<figure><img width="1125" height="1500" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111016118/636d14329c7e80680e0a9967jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Married at 15, Dhiru Bista has been either pregnant or lactating every year since. Of the 12 babies she gave birth to, only seven daughters are surviving. All photos: SRIJANA DEVKOTA</figcaption></figure>Dhiru Bista is only 35, but looks much older. She has had 12 pregnancies, and the last one was a stillbirth four months ago that nearly killed her due to a ruptured uterus and internal haemmorhage.The struggle of her hard life is etched on Bista’s face, as she recovers from her ordeal. But there she is, not resting in bed but spreading the rice and buckwheat harvest out to dry outside her small clay brick house in Babala village of remote Achham district. Her young daughters play nearby, some babysitting younger siblings.Because her husband is within earshot, she is reluctant to open up. Only when she is taken to a quiet corner, does she finally whisper: “If sharing my life’s story will help other Nepali women escape the same fate, let me tell you.” <figure><img width="1125" height="1500" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111016118/636d14359c7e80680e0a9968jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Married at 15, Bista first got pregnant two years later. Every year since, she has been either pregnant or lactating. Of the 12 babies she has given birth to, only seven daughters are surviving. The oldest is now 16, the youngest 18 months. Two of her daughters died shortly after they were born, while the other two were aborted.“There was always pressure for a son and every time I gave birth to a daughter, people questioned my inability to give birth to a son. My husband does nothing to comfort me,” says Bista, who despite the hardships, has managed to send five of her girls to school.Here in the culturally conservative society of far-western Nepal where all development indicators like female literacy, maternal and infant mortality are much below the national average, Bista is just one among <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/who-will-save-nepals-poor-new-mothers/">many mothers with similar stories</a>.The preference for boys in the patriarchal culture means women are <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/child-marriage-in-nepal-eloped-at-13-mother-by-17/">married young</a>, and are stigmatised every time they give birth to daughters. Because they are so young and undernourished at childbirth, many die at home or while being carried on stretchers to hospital.Read also:<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=19596#.X4wTuNAzbIX">No time for school</a><a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/ending-child-marriage-in-Nepal,3864">Not just a social problem, but an economic one</a>, Elizabeth Hanna Satow <img width="1125" height="1500" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111016118/636d14399c7e80680e0a9969jpeg.jpg" alt="">Most women in rural Nepal still have no access to essential antenatal care during their pregnancy, resulting in grave complications at childbirth.“Her husband will most likely remarry now that she can’t get pregnant,” says a neighbour matter-of-factly.After she started getting contractions in her latest pregnancy in August, the neighbours carried her downhill for half-an-hour before they found a bus that could take her to Bayalpata Hospital. She was critical by the time she arrived at emergency, with dangerously low blood pressure.Her uterus had ruptured, and she had severe internal bleeding. The baby was in a transverse position with one of its hands sticking out of the cervix, already dead.The surgery took four hours, but Bayalpata’s doctors managed to save Dhiru Bista’s life. Fearing complications, the hospital referred her to the ICU in the district hospital in Dadeldhura, seven hours away. She was discharged five days later.Surgeons at Bayalpata said that this was one of the toughest maternity cases they have operated on. There have been 320 deliveries since the Covid-19 induced lockdown in April 2020, and all of them have been performed free of cost.<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/bayalpata-hospital-in-nepal-wins-global-design-award/">Bayalpata is run as a public-private partnership by Nyaya Health Nepal (NHN)</a> with support from the Far-West Province, Sanfebagar Muncipality, and international funding. <figure><img width="1243" height="820" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111016118/636d143c9c7e80680e0a996ajpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>The <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/how-the-climate-crisis-adds-to-child-marriage-in-nepal/">Covid-19 pandemic has added to the already precarious healthcare</a> in these rugged mountains, as expecting mothers were unable to travel to health posts for regular check-ups. Institutional deliveries also dropped dramatically, which led to an increase in mother and infant mortality throughout the province.There have been cases of women giving birth while working in the fields, cutting the baby’s umbilical cord with their sickle, adding to the risk of tetanus infection for both new mothers and babies.Nepal has made <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/newborn-deaths-and-a-vision-for-a-post-pandemic-nepal/">rapid strides</a> in saving the lives of mothers and babies. The national average for <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=18359#.YZ9jmVVByJA">maternal mortality</a> rate has dropped from 539 per 100,000 live births 25 years ago to less than 186, in 2017. But maternal deaths are still high in districts like Achham, and even the national average has stagnated in the last three