<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110161144/636d1d159c7e80680e0af392jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1080"/>I nternational tourist arrivals increased by 58% in July-September, compared to the same period of 2020. This is still 64% below average 2019 levels and 76% below pre-pandemic levels, according to the UN World Tourism Organisation. The figure will stay at 70-75% below average 2019 levels for the remainder of 2021. Mobility restrictions, vaccinations, and traveler confidence have meant improvement in parts of Europe and the Americas during the third quarter of 2021, but arrivals in Asia-Pacific were down almost 95%. The tourism sector could lose $2 trillion this year, the same as in 2020.

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Tourism picks up

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141136/636cfe5a9c7e80680e0a0c34jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="784" height="286"/><figcaption>The famous view at Gokyo Ri draws tourists from around the world. It was abandoned in May 2021.</figcaption></figure>On the morning of 20 May this year, we dragged ourselves up to Gokyo Ri, the famous viewpoint in the Khumbu. Four of the world’s six highest mountains sliced the crystal-clear air in a spellbinding scene that had inspired us to visit Nepal.The only problem was that we were alone. In normal times, a May morning with perfect weather would have meant throngs of trekkers on the trails. The solitude was lucky for us, but a telltale sign of the grave risk that Nepal’s tourism-dependent regions now face.My girlfriend Mallika, our guide Kedar, and I were among the last trekkers in the Khumbu in Spring 2021. For 16 days, we had the trails, hotels, and even whole villages to ourselves. We spoke with many locals whose livelihoods rely on trekking, including guides, hotel owners, cooks, and shopkeepers.They painted a complex picture of great personal resilience, seriously depleted finances, and increasing worry about the impacts of Covid-19.The Nepal government should make clear policy decisions to support the Khumbu and other regions that focus on tourism. Policies can succeed by balancing income generation with Covid-19 risk. Speed is key: the trekking season begins in mid-September, and foreign tourists need to book their travel plans soon.The problem is that there have been three missed seasons of trekking income, with a fourth looming. Trekking drives Nepal’s tourism economy, especially in the Khumbu. It provides two distinct seasons of cash flow annually: March-May, and September-November. The lack of substantial off-season tourism makes each season a crucial financial opportunity.The COVID-19 pandemic has now blocked this opportunity for three straight seasons. The impacts were serious for everyone we met this year in Nepal’s tourism sector. Trekking guides normally work 10 treks per year, but many have not worked since 2019. We were Kedar’s first clients since February 2020. One French-speaking guide in Kathmandu, who usually gets reliable business from French trekkers, is now running a small grocery. Porters and lower-paid support staff were even worse off, with many leaving Kathmandu to avoid rents.Business owners are facing the risk of massive debts. They had envisioned recouping 2020’s losses in the Spring of 2021, but had no real chance to do so. The owner of a new hotel told us he had raced to finish construction for the season, but had few guests.Since he had to finance porters, mules and helicopters to bring the construction materials into roadless Khumbu, he was now far behind financially. In Lukla, a shopkeeper said she had moved from Kathmandu in late 2020 with her family to open her business. She had invested in having all her goods ready by March, but almost no one showed up to buy them.Despite these challenges, we saw the deep resilience of Khumbu locals. In the high mountains, people had shifted their focus from tourists to yaks. We managed lodging in shut-down villages with people who stayed to care for their animals. In the lower valleys, age-old agricultural rhythms were kicking into gear again.Mixed feelings about tourism during the pandemic were also evident. While we were vaccinated and wore masks around others, most people were wary of foreigners spreading Cvodi-19. The owner of our Namche hotel even gave us a bag of masks to hand out along the trail.It was clear overall that a lack of trekkers next season would be a big problem, further pushing an already stressed economy.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141136/636cfe5c9c7e80680e0a0c35jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="700" height="500"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>A proposed solution can be to open trekking in September, but require vaccine proof. The Nepal government can support the mountain tourist regions, while also protecting their health and honouring their fortitude by implementing a balanced policy that allows trekking for fully vaccinated tourists.September is the right time to open up. The low trekking season during the monsoon was a natural  buffer for the Covid-19 situation to improve both in Nepal and abroad. Now, with the lockdown having stabilised the case load somewhat, the improving conditions can also enable economic recovery.In the meantime, potential trekkers have been getting vaccinated. In 2019 trekkers mainly came to Nepal from the UK, USA, China, Australia, Germany, France, India, and several other European countries. Global Covid-19 vaccination data shows that European countries and the United States have vaccinated a large proportion of their populations. India and Australia lag behind, but have active