There is something uniquely haunting about an <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/editorial/crash-course">air crash</a>. It is the kind of catastrophe that is both sudden and protracted, a fleeting moment of terror seemingly suspended in time, leaving behind the kind of <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/business/April-earthquake-was-followed-by-more-devastating-economic-upheaval,2772#google_vignette">wreckage </a>that is measured not just in debris but in the lives it claims and the lives it shatters of the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-tale-of-four-nepalis-in-mumbai">loved ones who are left behind</a>.&nbsp; The midair<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/lukla-plane-chopper-collision-kills-3-e9vw17vw"> collision</a> near the Washington Reagan National Airport last month that claimed 67 lives was the deadliest <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/18-dead-in-nepal-aircraft-crash">aviation disaster</a> on US soil in nearly 25 years. In those final moments, flight recorder data indicates how the pilots of the doomed American Airlines flight fought against fate itself, pulling the nose of the plane up, desperately trying to salvage even a sliver of hope. This is similar to what happened to Pakistan International Airlines flight 8303 in Karachi five years ago. But tragically, it was too late.&nbsp; In the seconds before impact, perhaps they too, like many others before them, felt their entire lives unfold before their eyes, as I too had experienced. For those who remain, there is something deeply unsettling about a tragedy like this. We cycle through horror, grief, and a helpless kind of sorrow, knowing that nothing we do can rewind time or rewrite history. But there is something else, too — a quiet, unspoken responsibility. When people vanish in<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/tragedy-at-tia"> preventable tragedies</a>, the burden of their loss does not just belong to their families, it belongs to all of us. It forces us to confront questions of justice, accountability, and, perhaps most agonisingly, the randomness of fate itself. I know this weight personally. On May 22, 2020, I boarded a PIA flight that never truly landed. It was meant to be a routine trip home for Eid, a simple journey from Lahore to Karachi. Instead, the plane crash-landed in a densely populated neighborhood, killing 97 of the 99 people on board. I was one of the two who survived. Survival from such an accident is not just a miracle — it is a paradox. Why me? Why not them? These questions live inside me, dormant yet ever-present, stirring awake every time another tragedy unfolds.&nbsp; When I read about the Washington crash, I could imagine the chaos in the cockpit, the passengers gripping their seats, the terrible weight of inevitability in those final moments. And I visualise the collateral survivors — the families left behind, the air traffic controllers who might have caught a different detail, the people who changed their flight at the last moment. Because after a tragedy, survival itself feels like both a gift and a debt. And that debt demands to be repaid. Read also:<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/airfields-without-airplanes"> Airfields without airplanes</a> We cannot change what happened over the skies of Washington. But we can ask ourselves: What do we owe to those who perished? We owe them the truth. The investigations must be relentless. Early reports indicate scrutiny on air traffic controller staffing, the complexity of Washington’s airspace, and possible miscalculations in altitude. The families of the victims deserve more than vague reassurances. They deserve transparency, accountability, and a system that does not repeat its failures. We owe them change. The Federal Aviation Administration’s new restrictions on helicopter traffic near Reagan National Airport are a start, but they are not enough. We owe them a memory. Tragedies fade from headlines, but grief lingers in the bones of those left behind. Memorials, safety reforms, foundations — these are the ways in which those who pass on are not forgotten. We owe them our lives, fully lived. If you have ever escaped death, you know that every breath afterward feels borrowed. The burden of survival is the question of purpose — what will you do with this bonus life? It is easy to sink into guilt, to let grief dictate your days.&nbsp; Read also: <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/fatalism-and-fatalities">Fatalism and fatalities</a>, Sonia Awale But the real tribute to the dead is to live with the kind of intention they no longer have the chance to. It is to love harder, to be kinder, to leave no important words unsaid. It is to make sure that when your own final moment comes — whether in a slow fade or in the sudden, brutal rupture of an accident — you are at peace with the life you have led. In the end, every tragedy leaves behind lessons. The only question is whether we choose to learn from them. I have shared my peculiar lessons as a survivor of an air crash which I owe on my part to humanity in my latest book ‘Seat 1C’.&nbsp; May we, the living, carry the memory of those who have died forward with the weight and honour it deserves. Zafar Masud is an international banker and founder of the Zafar Masud Foundation which focuses on passenger and airplane safety regulations. ‘Seat 1C: A Survivor’s Tale of Hope, Resilience and Renewal’ (Lightstone Publishers, Pakistan, and Rupa, India) was launched at the Lahore Literary Festival on 22 February. This is a Sapan News syndicated feature.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250223080228_8bf73dc035afd137c708e63cda5f7ce0c014ccfb2c84945e1b3dd13a805c5e40.jpg" data-media-id="editor_8" data-image-id="20250223080228_8bf73dc035afd137c708e63cda5f7ce0c014ccfb2c84945e1b3dd13a805c5e40" data-rendition-name="original" width="1136" height="702" loading="lazy" alt="Seat 1C Book cover "> </figure>  &nbsp;

