pass, Fukche and Koyul in Ladakh. There were more sightings in Ladakh on the very day fragments fell near Pokhara on 25 March 1968.&nbsp; After the sightings in Pokhara, rumours started flying in Kathmandu that these were aliens trying to land on Earth, it could be Russian or Chinese spy planes or satellites, and some even say it as a sign from heaven that the end of the world was near. This was at the height of the Cold War. The Russians and Americans were testing their thermonuclear devices as well as intercontinental ballistic missile delivery systems. The Washington-Beijing rapprochement had not yet happened, and China was making quick progress testing atomic bombs. Within two years after its first atomic test, in 1966 China exploded its first hydrogen bomb at the Lop Nur site in Xinjiang, 3,000km to the north from Nepal. After neary six decades, what is still intriguing is that all the sightings within a few months of each other in 1968 were along the Himalayan arc bordering Tibet: from Bhutan, Sikkim Nepal, to Ladakh. The US military intelligence seems to have concluded that this was not a coincidence and there were frequent research trips to the site in Pokhara by American officials in the months after the incident. With the help of the Royal Nepal Army, the region north of Pokhara was thoroughly searched.&nbsp; A confidential memo dated 25 June 1968 by Jerry C Trippy to a ‘Mr Farley’ mentions that the US Air Force’s Foreign Technology Division had decided that the debris could be important because it may be related to a Chinese missile test or a Soviet ‘Vehicle Venik’ rocket.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241207071216_feb5425692dc36b20187de4e4fcc2ce9fd12b6d9e1b8724398e50bcdbf9032fe.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20241207071216_feb5425692dc36b20187de4e4fcc2ce9fd12b6d9e1b8724398e50bcdbf9032fe" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara"> </figure>  On 28 August 1968 the US Embassy in Kathmandu sent a letter to Washington DC saying that the object could be of Soviet origin, possibly from when the rocket carrying the ‘Kosmos 208’ satellite re-entered the atmosphere. But why were the fragments falling to earth several weeks apart, and in the same region? No one knows where the metal sheet that Kul Timilsina recovered is now. It was definitely packed in a crate and taken to the US, and although it is rumoured that it was returned that is not very likely. Archivist Sunil Ulak heard from the Timilsina family that CIA officials had returned to the site five years ago. &nbsp; Interest in UFOs peaked in the US in the 1950s, with the Cold War space race and tests of atomic weapons and delivery rockets. CIA and scientists were being sent to investigate sightings, both publicly and privately. Could the Pokhara fragments as well as the sightings in Ladakh and Bhutan actually be alien craft falling to earth? The renewal in interest in space travel in large part due to Elon Musk’s SpaceX, UFOs and sightings are again subjects of public interest.&nbsp; Even 57 years later, even if there was definitive proof about whether the Batlechaur fragment was from a Chinese missile or a soviet rocket, it has not been made public in documents declassified so far. We may never know.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20241207071216_b6938795f40731e7657fd6dcbb3cf460a326186a15eb11d4f832f602201ff598.jpg" data-media-id="editor_6" data-image-id="20241207071216_b6938795f40731e7657fd6dcbb3cf460a326186a15eb11d4f832f602201ff598" data-rendition-name="original" width="642" height="320" loading="lazy" alt="UFO over Pokhara"> </figure>  Sunil Ulak speculates if the debris actually came from an American aircraft, perhaps on an intel mission upon China. “Which could explain why they were so thorough in collecting the fragments in Pokhara,” he says. But that still does not explain the multiple sightings weeks apart in 1968.&nbsp; Indeed, US military aircraft were at that time flying frequent night-time missions from air force bases in India to supply weapons to Khampa guerrilla camps in Nepal located north of Pokhara in Mustang. It could very well be that the Chinese shot down one such aircraft. The other sightings could have been contrails of US spy planes, or Chinese anti-aircraft missiles.&nbsp; There were quite a few developments regarding UFOs in 2024. In a US congressional hearing in July, former intelligence officer David Grusch claimed that the government had long been involved in a program to investigate and retrieve non-human craft crashes, and then try to reverse engineer them. However Grusch did not show any evidence.&nbsp; The UAP Disclosure Act of 2024 was signed into law by Joe Biden in December 2023. It plans to oversee the public disclosure of UFO information. However, there is a clause in it that prevents disclosure if it would cause threats to military defense, intelligence operations or foreign relations.&nbsp; It is unlikely that the declassified documents about sightings in the Himalayan will cause any real surprise about definite evidence of alien life even if it was found. It seems humanity will continue, at least for now, to wonder about curious lights in the sky and whether there is anybody out there.&nbsp;

UFO over Pokhara

When Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP) president Rabi Lamichhane was arrested in October on charges of defrauding depositors of cooperatives, the party’s vice president Swarnim Wagle gifted him Fareed Zakaria’s book, Age of Revolutions.