vaccination drives.Clear communication from the government would be essential for this to work. Foreigners need to know the exact rules about vaccine proof, tests and quarantines before they decide to travel, and locals need to know that trekkers will not be allowed to come in and spread disease.Implementing vaccine proof travel may be easier than we might think. Vaccine passports may be difficult to require for Nepal tourist visas, as previously discussed in Nepali Times. Countries have been slow to roll out formal passports, and barring entry to Nepal for all unvaccinated people could exclude individuals with medical conditions from necessary visits.Enforcing vaccine proof when granting trekking permits would be much simpler. Vaccine cards already issued by every country, rather than formal vaccine passports, would be good enough for this purpose. The requirement would not exclude anyone from necessary travel since trekking is purely a pleasure activity.Furthermore, Nepal’s trekking regions already require special permits and there are many checkpoints along the way to verify them. The policy could be as simple as requiring the vaccine proof when giving the trekking permit. The Government would not need to invest in new infrastructure.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141136/636cfe5e9c7e80680e0a0c36jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="810" height="379"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Nor would a vaccine passport requirement stop trekkers from coming to Nepal. Trekkers tend to be wealthy, health-conscious people with both the means and the motivation to get vaccinated. Ultimately, Nepal’s mountainous landscapes and outstanding people are an irresistible draw for foreigners. They will surely come, and will not endanger the people of Nepal, if the government lets them.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141136/636cfe609c7e80680e0a0c37jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="512" height="384"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Michael Henry is a Canadian who has worked in the social sector in Zambia, Senegal, Nigeria, and India, and has written about trekking, mountains, and livelihoods for Red Bull, India Development Review, Mountain Life Media, and others.

Livelihoods matter, restart trekking in Nepal

<figure><img width="640" height="479" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111128/636cd27b9c7e80680e08f911jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Niranjan Koirala's demeanour was more professorial than political.</figcaption></figure>It was a glowing autumn afternoon in Bhaktapur with the sun warming the terracotta roof tiles and moulded brick facades. Keanu Reeves had just finished shooting the kabaddi sequence in the temple square, liberally enhanced with fibre glass sculptures and carved wood trellises to transform it into Prince Siddhartha’s contemporary Kapilvastu palace. The crowd of extras lining the <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/So-far-so-good/little-buddha-comes-to-town-filming,957" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Little Buddha set</a> stirred with excitement as the prime minister arrived in an official bustle of shiny black cars and watchful bodyguards, greeted by the movie’s Italian director Bernardo Bertolucci in a stylish panama hat. No one noticed Niranjan amongst his entourage, characteristically keeping in the background but without whom this film would never have been possible.Niranjan Koirala was the self-effacing adviser to the tourism ministry who enabled us to pull off this major international movie that not only showcased <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/nepals-tourism-now-has-to-re-start-from-zero/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepal’s heritage, architecture and scenery</a> to a global audience, but employed hundreds of locals and added millions of dollars representing ten percent to that years’ total tourism revenue. Niranjan had recognised its potential value for Nepal, arranged our film permit, and urged his newly elected uncle Girija Prasad Koirala, leader of the first democratic government of the recent era, to give us his full personal support.It was 1992 and there were no less than 13 Oscar awards amongst Bertolucci’s multi-national film crew, many fresh from success with the first movie shot on location in China, <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0093389/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">The Last Emperor</a>. Thanks to Niranjan, we were granted direct access to the prime minister’s office over the eight months that the production team worked in dozens of locations throughout Kathmandu Valley and Chitwan. If we encountered any hitches with the filming of Little Lama (as it was code named prior to release), they were swiftly resolved at the highest level. <figure><img width="792" height="520" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111128/636cd27f9c7e80680e08f912jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Although a fully-fledged member of the Biratnagar-based Koirala dynasty, direct descendent of the great BP and uncle of the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/manisha-koiralas-new-life/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">matchless Manisha</a>, ‘Niruda’ as he was known in the family wore his politics lightly and preferred a life in the shadows savouring the freedom to travel and study.  