original

674x448

610x380

500x500

400x266

400x240

400x203

301x200

1250x600

1084x550

thumbnail

viewImage

Humanity after the crash

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCjJUL0hZmgIt was a warm Saturday morning three years ago when Rasmila Awal walked over to a nearby shop to buy provisions, leaving her four-month-old baby Sonish and 10-year-old daughter Sonia at home. The baby was asleep and Sonia was watching tv when the whole building started rattling and shaking.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca619c7e80680e02f309jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="130" height="101"/>Sonia remembers plaster falling from the ceiling and a big gash appearing on the walls. Instinctively, she ran out of the house, remembered she had left her little brother inside, rushed back in, picked up the baby and was trying to get out <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2015/05/13/tears-of-joy/">when it collapsed</a> on top of them.She tried to hold on to her little brother, but as the walls came down on top of her, she lost her grip on the baby and was knocked unconscious.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca619c7e80680e02f30ajpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="933"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>At the shop, Rasmila felt the ground swaying and knew immediately that it was an earthquake. She ran back, and crumpled on the ground when she saw her house in ruins with the two children inside.“My feet were shaking, I couldn’t get up, I wanted to scream for help, but no sound came out of my mouth,” Rasmila recalls. The neighbours immediately started digging, and soon saw a girl’s leg sticking out of the debris. Sonia was alive, but unconscious.The rescuers dug some more but couldn’t find Sonish. The ground shook restlessly with aftershocks as night fell. Rasmila kept a silent vigil even after rescuers gave up the search, and neighbours prepared to sleep out in the open.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca649c7e80680e02f30bjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000">Just then, she heard a feeble wail from beneath the ruins. Army rescuers were called in, and after digging right through the night, they finally brought out Sonish, covered in dust but with barely a scratch on him. He had been <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2015/06/23/the-baby-who-lived/">under the rubble</a> for 22 hours.“I cannot describe that feeling of relief, I hugged him tight, all my prayers were answered,” remembers Rasmila. The baby started sucking his thumb, and looked around seemingly to ask what the fuss was all about.Three years later, it is Sonish who runs to the door when he hears the bell ring. He is a playful and inquisitive boy, and is excited to have visitors.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca689c7e80680e02f30cjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000">Rasmila’s husband is a truck driver and is out most of the day. The family is still homeless, and live with the two children in one rented room. There is talk of land being appropriated to widen the road, so the house has not been rebuilt.The Nepal Army, which helped in the rescue has given Sonish and Sonia <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2016/04/24/scholarship-for-miracle-baby/">scholarships</a> till they go to college. After he finishes primary school, Sonish will attend the Army’s high school in Sallaghari.Rasmila says the iconic photograph of Sonish by Amul Thapa brought the family fame, but not much else. However, she feels blessed: “At least I have both my children, and we are together.”<h3>Amul baby</h3><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca6b9c7e80680e02f30djpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="806"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Amul Thapa was in his newsroom in Baneswor when the building started shaking violently. His reporter’s instincts kicked in, and he grabbed his camera bag and rushed to Dharara where 60 people had been killed when the tower collapsed.“Instead of taking pictures, we were helping rescue people from under the rubble,” Thapa recalls.Only then did he decide to call home to find out how his family was doing in Bhaktapur. They told him about the great damage in the town, and how there was one house that had collapsed trapping children underneath the rubble.“The soldiers were digging frantically and the family was standing around weeping and praying. It didn’t feel right to be taking pictures, so I went home,” Thapa says.Next morning, he went back to the collapsed house. The soldiers were still digging because they could hear the boy’s cries from beneath the debris. At about 10am, they found four-month-old Sonish Awal trapped underneath a wooden beam, which had actually protected him as the walls and floors collapsed all around.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca6f9c7e80680e02f30ejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1100" height="660"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Thapa clicked away: Rasmila’s tears of sorrow had turned into tears of joy, the baby was covered in dirt as he was extricated carefully from the rubble, and finally the now-famous photograph of rescue soldier Dipak Rai holding Sonish up amidst applause and relief which made it to the folding front page of Nepali Times and Himal Khabarpatrika that week (above).Says Thapa: “I was able to tell the story of the child and the family to the whole world. My photographs made Sonish famous worldwide, and the story did the same for me. It was not just a picture, it symbolised hope and survival.”Thapa often visits the family and helps in any way he can. He now works for Naya Patrika.Read Also:<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2015/06/23/the-baby-who-lived/">The baby who lived</a>, Sahina Shrestha<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/page/survivors-of-2015-Nepal">Not so lucky</a>, Sahina Shrestha<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/headline/Miracle-baby,2987">Miracle baby</a>, Smriti Basnet