years.Read also:<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/child-marriages-up-during-nepal-lockdown/">Child marriages up during lockdown</a>, Namrata Sharma<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/on-air-to-deter-child-marriage/">On air to deter child marriage</a>, Shapira Jha<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/too-young-to-marry/">Too young to marry</a>, karuna Onta <figure><img width="1500" height="1125" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/2022111016118/636d143f9c7e80680e0a996bjpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Bista’s neighbour has two daughters, one of whom is handicapped. Her in-laws are already looking to remarry their son because they want a grandson. The daughter-in-law is not allowed to mingle with anyone, and works in the fields all day. There is no one to feed her children and her in-laws do not care for the girls – the youngest of whom, only one-and-half years old, weighs just five kg. Every household here has at least one male member working in India, and it is the money they send home that allows the subsistence farmers to survive. But when there is an illness or pregnancy in the family many cannot even afford the bus fare to go to hospital. Dhiru Bista would have surely lost her life if it had not been for the emergency surgery at Bayalpata Hospital. The facility has treated more than 1 million patients from seven surrounding districts in the Far-West and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/the-karnali/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Karnali</a> Provinces since it was set up 15 years ago, and many of them are maternity cases. Treatment and medicines are all free, and the hospital could be a model for other hospitals in rural Nepal. New investment to upgrade health facilities in remote settings is necessary to further reduce the maternal mortality rate in districts like these. Next comes education for girls, so that people are made aware of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/can-nepal-end-child-marriage-by-2030/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">the dangers of early marriage</a>. This would prevent <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/no-conceivable-reason-for-unwanted-pregnancies/">unnecessary pregnancies</a>, thus saving lives. With elections approaching political parties are once more promising jobs and prosperity. But unless the lives of Nepali women and children are protected, there is no need for jobs.<a href="http://www.nyayahealthnepal.org/" target="_blank" style="letter-spacing: 0.01em;" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nyaya Health Nepal</a>

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Saving one Nepali mother at a time

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108141124/636a58c19c7e80680e054852jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="933"/><figcaption>WELCOME TO THE WORLD: A child sleeps in a hammock while its parents work in a workshop making idols for the Dasain festival in Kupondol. Photo: GOPEN RAI</figcaption></figure>Giving birth is a life or death issue in Nepal. Even though the maternal mortality rate dropped from 1,000 per 100,000 live births 40 years ago to 239 today, inadequate birthing facilities is still a problem. But attention is now also shifting to preventing pregnancies.There is a big <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/implant-service-providers-take-contraception-to-nepals-poor/">unmet need for contraceptives</a>: nearly a quarter of women surveyed nationwide in 2016 said they were not using birth control, even if they need it. Social stigma, patriarchy, ignorance and lack of access were reasons.Nepal’s contraceptive prevalence rate is 52%, but in remote Bajura it is only 34%. Although progress is being made, we are still a long way from the government’s target of raising the rate to 75% by 2030.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=33714&amp;preview_nonce=033aa12640&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Nepal far from hitting contraceptive target,</a> Sewa BhattaraiAs our reports in this edition from Bajura and Chitwan show, there are cultural hurdles. With <a style="background-color: #ffffff; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/migrating-males-and-population-decline/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">husbands away working for long periods</a>, their wives are reluctant to use contraceptives because of what others will say. The result: women suffer unwanted pregnancies, <a style="background-color: #ffffff; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/globe-rallies-to-aid-nepals-women,3841" target="_blank" rel="noopener">unsafe abortions</a> and ultimately struggle to take care of large families.Almost every woman who visited a hospital in Bajura on a busy day last month had the same story: their husbands were away and they did not use birth control. Some were suffering from botched abortions.More than 800 abortion cases were registered in Bajura last year. Just one hospital in Achham terminated more than 600 pregnancies in one year. Meanwhile, Nepal’s total fertility rate has dropped from 6 in 1960 to near-replacement level at 2.05 today, and the country’s population growth rate is also down from 2.5% in 1990 to 1.1% today. Surveys in Province 2 and Far-western Province have shown a clear correlation between unwanted pregnancies, child marriage and fertility in regions with entrenched patriarchy.Among Nepalis, 21% use injectable contraceptives, 10% are on pills, 10% use condoms, 8% have IUDs and only 3% have implants. Depo-Provera was among the most used injectables, but it was difficult to administer and painful. Now, the government, with donor support, is field-testing in Nawalpur and Sindhuli a lower-dose injectable called Sayana Press, which could make contraceptives more accessible to women.Interventions like these, the government hopes, will reduce unwanted pregnancies, thus preventing unsafe abortions and reducing the number of women who have to take care of larger families.