Having witnessed the upheavals of the royal takeover in 1961, he studied political science in Banaras Hindu University and the University of California Berkeley, then worked in tourism before retreating to academia in the United States. I met Niranjan only after he was wrenched back to Nepal public life as political adviser to the Minister of Tourism and Civil Aviation, Ram Hari Joshi. He was an unlikely figure amongst the dusty desks, smeared windows and civil service culture, more professorial than political, gentle but determined, smiling but steely, preferring tweed jackets and colourful sweaters, a neat moustache and thick hair curling carelessly over his collar. The perfect person for the role, Niranjan’s well-travelled vision and drive for Nepal’s tourism economy was refreshingly tempered by his impatience with bureaucracy and innate political realism. “Never underestimate the complexity of running a poor mountainous country with precious few natural resources,” he counselled me. At home in Boudnath he kept a pet monkey in a tree house, and his hospitality featured produce from the garden, and much talk of travel, films and books. Despite inevitable opposition, it was during Niranjan’s tenure that <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-himalayan-odyssey/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepal’s modern tourism</a> policy was forged. The industry was liberalised by carefully opening up forbidden areas such as Upper Mustang and Dolpa to benefit local livelihoods, instituting mountain and trekking trail clean ups to beautify the Himalaya, world promotion by permitting ambitious international movie shoots such as Little Buddha, Eric Valli’s Himalaya, and Enigma’s Eyes of Truth, and allowing private commercial airlines to flourish within Nepal that ended the national flag-carrier RNAC’s monopoly and revolutionised domestic travel. I can envisage Niranjan humbly shaking his head in vehement disagreement with my words, but Nepal could not have achieved what it has without his wisdom and behind-the-scenes interventions. With his advocacy for aviation reform and safety, it was especially ironic and tragic that his first wife Santosh was killed in the Thai Airways disaster that year, leaving their two small sons returned from California and dazed with grief. <figure><img width="1500" height="1088" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111128/636cd2819c7e80680e08f913jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Niranjan attempted another stint in public life as Member Secretary of the King Mahendra Trust, now <a href="https://ntnc.org.np/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">National Trust for Nature Conservation</a>, before taking his own advice to effect political change from the sidelines, repairing to Delhi where he could indulge his appreciation of art, music, religion, history, travel and good food. Despite losing his second wife Ila Dalmia to cancer in 2003, Niranjan’s infectious spirit and enthusiastic appreciation of civilisation endured. Until the end, his cheerful and unflinching Facebook postings from his expansive verandah and unruly garden in central Delhi were testament to his concern for a better world, relief for the oppressed, for liberal democracy and responsible leadership. Little Buddha remained something of which he was “particularly proud”. Niranjan passed away in Delhi 13 days ago aged only 73, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/losing-a-colleague-to-covid-19/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">another unexpected victim of the coronavirus</a>. As his sons Himanshu and Bhaskar so beautifully wrote, he has “departed for his next journey”.

Lisa Choegyal

Niranjan Koirala, 73

International Mountain Day on 11 December should inspire celebration, not cynicism. It follows &nbsp;a small but rare diplomatic win: the agreement at COP30 in Belém to hold a dedicated global dialogue on mountains in 2026, and to include mountain-specific indicators in the new climate adaptation framework.&nbsp;
A welcome shift, certainly. But the old narrative lingers — mountains are fragile, disaster-prone, eternally vulnerable. But the uncomfortable truth is that safe and environment-friendly development in the mountains is simply too expensive than anyone wants to admit.
To build a kilometre of two-lane highway in the Tarai costs Rs200 million. That same kilometre on a Himalayan slope with retaining walls, drainage, bioengineering, and landslide protection costs more than Rs1 billion. Add tunnels, viaducts or highways designed for minimum 80km/h speeds and that figure can easily triple.
This pattern repeats across all sectors. A 50MW run-of-river hydropower plant that costs $80 million in low-ling valleys costs four times more in the mountains. The headrace tunnels have to be longer, desanding basins must trap the silt, the access roads cost more than the entire project. And there is no way to prevent the scheme from being washed away by a glacial collapse flood.
Nepal's annual road budget is only Rs150 billion. It is scattered thinly across 753 municipalities, most of them perched on steep, unstable slopes. When resources are inadequate and political cycles are short, the incentives for corruption are predictable &nbsp;— shaving a mountain flank at 70 degrees instead of 45, taking a shortcut on drainage canals, skimping on asphalt thickness, or skipping the Gabion.
In high Nepal, the bulldozer is the engineer. We hang on the prayer that the monsoon will be merciful. July arrives, and reality returns. Mountains fall on roads, flash floods wash away swathes of expensive highways.
The entrance to the Siddhababa Tunnel in Palpa collapses yet again. The Nagdhunga Tunnel faces another landslide delay. The Melamchi headworks go under — again. Each failure costs more to repair than proper engineering would have cost when that infrastructure was built.