Monika Deupala

Bhaktapur's Miracle boy at 3

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca539c7e80680e02f304jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="788"/><figcaption>BACK ON TRACK: Hotel Budget collapsed on top of Ga Hiti in Thamel during the earthquake (below) killing at least 10 people. Today, the neighbourhood has been rebuilt through a community effort led by Zafar Hussain and Hari Bhakta Shrestha . NISCHAL PRADHAN</figcaption></figure>Hari Bhakta Shrestha was in his office at <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2015/04/26/second-night-in-the-open/">Hotel Budget</a> in Thamel when the earthquake struck just before noon on that fateful Saturday three years ago.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca569c7e80680e02f305jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="130" height="101">As the shaking got worse, he ran out along with other residents and once outside, watched as his own hotel tilted and collapse into the historic Ga Hiti stone water spout. There was a shattering roar, and a cloud of dust rose up in the air.Six guests from Sikkim were inside having breakfast in their rooms, and did not make it out. Several women waiting to collect water at the bottom of the sunken spout also perished.Shrestha’s concentration then shifted from the rubble of the hotel to his family in Lazimpat. Fortunately they were all right.Read Also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=4276&amp;preview=true">The reincarnation of a holy valley</a>, Clara Bullock<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=4267&amp;preview=true">Bhaktapur's Miracle boy at 3</a>, Monika Deupala“It took a little time for people to understand what was happening, everyone was in shock,” Shrestha recalls. But three years later, he has rebuilt the renamed Hotel Ama’s Home at the exact spot where his old one used to be. The community has come together to restore the Ga Hiti neighborhood, and it is difficult to imagine today that Kathmandu’s tourist centre once suffered an earthquake.“We cannot stop earthquakes, but we can protect ourselves from them by ensuring stronger construction for the next time,” says Shrestha, who says he did not want to sell his land and move out. His patience paid off, and business is back to normal as Thamel’s tourism revived.After the earthquake, local politician Yogesh Bhattarai coordinated with the municipality and ward office to clear up the debris from the water spout, and lending a helping hand was the Ga Hiti Youth Club.The Club’s Zafar Hussain said since many monuments like <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/review/should-dharara-be-rebuilt,2355">Dharara</a> and the <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/nation/Monumental-loss,2215">Darbar Squares</a> were destroyed there was no point waiting for help from the government, so the community got together to restore their own neighbourhood which took six months.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca579c7e80680e02f306jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="500" height="275"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca599c7e80680e02f307jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="360">“Waiting was pointless, and if we had waited, this place would never have been restored,” Hussain adds.Called ‘Operation Every Day Every Week’ the rebuilding effort gathered momentum under Yogesh Bhattarai’s coordination. Excavators got to work to clear the rubble, volunteers helped lift out debris from Ga Hiti. Every day members of community would work together, and at the end of the week, volunteers would join in -- diplomats, politicians and people from other neighbourhoods.Read Also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/how-to-build-back-better/" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> How to build back better?</a>, Suyog PrajapatiFinally, Kathmandu Metropolitan City took notice and formed a new reconstruction committee where the community put up 20% of the cost. With private donations, the hiti, road and broken water mains were all repaired long before similar reconstruction were completed in Kathmandu and elsewhere in the earthquake zones.Shrestha gave the reconstruction of the neighbourhood more priority than rebuilding his own hotel.We had no expectations of help from the government, and perhaps that is why it got finished so quickly,” he adds.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022110710114/6368ca5e9c7e80680e02f308jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="844">Today, Ga Hiti is once more a place for the community to get together to collect water, wash clothes and even bathe.Hussain owns a jewellery shop in Thamel, and says Ga Hiti is now a model for how much can be achieved collectively: “Even the elders were looking up to the younger generation this time, it showed that a co-operative society can function well in times of crisis.”Read Also<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/blogs/thebrief/2015/04/26/second-night-in-the-open/">Second night in the open</a>