<a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/Comment/mothers-in-Nepal-still-dying-at-childbirth,1007" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Complications during pregnancy or at childbirth</a> are the leading causes of death among girls aged 15-19 in low-income countries like Nepal. Unwanted pregnancies also hamper women’s education and economic independence, and impact their family life, fuelling an intergenerational cycle of poverty and poor health.Read also: <a style="background-color: #ffffff; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/implant-service-providers-take-contraception-to-nepals-poor/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Implant service providers take contraception to Nepal's poor</a>, Rojita Adhikari

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Born in Nepal

https://youtu.be/VaSUaALct0oParvati Thapa, 39, looks lost as she wanders into the district hospital in this isolated northwestern corner of Nepal. She and her husband have walked a whole day to get here, and they just found out she is 19 weeks pregnant.Thapa already has three children, and after they were born she lost four sons one after another. After her menstruation stopped, she suspected menopause but now knows she is pregnant for the eighth time.“My husband is away for months at a time, tending cattle in the mountains. Why should I use <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/implant-service-providers-take-contraception-to-nepals-poor/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">family planning</a> when we meet so rarely?” asks Thapa, who looks much older than her age.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=33648&amp;preview_nonce=5c7e9df60a&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Born in Nepal</a>, Sewa Bhattarai<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/?p=33648&amp;preview_nonce=5c7e9df60a&amp;preview=true" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> </a>Like most women in the remote mountains, Thapa has never used contraceptives. <a style="background-color: #ffffff; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/migrating-males-and-population-decline/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Doing so carries a stigma for married women with migrant husbands</a>, and there are misconceptions about the different methods available. The result is that women suffer unwanted pregnancies, <a style="background-color: #ffffff; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/globe-rallies-to-aid-nepals-women,3841" target="_blank" rel="noopener">unsafe abortions</a> and end up with large families they are  unable to take care of.Nepal’s contraceptive prevalence rate is 53%, but in Bajura it is only 34%. Although this is a dramatic improvement from 20 years ago, it is still a long way from the government’s target of 75% contraceptive prevalence by 2030. The fact that the use of modern family planning methods has plateaued since 2006 points to futher deterrences.“The family planning rate is really low in Bajura because a lot of the men migrate to India for work,” says nurse Dhankala Khadka at Bajura District Hospital. “If the husband is away and the wife wants to use birth control, she is often questioned about fidelity and may be ostracised by her community. Even husbands do not support them.”<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108141124/636a58de9c7e80680e054862jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="970"/><figcaption>Parvati Thapa went to Bajura district hospital suspecting menopause, but found out it was her eighth pregnancy. Photo: MONIKA DEUPALA</figcaption></figure>Almost every woman who visited nurse Khadka on a busy day last month had the same story: their husbands were away and they did not use birth control.There were 804 abortions in Bajura in the past year, which Rohit Giri of Bajura District Hospital says is very high: “Most who come to us are married women with children, and the abortions are due to the lack of birth control, which leads to unwanted pregnancies.”<a style="background-color: #ffffff; letter-spacing: 0.15px;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/this-is-how-to-upgrade-nepals-rural-health/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">In Bayalpata Hospital</a> in neighbouring Achham district, the story is much the same — it performed 660 abortions in the past year. Bhawana Rawal, 33, has had two abortions at the hospital in the past five years and admits she does not used birth control.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/migrating-males-and-population-decline/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Migrating males and population decline</a>, Om Astha Rai“I already have two children, and do not need any more, but I got pregnant twice by accident,” she says. “I still do not want to use contraceptives in future.” Rawal did try a Depo-Provera injection once but says it made her bleed too much. Other women have the same complaint. For those who do not want to use a permanent contraception, many felt pills were a hassle to acquire and take every day, and IUDs hurt.“Unwanted pregnancies often lead to anaemia because women lose so much blood,” says Kalawati Setthi, a nurse at Bayalpata Hospital. Nearly 40% of women in Far-western Nepal were found in a survey to be anaemic — most of them pregnant and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/back-to-the-nipple-in-nepal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">breastfeeding</a>.The government has put up posters in rural hospitals to encourage contraceptive use but at this rate, it is unlikely that the target of 75% contraceptive use will be reached.