We are not just paying once. We the taxpayers are signing up for a subscription to disaster. The real fragility of Nepal’s mountains is of governance, not geology.
This is what the international climate conversation habitually misses. Mountain communities are repeatedly told to ‘respect nature’ and avoid linear infrastructure, often by the same countries proudly announcing new expressways and airports in their own countries.
Mountain people are not anti-development. They want what everyone else wants: electricity that does not flicker, roads that survive the monsoon, schools their children can reach in winter. What they lack is not aspiration, it is the budget required to build things safely that is not stolen by politicians and their crony contractors.
If the world truly wants to protect the Himalaya, Andes or Alps, and the billions who rely on them for water, the answer is not more romantic slogans about fragility of the mountains. It is concessional, patient financing that narrows the gap between cheap and dangerous versus expensive and resilient. And it is transparent government that spends that money wisely.
This means money for tunnels instead of unstable surface cuts. Money for bioengineered slopes instead of naked bulldozer scars. Money for hydropower built for 1-in-100-year floods, not 1-in-25-year budgets.&nbsp;
This is not charity. Mountain infrastructure safeguards global water, carbon, energy and biodiversity systems. It is a global public good, and should be financed as such.&nbsp;
In Syangja, small investments under the Climate Adaptive Equitable Water Management Practices have restored nine community ponds, protected recharge zones and increased dry-season spring flow by about a third. All of this for less than the cost of repairing a single kilometre of poorly built hillside road after the next landslide.
Our experience from the Subnational Governance Programme (SNGP) in some districts of mountains and plains show that when municipalities receive practical guidance backed by scientific research, they can scale these solutions with modest, targeted budgets. Local governments are not the problem — they are the missing link. &nbsp;
The tragedy is not technical incapacity; it is chronic under-financing of the most cost-intensive terrain on earth. Lets stop romanticising mountain poverty on 11 December, International Mountain Day. Let us retire the language of fragility that excuses inaction.
Mountains are not pleading for sympathy. They are demanding fairness: that the true cost of safe development in the world’s steepest geographies be acknowledged and shared. Until that bill is paid, the monsoon will continue to do the accounting, one landslide, one road, one abandoned promise at a time.
Ngamindra Dahal is a water and climate adaptation practitioner based at the Nepal Water Conservation Foundation, Kathmandu.

The Himalaya is not fragile

This is the 76th episode of Diaspora Diaries, a Nepali Times series in collaboration with Migration Lab providing a platform to share experiences of living, working and studying abroad. We did not have a whole lot, but did not grow up in scarcity either. When I was in Grade 7, my father migrated to Malaysia but returned just after 18 days and was heavily in debt. It is the interest and not the principal from loan sharks that ruins borrowers. As we grew up, family expenses rose and my father migrated again to Qatar, determined to make it work this time. I used to watch him via IMO in buildings under construction eating rice out of plastic bags. There was no AC, no oven, no shade. Those images are etched into my memory.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251208081244_3f46ccdd1fab8f85ccce9fc8bec677cb7466a1b9556f36d0f92d19c6478369b6" data-rendition-name="original" width="600" height="800" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Family picture from 2014 sent to Anil's father who was working in Qatar.</figcaption> </figure>  After Grade 10, I was encouraged to take up computers in +2 as I was a bright student. I did not have access to a computer, and the 30 minutes we got weekly at the computer lab was just not enough. My parents could not afford to buy a computer, but a friend had both a desktop and laptop at home.&nbsp; I did his homework in exchange for using his computer. When my father in Qatar, found out he bought me a laptop. Today, a decade later, I am still using it. Maybe I valued the computer more because it was bought with my father’s sweat. The laptop reminds me of how he toiled overseas.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251208081240_2b3dc0b903d0b01caf875b5f50c22053aa28097b405cf14f36c6324a93f5dfef" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil still uses the laptop his father bought him ten years ago.