Thamel gets back to business

Recent outrage in Sikkim over an Indian Army expedition climbing <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/saving-kangchenjunga">Kangchenjunga</a>, the world’s third-highest peak, has spiked attention to the need to balance mountaineering jobs with indigenous reverence for sacred landmarks. Kangchenjunga (8,586m) is not a peak as much as it is a mountain range with 16 peaks above 7,000m on the border between India and Nepal -- the word itself means ‘five treasures of the snows’ in Tibetan. Some of the highest prominences like Kangchenjunga West and Kangbachen are in Nepal, while the Main, Central and South Peaks are on the border. Climbing the peak from the Indian side has been banned since 2001 because the indigenous Lepcha community there regard the mountain as the abode of Dzoe-nga, the patron deity of Sikkim, which was an independent Himalayan Kingdom until it was annexed by India in 1975.&nbsp; Buddhists in Sikkim say their saint, Padmasambhava, recognised the mountain as a protective spirit. The state has declared the base of the mountain Kangchenjunga National Park, which covers an area one-third of Sikkim. ‘The act of scaling this sacred peak is not only a matter of serious concern but also a violation of both the prevailing legal provisions and the deeply held religious beliefs of the people of Sikkim,’ read a letter from Chief Minister Prem Singh Tamang (Golay) to Amit Shah, India’s Minister of Home Affairs and Cooperation.&nbsp; Tamang continued: ‘We further request Your Honour to take up the issue with the Government of Nepal to ensure that no future expeditions are permitted on the sacred mountain, in deference to the deeply held beliefs and cultural values of the people of Sikkim.’ Kangchenjunga was climbed for the first time exactly 70 years ago by a British team who told King Tashi Namgyal, the Choegyal of Sikkim, that they would not set foot on the summit. Since then, there have been about 532 successful climbs of the peaks and 52 have died while trying.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250628060616_5c268e08cf49f36b79ef9b31933fc2d9bf9a6f65414e7ca06dd028bf04e7ccc1.png" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20250628060616_5c268e08cf49f36b79ef9b31933fc2d9bf9a6f65414e7ca06dd028bf04e7ccc1" data-rendition-name="original" width="1782" height="1178" loading="lazy" alt="Kangchenjunga: too sacred to climb NT"> <figcaption>Indigenous communities in Sikkim held purification ceremonies following the Indian expedition to Kangchenjunga. Photo: THE VOICE OF SIKKIM / FACEBOOK</figcaption> </figure>  <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/peak-climbing-season-2025-s4abrxny">This spring climbing season</a> alone, there were 70 climbing permits for foreigners issued for Kangchenjunga by the Nepal government, and made it to the top while one French climber died.&nbsp; One of the expeditions this year was an Indian Army team led by Col Ranveer Jamwal, who has summited the highest peaks on all seven continents, and Mt Everest thrice. Jamwal’s team was on the final leg of a ‘<a href="https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/news/india/nimas-summits-mt-kangchenjunga-concludes-historic-har-shikhar-tiranga-mission-successfully/articleshow/121341315.cms?from=mdr">Har Shikhar Tiranga</a>’ (The Tricolour on Every Peak) mission to plant the Indian flag at the highest points of each of India’s 28 states. Kanchenjunga was the last peak they had left, and the hardest, but the expedition put five climbers on the summit. What seems to have incensed the Sikkimese is that while it has banned climbing the mountain from its side, it was an Indian military expedition that went to Nepal to climb the mountain. After news broke of the climb in May, the Sikkim Indigenous Lepcha Tribal Association asked people to observe purification ceremonies in temples across the state. Mayalmit Lepcha of the association acknowledged that the Sikkim government was also partly at fault: “I don’t think such an expedition could have gone forward without the state government being informed, so it could have done something to intervene. It shows weakness. What’s done is done, all we can do is carry out these sanctification ceremonies.”&nbsp; In 2000, one year before Sikkim’s ban, the state allowed an Austrian team to attempt Kanchenjunga’s northeast face for a fee of $20,000, on agreement that they would stop 10m before the summit. Despite this, there was outrage over the expedition on the grounds that it violated Indian laws regarding the defiling of religious sites and Sikkim’s rights to maintain its culture after merging with India. The Indian Army expedition was also seen to have circumvented Sikkim’s law and violated religious sensibilities by going through Nepal. While the team may have thought they were respecting Sikkim’s beliefs by finding a way to complete the mission, the people of Sikkim saw it as defilement.&nbsp; The somber mood of the Sikkim people at the ritual contrasts sharply with Jamwal’s sense of accomplishment. “Without a doubt, the most difficult summit of my life,” he told reporters after the climb. “It tested every ounce of our will.”&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250628060616_ccfe079c78dab788d19fe2080ee8a5d5dcb11de4157316f6d94e5964da097157.jpg" data-media-id="editor_4" data-image-id="20250628060616_ccfe079c78dab788d19fe2080ee8a5d5dcb11de4157316f6d94e5964da097157" data-rendition-name="original" width="787" height="377" loading="lazy" alt="Kangchenjunga: too sacred to climb NT"> <figcaption>Prayer flags along the Sikkim-Kangchenjunga trekking route. Photo: TREKKINGININDIA.COM</figcaption> </figure>  The <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/the-rise-and-fall-of-nims-purja">controversial Nepali-British mountaineer Nirmal Purja</a> was also on Kangchenjunga this spring the mountain, on a mission to summit all 14 8,000m peaks for a third time. He echoed Jamwal about the tough conditions: “The conditions above camp were extremely tough, with deep snow and challenging terrain—more crevasses than usual.” Nepal’s government has not said anything publicly, but it is unlikely that it will ban climbing on Kangchenjunga, since it is becoming popular with expeditions because of its technical challenges, and overcrowding on Mt Everest. Nepal does have bans in place for some of its mountains out of respect for local beliefs. <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/banner/to-open-machapuchre-for-mountaineering-or-not">Mt Machapuchre</a> (6,990m) the imposing pyramid that looms over Pokhara, for example, is seen as an icon of purity by the Gurung people and a symbol of Vishnu by the Hindu communities who live at its base. A strict climbing ban has been in place since 1957, when a British expedition led by Col Jimmy Roberts stopped 45m short of the summit – either because the last bit was too difficult or out of deference to local sentiments.&nbsp; Khumbila that stands above Namche Bazar is only 5,761m high, but like Kanchenjunga is considered the protector deity of the Sherpa people. Gauri Shankar on the Nepal-China border, called Chomo Tseringma by the local community, was off-limits between 1965 and 1979 due to its association with Lord Shiva and Gauri, his consort. Although expeditions are now allowed, there are not too many takers. In Tibet, climbing Mount Kailash is prohibited by the Chinese government because it revered by the Hindus, Buddhists and followers of the Bon faith. Even Mt Everest is regarded as sacred, and its Sherpa name is Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.&nbsp; Economically, climbs on Kanchenjunga bring in decent revenue. This climbing season, the 41 permits, at $1,800 each, brought in $73,800. This is somewhat comparable to Makalu, Lhotse, and Annapurna I, but these numbers are dwarfed by the $4 million in <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/news/the-everest-industry">Everest permits</a>. Revenue from Kanchenjunga climbing permits is something Nepal could potentially forgo if necessary, but the expeditions also provide jobs to hundreds of high altitude guides, porters, base camp support staff and other logistical costs.&nbsp; As the third highest mountain in the world and the tallest in India, there will always be significant motivation to climb it from the Nepal side, especially as climbers are drawn by the technical climbing at high altitude.