<h2>Demand, but no supply</h2>According to the Nepal Demographic and Health Survey (NDHS) 2016, there is a 24% unmet need for family planning in Nepal — a quarter of women who need contraceptives are not using them. A report by Population Services international (PSI) Nepal found that unmarried youth aged 15-24 and married women aged 20-24 are the groups that use contraceptives the least.Married women like Parvati Thapa at a clinic in Bajura last month (left), normally tended to use contraceptives after their first child, and exposure to information about family planning through health workers and current users of family planning, as well as talking about it with husbands or relatives.Unmarried youth were likely to discuss family planning only with their sexual partners and most used condoms over other methods, which were bought and kept by the male partner. In contrast, married women visited health facilities themselves and chose the type of method they wanted.Unmarried youth, especially adolescents, had a higher unmet need and were more vulnerable to stigma associated with family planning. The report argues that the term ‘family planning’ only applies to married women and their plan to have children, whereas there are many contraceptive users who have no intention of having children, or use contraceptives to prevent sexually-transmitted diseases (STDs).Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/child-marriage-in-nepal-eloped-at-13-mother-by-17/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Child marriage in Nepal, eloped at 13, mother by 17</a>, Sewa BhattaraiWhen a woman goes to a public health facility for contraceptives, a register is filled out, which includes a column for ‘husband’s name’, which is another deterrent for unmarried women. Though the husband’s name is optional, there is no column for the wife’s name when it comes to male contraceptives like condoms or a vasectomy.A report by the UN Population Fund (UNFPA) about sexual and reproductive health says complications in pregnancy and childbirth are the leading cause of death among girls aged 15-19 in low-income countries like Nepal. Unwanted pregnancies also hamper women’s education and economic independence, and impact their family life, fuelling an intergenerational cycle of poverty and poor health.<h2>More choice for family planning</h2><figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108141124/636a58e19c7e80680e054863jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1400" height="1029"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Although Nepal’s contraceptive prevalence rate has increased dramatically, from 7% in 1981 to nearly 60% today, social taboos, patriarchy and unavailability mean that many women still do not have access to birth control.It usually falls on women to take the initiative, since many men refuse to use condoms or get a vasectomy. Popular contraceptives used to be the pill or Depo-Provera, an injectable that needs refrigeration and must be taken at a clinic, but the dosage is high and the injection painful.Now, women like Shanti Adhikari, 43, in Chitwan, (pictured, right) who have always used Depo-provera for short-term contraception, have a new choice: Sayana Press.Read also: <a style="background-color: #ffffff; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/implant-service-providers-take-contraception-to-nepals-poor/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Implant service providers take contraception to Nepal's poor</a>, Rojita Adhikari<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108141124/636a58e49c7e80680e054864jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="524" height="531">Adhikari’s husband, who works as a security guard in India, will be coming home for Dasain, so she is at the health post in Nawalpur for her Depo-Provera progesterone hormone injection, which prevents pregnancy for three months.But auxiliary nurse midwife Sharada Rimal (pictured, left) tells her about Sayana Press. Its advantages over Depo-Provera are that it comes with its own small needle, the dosage is much smaller, it is less painful and can be self-injected.“Everyone in my neighbourhood comes to this health post for contraceptives, but no one told me about this new injection. The needle looks much smaller, I think I will go with this one,” says Adhikari, 43, as Rimal proceeded to inject her in the thigh.Sayana Press, a successor to Depo-Provera, is being launched in Nepal in two districts: Nawalpur and Sindhuli, by the reproductive health agency Ipas Nepal in coordination with the UK’s Department for International Development (DFID) and the Ministry of Health and Population (MoH). The drug has already been tried and approved, and is available for use in 40 European countries.What sets Sayana apart from Depo-Provera is the smaller dosage (104 mg compared to 150), it comes with its own needle, it can be stored at room temperature and is injected sub-cutaneously (just under the skin), rather than in the muscles like <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/from-nepali-press/Ftnp-the-curse-of-the-contraceptive,493" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Depo-Provera</a>.Injectable contraceptives are the most popular reversible contraceptive among women, for a variety of reasons. Adhikari says she does not like pills because she has to remember to take them every day, and, because of her age, she wants to be discreet about using them.While most other methods, like IUCDs, implants, condoms and pills, are visible and can be discovered by others, an injection leaves no traces. 