</figcaption> </figure>  The money he sent home did help with household expenses. My mother did tailoring, although the income was not stable. After my father returned from Qatar, we he bought a three-wheeler which he still uses in Makwanpur. After completing Grade 12, I came to college in Kathmandu to study IT. It cost Rs20,000 a month in tuition, rent and food just to survive. I could not complete my bachelor’s. Although my father kept saying, “Don’t worry, I am here,” he just did not have the money to pay for me. So, I took up a data entry job which helped cover living expenses. The pandemic meant my father could not earn money from his auto-rickshaw. We had no savings and had outstanding loans. Migration was the only way to get us out of the rut. I told my father that both of us should go abroad to earn some money. He could return earlier and I would stay on.&nbsp; My father agreed, and I visited recruiting agencies with both our passports. After reviewing our CVs, they said it was easy to find jobs for my father but not for me, given my educational background and my experience in software. “How can we send you for jobs as a cleaner or security guard?” they asked. I finally found a job in Romania, and decided to have my father stay back because going to Europe would have doubled the cost. My mother and sister came to see me off at Kathmandu airport. It felt just like my father leaving for Qatar many years ago. Perhaps some day, my brother would also leave in a similar manner, I thought.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251208081240_c1a00b70223f048e994e1cab7c0e6cd6944c4a2f3f7740b0a8e76921da9d23f0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's sister hugging him at the airport before he left for Romania.</figcaption> </figure>  In Romania, I work in a factory making car seat belts. It is not physically demanding and it is indoors. Even though I did not share it with my family, the initial period was difficult as I had no experience standing and working for so many hours at a time. Once, when I was tired at work, I wondered how my father managed in Qatar in a much more physically taxing job. Here I was not carrying heavy loads, my work was not outdoors. I was so emotional, I wrote a ghazal in my head. The words “खाडीको तातो घाम” kept repeating in my head. After work, I jotted down the verse in my diary:&nbsp; बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot become like you कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot imagine how hard it is म मान्छे हेर्दा मात्रै ठूलो I only look like a grown man बानी अझै बच्चै छ But I am still childish किनकि जता त्यतै जान मन लाग्छ I feel like roaming around जे देख्यो त्यो खान मन लाग्छ Eat whatever I see. न पैसा बच्छ I cannot save. न खाएको कुरा सबै पच्छ The food doesn’t agree with me&nbsp; कहिले काहीँ त मलाई म्याकडोनाल्डको बर्गर पनि पच्दैन Not even a burger at McDonalds तर प्लास्टिकमा पोको परेको त्यो चिसो भात But how did my father eat that cold rice खाडीको त्यो तातो घाममा सेक्दै खाँदा मेरो बुवालाई कसरी पच्छ? Under the hot Gulf sun? मेरो पेटले यस्तो पचाउन सक्दै सक्दैन I would not be able to eat that. बुवा, तपाई जस्तो बन्न म सक्दै सक्दिनँ Father, I cannot be like you. कति गाह्रो छ, म भन्नै सक्दिनँ I cannot say how difficult it is.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251208081240_51eb68a130750f1c79ab1046406a5b940c780ebd87cfff5ff6861d3287bd69c0" data-rendition-name="original" width="1200" height="1600" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil Gole's diary entry of his ghazal compares his migration with his father’s journey.</figcaption> </figure>  I posted it online, and it went viral. But more importantly, people found the words relatable and engaging. My sister first saw it on Tiktok and shared it with my mother. It moved them to tears while my father kept watching it on repeat, deep in thought. Even though my birth father decided to leave my mother when I was less than a year old, my step father never made me feel the absence of anything. My friend from Grade 6 in Makwanpur, Sharan, introduced me to ghazal. He was six years older because he had to pause his studies during the Maoist conflict. He worked in a brick factory in Kathmandu, saved money, and returned to school. He was very talented and we became friends through the school children’s club.&nbsp; Sharan and I spent most of our time together, sharing meals to save money and even skipping classes. One day, in Grade 9 when our teacher was absent, he wrote a ghazal on the spot and explained the form, the rhyme, the meter. I listened half-heartedly as it was not of interest. We left it at that. Shortly after, Sharan was diagnosed with leukemia and he could not finish exam. Because he was a sharp student, the teachers decided to not hold him back. He died just before Grade 10. I cried. I do not have any pictures of Sharan. He had small ears, and I used to tease him that people with small ears do not live long. That still haunts me. <div class="embed-block"><div style="max-width: 56vh;"><div style="left: 0; width: 100%; height: 0; position: relative; padding-bottom: 177.7778%;"><iframe src="https://cdn.iframe.ly/api/iframe?url=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutube.com%2Fshorts%2FLpizGQWTbMs%3Ffeature%3Dshare&key=87ca3314a9fa775b5c3a7726100694b0" style="top: 0; left: 0; width: 100%; height: 100%; position: absolute; border: 0;" allowfullscreen scrolling="no" allow="accelerometer *; clipboard-write *; encrypted-media *; gyroscope *; picture-in-picture *; web-share *;"></iframe></div></div></div> At the school assembly at the start of the new year, we were asked to share a talent. I did not know what to do, but I wrote a ghazal just as Sharan had taught me and dedicated it to him. Halfway through, I started crying and the principal took me to his office and calmed me down.