Kangchenjunga: too sacred to climb?

The monsoon this year arrived on time, and brought life-giving rain — irrigating paddy terraces, recharging groundwater, reviving springs, and increasing electricity generation.
But Nepal has to deal with either too much water or too little. On a clear April day before the monsoon, the hills of Sindhuli district were parched, and there were wildfires burning out of control. There had been no rain for the past six months.
And that has been the perennial crisis for Nepal’s farmers: that 85% of the rainfall occurs during just four months of the monsoon with little rain for the other eight months.&nbsp;
The water crisis is related to the powerful changes sweeping the mid-hill region of Nepal. With better roads, higher incomes and more exposure, many residents now aspire to have the kind of water supply seen in urban homes. They want hot or cold water at the turn of a tap, showers and flush tank toilets.&nbsp;
To meet this rising demand, many local and provincial governments are investing in large water supply projects often by lifting water from rivers hundreds of metres down the mountain. But these new systems may not be sustainable in the long run.
Many villages in Sindhuli are switching from local springs to piped systems, and even in rural homes, overhead tanks are becoming common.
But this new convenience comes with big challenges. Lifting water from rivers far below requires long pipes, electric pumps, and constant maintenance. These systems are costly, and the streams themselves often shrink to a trickle in the dry months. Big water-lifting schemes look impressive, but there is doubt if they can meet growing water demand.
A much more sustainable solution would be what some communities are doing: restoring old ponds or build new recharge systems. But those villages are exceptions, in most places traditional ponds and wallows are being filled up to be turned into sports fields, or make way for buildings.
Where there are new ponds, they are sometimes in the wrong places or without proper design. Roads and drains are not engineered properly and have increased landslides and erosion. Water management in hilly areas is not just about building things, it is about building in the right way, in the right place.
Traditional water systems were based on nature. They were not perfect, but they used the land wisely. Ponds used to hold rainwater and slowly refill springs which supported families, farms, and forests.&nbsp;
Not everything worked well in the past, but we can learn from traditional water management practices. Across Nepal, some rural municipalities have launched campaigns to store monsoon runoff — either in tanks, ponds or by recharging the aquifers.
But not all efforts have been successful. Some ponds are built without any hydrological study. Some are rushed to meet deadlines rather than real needs.&nbsp;
Now, the Muhan initiative hopes to revive springs to make households more resilient and help farmings. With the financial support of the Australian Centre for International Agricultural Research, research is being done to understand how springs work and how they are affected by changes in rainfall, land use, and development.&nbsp;
Instead of just building pipes and tanks, the project maps the entire springshed so we can understand the root cause of water shortage. In Sindhuli, the problem is not the amount of rain, but the loss of natural systems that store it and the social systems that manage water.&nbsp;
Nepal’s towns and villages now face a major challenge: how to manage water all year round as demand rises with people’s living standards. Depending only on river-lift systems is not a sustainable solution.&nbsp;
We need a mix of approaches that help store water from the rainy season to make it available for the rest of the year, whether by directly harvesting rainwater, restoring ponds, managing springsheds, or smart management of demand.
Rural Nepal is also seeing dramatic depopulation. Much of the outmigration can be stemmed if there is easier water supply for agriculture and household use. Across the mid hills, villages are emptying because springs are going dry. Government policy needs to catch up with the reality on the ground, and support solutions that work for people and nature. Every water supply plan should include recharge structures. Every road or building project should consider water flow and erosion. Local governments need more than budgets: they need training, tools, and data.
Ngamindra Dahal is with the Nepal Water Conservation Foundation, Kathmandu. Hemant Ojha collaborated in this piece and is associated with the Australian National University.