Since then, Lamichhane has been shunted around from Kathmandu to Pokhara to Chitwan and back to Pokhara to attend police investigations and court proceedings. He was being flown to Birganj via Kathmandu on Buddha Air on Monday. There is another pending case in Janakpur.
Human rights groups and civil society have criticised the government for hounding Lamichhane with inhumane treatment that borders on physical torture. The two parties in the coalition, Nepali Congress (NC) and the UML, see Lamichhane’s RSP as a potentially formidable challenge to their power.
Even if the fraud charges against Lamichhane are true, the Nepali public is increasingly looking at the government’s actions through the police and courts as political vendetta.
Despite all the travelling, sometimes by plane and often by road at night, Lamichhane appears to be in high spirits, waving to supporters who often gather if they know he is going to be driven around. A social media video shows him giving high fives to fellow passengers on a recent flight to Pokhara.&nbsp;
In the past weeks, streets in Pokhara have erupted with parallel protests by Lamichhane’s supporters as well as depositors of cooperatives who lost their savings to the scam.&nbsp;
Although family visits are allowed, prison officials in Pokhara told Nepali Times that not many people visit Lamichhane these days. He added, “When he does get visitors, he asks them to bring him books.”
Lamichhane is currently Nepal’s most high-profile public figure in custody, and highlights the stark difference between how influential prisoners are treated compared to ordinary inmates.
There are six prison cells at Kaski District Police Office’s two-story detention centre, three on each floor. And while authorities pack prisoners into already overcrowded cells, Lamichhane has an entire room on the second floor to himself.&nbsp;
He has also been allowed to call his family every few days. Other prisoners are not permitted phone calls except for emergencies.
Meanwhile, Lamichhane’s former business partner Chhabilal Joshi, an ex-Deputy Inspector General of Police with whom he established his Gorkha Media Network, is in custody under the same charges in the prison cell next to him.
Lamichhane is accused of siphoning off depositors' money to the tv network in which he was part-owner and anchor. &nbsp;
Both Lamichhane and Joshi are able to buy food from the police canteen instead of being served the regular meal like other prisoners. Joshi has also given his statement to authorities in Rupandehi and Kathmandu for his alleged role in the scam. Lamichhane is yet to be presented in Kathmandu for questioning.
While he was in custody at the Kathmandu District Police Complex, Joshi expressed his desire to sleep in a police officer’s office, reportedly assuring authorities that he would not run away and he was entitled to certain facilities as a former officer of the law.
“He seemed to be under the impression that he is still a police officer,” says a source at the Kathmandu District Police. “We made it clear to him that as someone accused of a crime, he was not entitled to special treatment.”
Former ministers Balkrishna Khand and Top Bahadur Rayamajhi, and ex-home secretary Tek Narayan Pandey, who were arrested in connection with the fake refugee scam last year, were similarly housed in the offices of law enforcement officials instead of prison cells. Khand has since been released after six months in jail.
While there is no legal provision to keep high-ranking officials in separate detention centres when they are arrested, authorities granting them special facilities is not uncommon. Law enforcement officials say VIP detainees expect preferential treatment while in police custody.
Among those is former Kosi Province minister Lila Ballav Adhikari, who was arrested from Biratnagar on 10 November over his alleged involvement in human trafficking and brought to Kathmandu. Adhikari had flown to Japan without government approval with three individuals on 29 October to attend a cultural conference, but had been sent back to Nepal from Narita.&nbsp;
His three companions were arrested at Kathmandu airport upon their arrival, but Adhikari was able to exit unscathed from the VIP lounge. Adhikari had resigned as the Kosi Province Minister for Internal Affairs and Law when it became public that his companions had been taken into custody, and was himself arrested shortly after. He has since been cleared by the courts.
Throughout his detention, Adhikari was kept separately from other inmates. Senior Superintendent of Police (SSP) Basant Rajouri, head of the Bhadrakali complex, says that while there is no separate detention area for VIPs, some detainees are kept separately depending on the nature of their crime.