52% married couples use contraceptives in Nepal: 8.9% use injectables, 4.6% are on pills, 4.2% use condoms, 1.4% use IUDs and only 3.3% use implants. 9.8% use other traditional methods. Some have gone for permanent contraception, with 14.7% preferring female Sterilization and 5.5% male Sterilization.“Depo-Provera has been in use for 50 years, but it was so popular and effective not much further research was done on it,” explains Lhamo Yangchen Sherpa of Ipas. “But WHO studies found that a much lower dosage was enough.”<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221108141124/636a58e69c7e80680e054865jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="478" height="531">Health workers like Rimal confirm that Sayana Press is much easier to inject, more portable and less painful. Though it is self-injectable in some countries, in Nepal, where it has been undergoing trials in 14 health facilities of Nawalpur and Sindhuli since 5 September, it will only be administered by health professionals.Bhim Singh Tinkari of the MoH Family Welfare Division says that since 7% of pregnant women still die from unsafe abortions, making contraceptives easily accessible can save lives. Binod Bindu Sharma of the MoH links contraceptives to women’s choice and empowerment. “The availability of contraceptives is important for women’s rights, since it lets women choose when and how many children to have,” says Sharma, adding that the ministry is making Sayana Press available for free in health facilities.Lisa Honan, head of DFID Nepal, links contraceptives with women’s economic potential, adding that the country can make better use of women in the workforce if they have better choices of contraceptives. “DFID is committed to providing Sayana in any volume in Nepal until 2022 through UNFPA (the UN Population Fund), and would help Nepal scale it up all over the country if the results of the feasibility study are positive.”

Nepal far from hitting contraceptive target

Shantanu Dhakal wakes up to a cold misty dawn, dons his college uniform and fastens his tie, tightening it carefully so as not to dislodge the tracheostomy tube protruding from his throat.
Gingerly, he brushes his teeth, mindful not to hurt the wound on his left cheek, where a bullet tore through during the GenZ protests on 8 September in the highway town of Itahari in eastern Nepal.&nbsp;
Dhakal, 18, came home from college that day three months ago and then took the bus to Itahari to join some friends who were protesting in front of the sub-metropolitan city office. It was mid-afternoon, and the crowd was chanting anti-corruption slogans and holding up placards.
Like most young Nepalis, Dhakal and his friends had been angered by videos on social media of the offspring of Nepal’s rich and powerful flaunting their lavish lifestyles.&nbsp;
"That was the trigger for me to join the protest, it opened my eyes to just how widespread nepotism and corruption was," Dhakal told Nepali Times.&nbsp;
The police arrested a few students, angering the crowd even more. They massed at the gate of a nearby police station to demand their friends be released. &nbsp;
Dhakal was standing across the street from the police station when the first shots rang out. The crowd scattered. As he ran for cover, there was a searing pain in his left jaw. Blood was streaming and it took some time for him to realise he had been shot.&nbsp;
“I was bleeding profusely and couldn’t speak. My vision blurred, there was a ringing in my ears,” Dhakal recalls. “I collected myself and continued to run, fearing that I would be shot a second time.”
Dhakal collapsed some distance away, and a fellow protestor took him to a nearby hospital, where doctors bandaged his jaw. He was referred to Birat Medical Teaching Hospital, where surgeons immediately performed an emergency operation. &nbsp;
The bullet had torn through his left jaw, shattering the bone, teeth, and soft tissue. Blood had rushed into his throat, obstructing the airway so doctors first performed a tracheostomy, installing a tube in his throat to help him keep breathing. A week later, the doctors reconstructed his jaw with metallic plates, grafting skin from his chest and transplanting it to the lower left side of his face.&nbsp;
Dhakal spent three weeks in hospital before being discharged. But the relief of being home was marred by disturbing thoughts. He says, “Just sitting there doing nothing began to take a toll on my mental health.” &nbsp;
Since he was always interested in content creation and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/@docsbyshantanu">producing short documentaries</a>, he decided to document online his near-death experience and post-protest life.&nbsp;
Shantanu Dhakal’s Instagram and TikTok <a href="https://www.instagram.com/shantanu__dhakal/">posts are simple, short videos</a> every other day about his treatment process, dressing his wound and cleaning his tracheostomy tube, attending events with others injured during the protests, and scenes from everyday life in his family farm.&nbsp;
The comment section has Nepalis and people from around the world reaching out to ask how he is doing and keeping his spirits up. Dhakal now has a caring social media community, and he uses the platforms to keep in touch with other injured protestors across the country.&nbsp;
Life is returning to a new normal. This week, he returned to college to resume classes after more than two months and is making up for lost time. He has adjusted to speaking and eating with the tube, although the pain never quite goes away.&nbsp;
“I can eat mostly fine, but it is still difficult to speak,” he says. Soon, he will go to hospital for his fortnightly follow-up, and doctors will determine when his tracheostomy tube can be removed.