Water for Life

<a href="https://nepalitimes.com/multimedia/the-last-of-the-kusunda">The Kusunda</a> are among the last remaining hunter-gatherer communities left in Nepal, and it has only one fluent speaker left of a language that is not related to any other language group in South Asia.&nbsp; The Kusunda call themselves the King of the Forests ((गेम्येहाक़ in Kusunda,वन राजा in Nepali) and used to have a nomadic lifestyle till recently. But decades of exclusion from mainstream society and modernity have forced the Kusunda to assimilate. &nbsp; Today, most Kusunda live across Nepal’s mid-hills and western plains, choosing to identify themselves as Thakuri and adopting names like Sen, Shahi, and Khan to avoid ostracisation. Over time, inter-ethnic marriages between the Kusunda and other communities became increasingly common.&nbsp; However, the assimilation with other communities also meant that almost no one from the Kusunda community can speak their mother tongue – considered by linguists to be a ‘language isolate’ not related to any other language group in the world, and lacking set rules of grammar that are foundational to other languages. There are no words for ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ in Kusunda, nor are there words to signify direction. There are 23 languages with less than 1,000 speakers listed in Nepal's 2021 census, with Kusunda being the language with the least number of speakers. The number of people who identified as Kusunda has decreased with each subsequent census. Only 253 individuals identified themselves as Kusunda in the last National Census of 2021, down from 273 in 2011.&nbsp; <div class="embed-block"><iframe src="https://creators.spotify.com/pod/show/raithane-bhakha/embed/episodes/Kusundas---the-last-of-the-forest-kings-e23ge6p/a-a9peei1" height="102px" width="400px" frameborder="0" scrolling="no"></iframe></div> The government’s decision to provide a social security stipend to the community for the past few years has prompted many from the Kusunda community to reclaim their identity and in the process, explore their culture and language. Kamala Sen Kusunda, who lives in Dang, is the only fluent native Kusunda speaker alive, although there are now other Kusunda and non-Kusunda people learning how to speak the language. By the time Kamala Sen Kusunda was born in 1975, her family had settled in a village in Rolpa. Although she did not experience the nomadic life of her forebears, she still roamed the forests freely as a child and many of the values and socio-cultural practices of her community were instilled in her and her siblings.&nbsp; This meant that Kamala grew up speaking Kusunda with her family. But by then, the Kusunda had increasingly begun to interact with people beyond their community, and inter-ethnic marriages had become a norm.&nbsp; Kamala herself married at 18 to a 52-year-old man from the Chhetri community. She would go on to have four children, but they were brought up with her husband’s culture and community rather than her own, and teaching them her mother tongue seemed impractical.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250628030648_afaa298bf8ea3b7086e2ed086b11eab463ef2b20a82a4aad74df3dd2e922a4c3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20250628030648_afaa298bf8ea3b7086e2ed086b11eab463ef2b20a82a4aad74df3dd2e922a4c3" data-rendition-name="original" width="855" height="641" loading="lazy" alt="Kusunda NT"> <figcaption>Gyani Maiya Kusunda with Kusunda youth in 2015.</figcaption> </figure>  “If I had spoken my language to them when they were children, they would have learned,” she tells us ruefully. “But they were growing up in a different community, so I never pushed, and they never expressed interest.” At the time, she had other things to worry about, such as earning a livelihood and sustaining her family. To find work, Kamala and her family moved to Shimla in India, where she worked at an apple orchard for six years.&nbsp; Over the next years, Kamala and her family moved back and forth between India and Nepal for work, and Kamala was not actively conversing in the language of her people or being able to connect with members of her community now scattered across Nepal.&nbsp; Had she not forgotten her language after all those years? “How could I forget the language of my ancestors?” she replies. “Not speaking it did not mean that it ceased to be a part of me.”