However, sources say that arrangements were made for retired judges and others to visit Adhikari frequently worked at the office of a Deputy Superintendent of Police (DSP) during his time in custody.&nbsp;
“He used to constantly pester the authorities to let him sit outside in the sun, and to be able to use the police officer’s shower area,” added an officer.
Adhikari was released on 25 November after the government prosecutor’s office decided not to charge him in a move that was seen to expose the government’s double standards.
Over at Kathmandu’s Dilli Bazar Prison, former Kist Bank CEO Kamal Gyawali emerges from his prison cell into the courtyard of the prison’s ‘Ka (क)’ block every morning with a thick book in his hands, ready to give his daily sermon.
With his long beard, Gyawali, who is serving a prison sentence for banking fraud, looks the part of a religious guru as he implores his rapt listeners to “walk the right path, abandon bad thoughts and turn to scripture and spirituality”.&nbsp;
Afterward, the attendees gather to discuss politics and current affairs. Inmates at his daily sermons at the prison include other high-profile detainees, including former MP Ichchha Raj Tamang, who is in jail for money laundering and cooperatives fraud, former joint secretary Chudamani Sharma, who was convicted of corruption, as well as NC leader Chandra Bahadur Lama and Krishna Bahadur Upreti of the UML both of whom are on trial for embezzling billions of rupees.
Victims of the cooperatives scam that former lawmaker Tamang was involved in have made trips to the prison and requested visits, but he has refused to meet with any of them.
“Tamang often complains that the state has prevented him from returning the money to the victims by locking him up,” says a police officer at the Dili Bazar jail.
“All you hear every day from the VIP prisoners is that they have been framed,” adds the officer. “No one admits that they were involved in misdeeds.”
But while most high-profile prisoners complain about prison conditions, one exception is former provincial lawmaker Deepak Manange, who is serving a sentence at Dilli Bazar Jail for attempted murder.
“He is the happiest prisoner here,” says a warden. “Unlike the others, he doesn’t claim to have been framed, in fact he doesn’t seem to care that he is in prison.”
Manange is detained in the ‘Kha (ख)’ block of the prison complex, which he renovated at his own expense. The block previously housed female prisoners, but Manange used his influence to transfer them elsewhere. He faces no shortage of visitors, who range from political leaders to people from the underworld.
Along with Manange, other well-known prisoners in this block include Nepal Telecom Managing Director Sunil Poudel, and former executive director of the Surakshan Printing Centre Bikal Poudel, who are serving time for corruption.
Former prisoners at Dilli Bazar prison include ex-ministers Khum Bahadur Khadka and Shyam Sundar Gupta, NC leader Ganesh Lama, Maoist MP Balkrishna Dhungel, Nagarik Unmukti Party leader Resham Chaudhary, as well as former IGs Ramesh Chand Thakuri, Om Bikram Rana, and Hem Bahadur Gurung.
Section 54 of Nepal’s Prison Act assigns each prison’s internal administration the
responsibility of governing its prisoners, which means the more favourable the jail management is, the more comfortable it is for prisoners.
Dilli Bazar prison has been the prison of choice for many high-ranking prisoners, especially those convicted of white collar crimes, due to its more accommodating administrators. The prison, which has the capacity to house 700 inmates, is also less crowded than other jails.
Anuj Bhattarai, spokesperson of the Department of Prison Management, says that there is no legal classification in Nepal for felons to be assigned prisons based on the nature of their crimes.
“That Dilli Bazar Jail has a higher number of prisoners convicted of crimes like corruption is most likely a coincidence,” says Bhattarai. “There is no provision for influential people to be able to choose where they will be incarcerated.”&nbsp;
Translated by Shristi Karki from the Nepali original published in himalkhabar.com

What Nepal’s VIP prisoners do in jail

If you were raised in Nepal, you must have picked up its unique set of vocabulary: आन्दोलन, चक्का जाम, बन्द, राँके जुलुस, आफ्नो मान्छे, हाम्रो दल, कर्फु and many more words connoting political protest.
We became familiar with the acrid smell of burning tyres, and eyes smarting from tear gas. And yet, everyone speaks of another revolution in the making. Not by desire, but by suffocation.
We heard speeches about नयाँ नेपाल, but the New Nepal never arrived. The governance system changed, but it did not reflect on people’s lives — except for those close to centres of power. The state is still unreachable and is not bothered about <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/matter-of-life-and-debt">victims of loan sharks</a>, cooperative scams and other injustices.