&nbsp; I do not write much poetry except a few posts on social media here and there. But a video of me reciting went viral on TikTok and that encouraged me to write more. That made me feel validated, and I began writing more about real life experiences. It has been three years in Romania. My brother will also be joining me soon. Things have improved for us financially, but we are not where we want to be. We will get there. When we do, I will resume my studies. I’m interested in programming, especially back-end development and working with databases. It is on hold right now.&nbsp; I do not have big dreams, I just want to make sure my parents get what they deserve. It is okay if I get delayed if my parents are able to access what they had scarified for us when they were of my age. For now, my family is my priority.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34.jpg" data-media-id="editor_5" data-image-id="20251208081240_9e8d3cad3b505d3ec5adcea94ed05b2ea9de1d2cd8507335eec86c2659a11b34" data-rendition-name="original" width="2016" height="1512" loading="lazy" alt="Diaspora Diaries 76"> <figcaption>Anil's family.</figcaption> </figure>

My father’s son

Singha Bahadur Lama worked for six years in Malaysia, but back home in Nepal he is now earning more than he ever did overseas. Here in his village 60km east of Kathmandu, Lama now harvests Buddhachitta seeds from sacred trees that grow in the mountains, and turns them into prayer bead necklaces revered in Tibetan Buddhism. The Buddhachitta tree (Ziziphus budhensis) is indigenous to Nepal and grows in the mountains of Kavre district, and demand boomed after the Dalai Lama proclaimed that the seeds found in Nepal were the best. People from Kavre had gone to Bodh Gaya 12 years ago and presented the Dalai Lama with Buddhachitta prayer beads. Not long after, while speaking in Taiwan the Dalai Lama told followers that the seeds from Nepal had special powers.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141220_dd1fddffc2f22652f57b0fdebe5d0612aa48c79c1e5c1a82da10b1d0a0af69b8.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251209141220_dd1fddffc2f22652f57b0fdebe5d0612aa48c79c1e5c1a82da10b1d0a0af69b8" data-rendition-name="original" width="737" height="536" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> </figure>  Lama shows a visiting journalist different types of Buddhachitta seeds. Single-faced beads are the rarest and most valuable, as are the smallest 8mm beads. A prayer necklace made of 108 beads would easily cost Rs1.5 million (over $10,630). “We cannot say if our trees will give smaller beads or even how many faces or clear eyes, it’s all natural,” says Lama, who now works as a consultant, advising people all over Nepal about planting the tree, and has since spread it across the country. Four years ago, a Chinese middleman made 7mm plastic cups to cover the seeds, hoping the trees would produce smaller pods. It did not work, and the trees died. Such is the demand for high-quality Buddhachitta beads that a group of 20 men employed by a Chinese dealer cut down a tree along the Rosi River last year. The harvest from that tree had made $212,600 the year before. With that kind of price, the trees are in danger of being chopped down. &nbsp; Lama himself used to make Rs10 million ($70,880) from the seeds of each tree. With this money, he built new houses and sent his daughter to Japan, all with Buddhachitta income. But the market for the seeds is volatile.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141224_0fd29cdc36db0c3ad5f5add513b8b220d0101760e1c42d5c54266eac7c2dfe75.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251209141224_0fd29cdc36db0c3ad5f5add513b8b220d0101760e1c42d5c54266eac7c2dfe75" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> </figure>  Lama invested Rs10 million when prices were high ten years ago, but he lost most of that when the prices collapsed for bigger seeds.&nbsp; He adds: “That year the demand was only for small seeds, and it has only been three years since the prices have risen again for seeds that make no sound when you shake them.”&nbsp; HISTORY Legend has it that Guru Rinpoche left seeds of Buddhachitta while meditating in the Temal region of Kavre district in the 8th century as a blessing. He is known in the Himalaya as the ‘Second Buddha’ whose birth was foretold by the Buddha himself, and spread Buddhism in Tibet. Now, almost every household from the Tamang community here has on average 50 trees. The tree thrives on gravel and sandy soil, needs to be protected from excess water, and can grow up to 10 meters high. It starts bearing fruit annually from its third year and one tree lives for 90 years. The fruits are handpicked every June and July, and then have to be processed by boiling the seeds to remove their hard outer skin. The seeds are then dried in the sun for a few days.