&nbsp; Kamala had been working at a brick kiln in Thimi seven years ago when the National Language Commission tracked her down, offered her a paid position as a Kusunda language consultant and source person for basic language training in Dang.&nbsp; It was there that Kamala met her cousin Gyani Maiya Sen Kusunda, the only other person able to speak Kusunda fluently, who had been working with the Commission to conserve Kusunda language and culture. It was also where Kamala met language researcher and lexicographer Uday Raj Ale. Ale had been in the middle of his research into the Tharu language and community 15 years ago when he met Gyani Maiya Kusunda’s son, who told him that his mother was one of the few people who spoke Kusunda, but that no one had shown an interest in studying and preserving the language and culture. Ale met Gyani Maiya, spending time with her learning and researching Kusunda. By 2017, Ale had collected enough words to put together a Kusunda dictionary. The Kusunda vocabulary currently comprises 2,000 words. His research into the Kusunda language and culture has taken him to every known Kusunda household in Nepal. Although the census puts the number of Kusunda at 253, Ale reckons there are only 158.&nbsp; “Kusunda language is endangered due to its lack of use in everyday life, literature, and religious and socio-cultural practices, as well as the prevalence of inter-ethnic marriages,” explains Ale. In 2019 the Language Commission began its language transfer programs for youth from indigenous communities. Since then, the Commission has completed multiple phases of Kusunda language classes in Dang facilitated by Uday Raj Ale. The classes have 20 students, not just from the Kusunda community, but also interested non-native students.&nbsp;  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20250626120632_c6c378bc00af450f2b7f0cf17af1c3b2b6f7b7226927c458c3e01ec389869d33.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20250626120632_c6c378bc00af450f2b7f0cf17af1c3b2b6f7b7226927c458c3e01ec389869d33" data-rendition-name="original" width="1485" height="1535" loading="lazy" alt="Kusunda NT"> <figcaption>Students learning Kusunda with instructor Uday Raj Ale (second row, left)</figcaption> </figure>  Khamba Rokaya, who worked as a caretaker for young Kusunda children in Dang, became interested in learning the language as she sat in with the children during their lessons, and for the last few years has been among the few non-native Kusunda language learners in Dang. “I am not from the Kusunda community, but now that I have learned the language, I hope to do my part to carry on the work and share my knowledge with as many people as possible,” she says. “One way to ensure that we preserve this language is to extend its speaker base, both within the Kusunda and non-native communities.” Ale and Kamala have continued to work together since Gyani Maya’s passing in 2020, expanding the Kusunda vocabulary and creating appropriate curricula to fit the needs of the students as their knowledge of Kusunda expands.&nbsp; But without any documentation of Kusunda history, the community’s traditions, stories, values and language were at risk of being lost to time. “The loss of an ethnicity, language or culture in a country is akin to losing a vital organ, and a unique perspective of looking at the world,” says Ale. Which is why Archive Nepal in collaboration with the British Council’s Cultural Protection Fund and the UK’s Department of Culture, Media, and Sport in February launched a book of creative writings in the Kusunda language titled पिन्डा (meaning ‘The First’ in Kusunda): A Compilation of Kusunda Literature. The book is a collection of informative essays about the Kusunda language and culture, short stories that explore themes from nomadic life to universal Nepali experiences of poverty and migration, letters to loved ones, as well as conversational pieces by five Kusunda students ranging from ages 16 to 30. The works in the Kusunda language are also translated into Nepali and English.&nbsp; “Language is an important part of ethnic identity, and our indigenous languages cannot evolve or be conserved unless they are spoken or taught,” said Ale during the launch of the book earlier this year. “But most importantly, language exists as long as there exists literature in that language.” Kamala was in Kathmandu for the launch of the book, and smiled proudly as she looked at the young writers who had contributed to the collection. She said: “I’m glad the young people have chosen to learn and preserve Kusunda. Otherwise, our language would have died with me.” &nbsp;