Like other young Nepalis, Dhakal is now even more politically engaged and actively reads the news of the interim government installed after the GenZ protests.&nbsp;
With the 5 March elections only three months away, young Nepalis like Dhakal hope that the elections will throw out the old and bring in the new. He is among the more than 800,000 new voters who have registered.&nbsp;
“The most important thing is that we have stable government,” he says. “As far as candidates go, an ideal one for me would be a person who prioritises health and education. But if the candidates in my constituency are not up to mark, I may not vote.”
Dhakal along with other injured protesters and relatives of those killed met &nbsp;Energy Minister Kulman Ghising, who has launched his own Ujyalo Nepal Party, and he is cautiously optimistic about the work of the current leadership. &nbsp;
It is a different story in Kathmandu, where Prime Minister Sushila Karki is struggling to manage the expectations of various youth collectives while trying to convince the old parties to participate in elections.&nbsp;
While the UML and NC are actively trying to delegitimise Karki’s government as they prepare to hold their respective general conventions, they are also preparing to give out tickets for elections.&nbsp;
Self-proclaimed GenZ leaders who used Discord to elect Karki prime minister are putting up their own conditions for the polls, even demanding her resignation for failing to meet their demands. This is in sharp contrast to the feelings of many of those injured during the protests who want elections so the nation can heal, and move on.

A new normal

This is the 75th 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. My father was a country boy from Sarlahi, and my mother a city girl from Kathmandu. They had an inter-ethnic marriage, which was difficult until the two families gradually began to accept it. My parents, who worked in development, viewed the world through a social lens. They often traveled overseas for their INGO work, leaving me and my sister behind. We spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house, or in rented apartments with guardians. Between Grades 1 and 10, I must have switched schools seven times. Our parents prioritised our education, and enrolled me in the most expensive schools. I was shocked by my school fees, and often wondered how they managed with their salaries.&nbsp; I wanted to become a businessman, so I could have the kind of life some of my well-to-do friend had. My family was not from a business background, and social services didn’t lend themselves to that kind of lifestyle. Now I realise what my parents gave me was already over the top, a truth that becomes clearer as I get older. Our family was getting along fine until our father died while working on a project in Dhading in September 2021. The official reason was ‘heart attack’. We do not talk about this much, perhaps as a way of dealing with the loss.&nbsp; He was our rock, and everything got harder. At least we had good people around us who reminded us to take care of our mother and to work hard. And we did. My sister and I made TikToks during the lockdown, initially in a joint account which reached its peak in 2022-2023. I had always wanted to be an actor, but I knew the film industry does not pay well. My parents also urged me to keep my interest in acting as a passion project. TikTok enabled us to showcase our talent for comedy. We figured out how to crack TikTok’s algorithm and stayed on top of trends. People liked our duo and the raw and authentic content. It required a strategy, luck, planning, and understanding the game.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c.jpg" data-media-id="editor_0" data-image-id="20251204121236_1afc10a8107e0aef5b94977860bc2cb138ddd1a100cadc7324da675b7ca0810c" data-rendition-name="original" width="1000" height="1778" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  We use a hashtag #NakarmiKhanalAF in all our content drawing from my parents’ last names although they did not need to know what ‘AF’ stood for.&nbsp; My first viral content involving a humorous take on a Marvel character hit over 500k. That fusion combining international trends with Nepali humor worked really well, and I started making it my niche, adapting content.&nbsp; My father was always thick-skinned and did not have to try to be cool or tough. He was unapologetically himself, sometimes to the point where my sister and I felt embarrassed. When he was invited as a chief guest at a cricket game, for example, I remember feeling proud to be the child of an ‘important person’, but he grabbed the mic and told everyone to start cleaning the ground.&nbsp; Many of our friends came from wealthy families because of the schools we attended, and he proudly lectured them about our humble background and the importance of social service. Growing up, we tried hard to get his validity. My proudest moment was gifting him a shirt bought with my first salary. My father did not get to see our rise on social media, but I know he is watching over us just as he always did. The first brand deal I got was memorable but awkward. It was for a grooming package for private parts. I used to think about how movie actors start their journeys with advertisements for underwear, and this was going to be my story, my ‘humble beginning’ as a content creator.