&nbsp; “Our families have been growing Buddhachitta for generations, but it started becoming hugely profitable only about 12 years ago, it has become a cash crop and has even replaced staples like maize,” says Dev Lama, 55.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141224_7820e90f918489045c0668465190df37120167cc7d4401bb128adf931e156bc3.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251209141224_7820e90f918489045c0668465190df37120167cc7d4401bb128adf931e156bc3" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> <figcaption>Dev Lama</figcaption> </figure>  What helps is that Buddhachitta is not a high-maintenance crop, it just needs some weeding, watering, and protection from hailstorms and pesticides. Once it matures, it does not need much care, and farmers intercrop it with other grain.&nbsp; “You don’t have to work on it every year like maize, which needs to be planted year after year,” explains Shova Shrestha, 33. “We also continue to grow other vegetables and spices, all of which help to preserve soil nutrients.” Generally, farmers do not sell directly to Chinese traders but deal with local middlemen who take a cut before they take it to the Chinese traders who lodge in Kathmandu during the harvest season. But the bulk of the profit is made by Chinese wholesalers across the border. &nbsp; And now with the proliferation of the plant, and with nearly every family growing several trees, farmers sometimes struggle to find buyers and are often severely short-changed, as was the case with Maiya Tamang’s family.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251209141220_2d82949a8a32b272216e4f288e976c5af68abf65f52500947ba366526a9b2a2c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251209141220_2d82949a8a32b272216e4f288e976c5af68abf65f52500947ba366526a9b2a2c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1500" height="1125" loading="lazy" alt="Buddhachitta NT"> <figcaption>Maiya Tamang</figcaption> </figure>  “I wasn’t home that day two years ago, but my sons later told me that my husband sold an entire tree for just Rs1,500,” recalls Tamang, 60. “We asked him why he sold it for a price that wouldn’t even buy a sack of rice, and he just shrugged.” Tamang did make a profit two years ago, but last year’s crop was destroyed by a hailstorm. Despite this, the bead business has augmented the income of a family dependent on subsistence agriculture. &nbsp; A neighbour, Sonam Tamang, had a few Buddhachitta trees in his backyard and has bought saplings from a nursery to expand. Saplings cost Rs500, but it is double that for plants that give high value seeds. Says Sonam Tamang: “The middlemen sometimes cheat us by offering much less than the seeds are worth, and they don’t allow us to speak directly with the Chinese buyers. But even if we did, there would be a language barrier.” Meanwhile, Singha Bahadur Lama who started out as a Buddhachitta farmer now owns a nursery and is a dealer in saplings himself. Some Nepalis have tried to sell directly in China, but face added costs of travel and hotel while there. &nbsp; With contributions from Qian Sun, Global Voices.

Sacred seed feeds boom

Dimar Chaudhary was born and raised in Old Padampur, the village inside what is now Chitwan National Park before it was dsignated a protected area. His Tharu community, as well as other indigenous groups, traditionally relied on Chitwan’s jungles and rivers for generations. Chaudhary himself had grown up collecting medicinal plants and wild vegetables, gathering wood, and grazing cattle in the forest. Chitwan, along with much of Nepal’s Tarai, was plagued by malaria until a US-supported DDT spraying campaign to wipe out the disease in the district in the 1950s. This opened the valley up to trans-migration of farmers from the hills. Before that, Chitwan was inhabited entirely by indigenous people: 90% of the district’s population was Tharu, and the rest were Bote, Mushar, Darai and Majhi communities. In 1973 Chitwan National Park became Nepal's first protected area and in 1996, the Nepal government introduced the Buffer Zone Management Rule under the National Parks and Wildlife Conservation Act to manage forests surrounding protected areas, and ensure local participation in parks management. Old Padampur was subsequently relocated outside the park. Ntional parks formed buffer zone user committees (BZUCs) to manage and oversee community forests. Hundreds of thousands of local people were directly involved in managing buffer zone community forests across the country. Over three decades, these forests have not only made conservation collaborative, but also helped to mitigate wildlife-related crimes and human wildlife conflict. In 2014, 2015 and 2016, Nepal achieved zero poaching for its three flagship species: rhinos, tigers and elephants. But while these user communities have made wildlife conservation participatory, the process hasn’t been inclusive of Nepal’s indigenous and underserved communities. In 2022, WWF supported Community Conservation Nepal to collect data on natural resources used by Tharu indigenous people before the establishment of Chitwan National Park. The project also looked into the inclusion of indigenous, women, Dalit and disabled communities in the Baghauda, Paachpandav, Meghauli, Mrigakunja, and Amaltari Buffer Zone User Committees (BZUC) as well as the Someshwor, Gardi Chure, Radha Krishna, and Baghmara Buffer Zone Community Forests (BZCF).  