Politicians continue to speak in sound bites, but fail to deliver. They have mastered the game of pointing fingers towards an external enemy and convincing people that they are never at fault. The political narrative is so disconnected from the actual analysis of the problem that suffocation doesn’t go away after every revolution.
No genuine effort has been made to deliver at all, which is why there is a palpable sense of disillusionment in the air forcing us to seek another revolution, even if Nepal may not be able to afford it.
How has the current system successfully held power, even if the public is deeply frustrated? How is it that for three decades we continue to be led by the same faces, who have time and again, proved to us that they may be great politicians but not national leaders?
<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/improving-internet-governance-in-nepal">My experience at the epicentre of politics</a> has led me to identify three cultures that have enabled political parties to keep a tight hold on power: acceptance, silence and dependency.
We accept things the way they are. We use fatalistic phrases like “नेपालमा यस्तै हो” or “नेपालको कानुन दैब जानुन”. While this resilience enables us to rise back up from devastating calamities, it is also a reason for our compliance with the status quo.
Despite so many ‘revolutions’ that have led to significant reforms, these phrases keep getting reinforced, to the point that the upcoming generations have made it their lingo.&nbsp;
This acceptance is not a symbol of law-abiding citizens, but citizens living in fear of those in power, unable to ask the whys and why-nots.
Innovation suffocates in this culture of acceptance of the status quo. This is manifested in remarks like “but we don’t have any laws for this,” or “we don’t have the capacity to implement this”. An innovator or entrepreneur therefore has to spend that energy to become a political lobbyist, often educating and convincing the bureaucracy.&nbsp;
Remember when locally assembled <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/designed-and-made-in-nepal">Yatri motorbikes</a>, despite having willing customers, had to suffer to secure license numbers because of a lack of regulations? Instead of creating new laws, the government kept chanting the “We will promote Nepal-made goods” mantra, leaving entrepreneurs in a labyrinth of bureaucracy. The weight of acceptance of the law lies heavily on innovators. Fatalism is a tactic used by those in power to generate mass fear in society.
When we accept, we become silent. This is a pervasive phenomenon. We are trained to keep quiet, lest we ruffle feathers, burn bridges, or not get the help we need in future. We know, yet we don’t speak.
Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/bureaucratic-hurdles-in-researching-nepals-bureaucracy">Bureaucratic hurdles in researching Nepal's bureaucracy</a>, Daniel W Edwards
Here is one example: the 2021 census shows that the number of baby boys born for every 100 baby girls is 112. This is a clear indication of female foeticide because of boy preference in society.
Despite such horrifying realities, there is finger-pointing within the government between the Ministry of Health and Population with the Ministry of Home Affairs. At the citizen level, we know those who are involved in killing girls. Yet, we don’t speak up. The Nepal Medical Council reports state that despite this gender imbalance at birth, there is no indication of any action.
But why would anyone speak against one's own fraternity, no matter how vile the act is?
When we accept and keep quiet, we become dependent on those who yield power. From getting our government procedure completed on time to getting transfers, to accessing any of our legally protected rights as well, we are forced to depend on our networks of चिनेको मान्छे people we know by blood, village, relations, political affiliation.
The culture of dependency has been the established way in Nepal. If you drive a two-wheeler or four-wheeler, and you get into a small accident, you will be asked to sort it yourself, dialing up the most powerful person you know. It becomes a competition of who knows who.
Recently I was told that there were calls from the Ministry of Health and Population and another from the Prime Minister's Office for just one medical position in a private hospital. Each was pushing its own candidate. Guess which candidate got the position.&nbsp;
The dependency of people is not on the laws or the state, it is with people in power, a reliance on the network of somebody who knows somebody, including those not officially in power.
These cultures are deeply ingrained in our heads, and in society. Collectively they form a vicious circle that helps those in power to retain power. This is not the society we want to live in.
Then, what do we do as a collective to break away from this? How do we break away from the cultures of acceptance and silence that have created this dependency? What can we do to ensure that our children do not have to learn the jargon of आन्दोलन before they learn about the state?
These are the cultures political parties need to shed rather than use them to perpetuate their power. This is what <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/opinion/comment/an-alternative-to-alternative-politics-in-nepal">alternative politics</a> needs to be about.
Sumana Shrestha is a member of Parliament’s Education, Health and Information Technology parliamentary committee and represents the Rastriya Swatantara Party.

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