Saving the Kusunda language from extinction

A lot of the most critical healthcare software used in the United States, from insurance, medical records, &nbsp;analytics, billings to general operations are made in Nepal.
Coding is outsourced to IT companies in Nepal because it is cheap, and there is a large pool of coders with 15,000 graduates entering the job market every year.&nbsp;
Churn is low, and programming remains a desirable career, with people able to work remotely for high pay with little investment, often even without a degree.
Indeed, building US healthcare software holds up the <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-needs-to-be-more-intelligent-about-ai">growing Nepali IT industry</a> which last year exported software worth $900 million, nearly as much as Nepal earns from tourism every year.
IT exports have a long history, starting from when Rudra Pandey co-founded D2Hawkeye, which pioneered healthcare analytics. The company is now Verisk Health. &nbsp;
There are over 15 technology companies that specialise in medical software, operating mostly as subsidiaries of US companies, but some are also ‘vendors’ that are completely Nepali-owned.
One such company is <a href="https://techkraftinc.com">TechKraft</a>, which builds software for clients across the world in healthcare, but also in finance. Its Executive Director Santosh Koirala says: “A big advantage Nepal has in making US healthcare software is simply how long it has been involved in it. This has created many domain experts, and new programmers here are technically excellent as well.”&nbsp;
The trust and skills that companies and individuals have built up is also how TechKraft gets clients, referrals and business, and they have to strictly ensure data security and privacy protection.
“This is personal information about people’s insurance, their visits to the hospital, their diseases. Any breaches could lead to expensive lawsuits,” says Koirala.&nbsp;
While it is much easier for subsidiary companies to keep data within their systems, vendors must put in place multiple layers of physical and cybersecurity to convince clients to work with them. They must work in what is called a ‘cleanroom’: a controlled environment where teams can work on sensitive data without compromising security or privacy.&nbsp;
Laptops and even pen and paper cannot leave the workplace, and all employees must pass training in globally recognised information security standards.
AI is transforming processing of healthcare data, and companies like TechKraft have integrated it in everything they do. Agentic AI is designed for a high level of autonomy, and can handle booking, rescheduling, and reminders for patient visits, detect anomalies in medical imagery, analyse patient data to create custom treatment plans, predict outcomes, even catch medical fraud.&nbsp;
AI also helps programmers at TechKraft write better code, faster. “AI has had a huge impact on our workflow, it is faster and more efficient,” says Koirala, ”but since it makes things so much easier, it may become harder to find business.”&nbsp;
It also means that a project may require only four engineers skilled with AI instead of say, ten. The remaining six are out of a job.
Another Nepali company, <a href="https://wiseyak.com">Wiseyak</a>, also works on a host of AI healthcare products. One is software that can diagnose diabetic retinopathy and pneumonia at least as well as the best doctors. Another is AI-EMR algorithms that can analyse patient data to provide insights and recommendations.&nbsp;
“We help doctors by building powerful tools, and not replace them.” says co-founder and CEO of Wiseyak Suresh Manandhar, who has been studying and working with AI for 40 years, long before it became a part of everyday life.&nbsp;
Wiseyak now wants to make software that can be used in Nepal’s hospitals to diagnose various diseases. For retinopathy, an AI is trained on publicly available datasets of retinal scans.&nbsp;
The model can then learn to detect a range of symptoms such as microaneurysms in the eye, ‘cotton wool’, and macular degeneration. It can then make a diagnosis based on the quantity and size of the anomalies it detects.&nbsp;
“AI can be fine tuned by feeding it retinal scans of Nepalis,” says Manandhar who admits to difficulties because medical records in Nepal are still paper-based and not digital, and few hospitals want to retool. “The government should &nbsp;invest and build momentum to adopt these technologies.”&nbsp;
Santosh Koirala of TechKraft is also president of Nepal Association for Software and IT Services Companies (NAS-IT), a group that focuses on <a href="https://nepalitimes.com/here-now/self-learning-comes-before-machine-learning">policy and advocacy with the government</a>. He is optimistic about gradual progress in lobbying efforts.&nbsp;
“The government is slowly getting it,” he told us. “Removing limits to Foreign Direct Investment and allowing Nepali companies to have offices abroad are big steps in the right direction.”&nbsp;
NAS-IT also advises universities on the development of courses to keep students up to date with the latest developments in AI, as well as pushing for data insurance to make clients less reluctant to work with Nepali companies.
Both Koirala and Manandhar are optimistic about the general direction Nepal’s IT sector is going in, and can build on.
&nbsp;“There is a lot of potential which is being recognised quite quickly,” says Koirala. “We know the technology now, and we know how things are done at a global level. The next step is for Nepal to start making products that can be used widely across the world.”&nbsp;
IT products for application within Nepal are now designed in Nepal itself, and software companies such as eSewa were ahead of their time in the region.
Manandhar is also bullish: “There is no limit to how helpful AI can be for Nepal. Trained, super-specialised doctors are scarce, so AI can be a substitute and make them three, four times more efficient.” &nbsp;&nbsp;