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251210141228_83a5b021c62b6c4a67888e5eee85d3fdcba3fd34d00e581996213d1ae10d6977.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251210141228_83a5b021c62b6c4a67888e5eee85d3fdcba3fd34d00e581996213d1ae10d6977" data-rendition-name="original" width="1342" height="941" loading="lazy" alt="BZUC map"></figure>  BARRIERS TO INCLUSION The survey found that women are underrepresented in all the BZUCs despite women user groups being larger. Nepal’s Buffer Zone laws dictate that each BZUC has 13 members. Each BZUC is made up of nine units, and as many representatives are elected from those units. The elected members have the authority to choose the remaining four members. This meant that indigenous peoples, marginalised groups, and women have a far lower chance of being elected. Indeed, out of the total members, Paachpandav and Mrigakunja BCUZs had four women, Meghauli had three women, and Baghauda had only one woman, whereas Amaltari user committee had no woman member. In contrast, the BZCF are relatively more inclusive of women, with two out of four surveyed BZCF comprising half women members. Additionally, some grassroots user committees are made up entirely of women. Most women members of the user committees are not appointed through elections, but chosen by elected male members, and are not given positions of leadership. “Women have been the ones protecting the forests ever since the concept of forest conservation initially emerged,” one female participant told us during a focus group discussion. People would get angry when the women stopped them from cutting down trees and grass, and grazing cattle in the jungles, she recalled, adding, “We were dedicated to the user committees. However, we are no longer involved in the committees, nor are we invited to meetings.” When asked about the absence of women in the user committees, one BZUC chairperson responded, “There are only men here because they won the election. Women are unwilling to run for the election. How will they fit into the committee if no woman has ever run for election?” However, not only are women deprived of the chance to contest elections, the chances of them winning polls are also very low because a majority of the positions in the committee will already have been allocated by political parties to their male cadres. Women from marginalised communities face further hurdles.  <figure><img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251210141228_7ee7dc43b925b4d6e97bfdc5a02df85d4d828e8a82eb00d3086217baf2438b43.png" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251210141228_7ee7dc43b925b4d6e97bfdc5a02df85d4d828e8a82eb00d3086217baf2438b43" data-rendition-name="original" width="959" height="508" loading="lazy" alt="BZUC "></figure>  “No male member from the Musahar community has been elected in the user community, if they had, they could have suggested that women from our community be included in the committee as well,” said a female participant from the Musahar community. While the native Musahar and Bote people lack representation in the BZUC, indigenous people did make up the majority of the members in the committees, while Dalit members were included in some collectives. However, only one committee is led by an indigenous person. The others are chaired by upper-caste hill migrants. In addition, no committee had any representative with disabilities. One of the key reasons for the under-representation of marginalised communities in Nepal’s BZUC is its non-inclusive policy. When Nepal’s Constitution was promulgated in 2015, residents living in proximity to protected areas across Nepal had hoped that policies relating to buffer zones and their governance would be reformed to reflect Nepal’s new socio-political reality. But this has not been the case. However, this has not discouraged indigenous Nepalis, who have continued to demand buffer zone policy reforms that ensure the inclusion of women, indigenous and marginalised communities. In addition to policy revision, it is necessary to reform the buffer zone election so that it is more participatory for underserved communities. Reforms should also regulate the number of members in a user group. Similarly, the budget allocated for buffer zones must be used on activities that benefit conservation instead of local infrastructure development. Women, people with disabilities, indigenous and marginalised communities should be the primary beneficiaries of budget dispensation. Crop damage compensation, which currently is Rs10,000, can be increased by five times to Rs50,000. Policy revisions should ultimately guarantee the rights of indigenous communities like the Sonaha, Bote and Musahar to practice their culture and traditional livelihoods and receive a formal education. Buffer Zone User Committees must apply indigenous conservation practices for park management. Birendra Mahato is an elected member of the Ratnanagar Municipality Ward 6 and Founder Chair of the Tharu Culture Museum Research Centre in Sauraha.