&nbsp; They did not even pay me money but just gave me the items. Other brands started coming in and with them, money. I earned as much as Rs40,000 per content and tried to make one every day. This was a big contrast to my monthly salary of Rs35,000 in a clothing store. All along, I was acutely aware that fame would not last forever. Just like one of my singer friends Wangden had said in a podcast: he was going to have fun while fame lasted.&nbsp; After TikTok was banned in India, there was even more uncertainty about social media. The alternates were also not assuring: people running businesses had to close up or were stuck, and the political uncertainty was scary. This pushed me to think about migrating, and Australia was a safe backup. I uploaded content right upto two hours before my flight from Kathmandu. I wanted to have enough savings so I did not have to start working right away in Australia. I was buying freedom. Since I had to change schools frequently, Rodin was one of few enduring friends I had. He was in Australia and assured me that he would take care of everything, and he did. He was my family there, and I did not have to go through the initial struggle that other international students had to endure.&nbsp; In Australia, I have done multiple jobs over the last two years and completed my MBA. My interviewer challenged me to make him laugh with one of my content videos. He did and I started work the very next day though I know I got the job because a hardworking friend had recommended me. To the boss, I was just another Nepali who could work swiftly. I mopped floors, washed dishes, and served customers. This was Australia, and I hustled. But I knew there had to be more to life. The long hours and little sleep eventually caught up with me. One day I slept 14–15 hours straight, and when I woke up, it hit me that I should try networking.&nbsp; I reached out to admins of Australia-based Facebook groups. Some replied, some did not, some offered jobs that were not for me. Then came an email from 8848 Momo House, and I travelled to Brisbane to meet the owner Hom Pyashi.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e.jpg" data-media-id="editor_1" data-image-id="20251204121232_ef61cf49eaa208293eecc7e2c5c075644ca6dd4bb844881249889586ae91025e" data-rendition-name="original" width="1440" height="1548" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  “Do you want momos?” was the first thing he asked warmly. He told me to stop by one of his new outlets and make a video. I did, and I was hired the next day.&nbsp; It was that easy, and I have been working there ever since. My boss would later share in a conversation that he did not hire me because of the video but because I was young and he saw hunger in my eyes. To him, I was clay that he could help shape. I am now the marketing head, and the chain is doing well. Content creation is still a side job that brings in money. But just as my parents said, it remains a side passion.&nbsp; Then came the GenZ protests. On social media I compared Nepal’s youth to relaxed backbenchers who finally act when provoked enough to get things done. I could relate to the rage and suffocation. A song I was featured in was supposed to be released just when social media was banned in Nepal, and that fuelled my anger. But from the onset, I was wary of the headless nature of this movement, there was no ठुलो मान्छे leading and no one would be accountable if something went wrong. There was so much uncertainty, and I am not comfortable with uncertainty. We were glued to social media as the protests happened, at work and in the gym. When we learnt of the deaths of young Nepalis back home, a part of me died. The grief of unexpectedly losing my father came back.&nbsp; I left the gym early because I just could not take it. My friend and I just drove quietly to a nearby waterside. We did not even sit together because neither of us wanted to notice that we were in tears.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa.jpg" data-media-id="editor_2" data-image-id="20251204121236_99d662d9b4239e22410217146f87d7bed694d6543fa62d3b145401a5cf1cc7aa" data-rendition-name="original" width="2000" height="1000" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  One of the messages I received was a GoFundMe link to support the victims. I shared it, but someone asked if it was genuine. That is when it hit me that I had a large social media following and could not just share things without verifying them. I removed the link. The only person I felt I could trust was myself, so I decided to start my own fundraiser. I felt emotional and helpless, and had to do something.&nbsp; I assumed we could raise around AUD5,000. I was wrong. Within hours, we had raised nearly AUD60,000. Fellow content creators Avash and Manzil from Minority Report had also started a GoFundMe, and we decided to join forces.&nbsp; Partnering with them was going to be a lifesaver because I was not at all prepared for what was ahead. Over 11,000 people contributed across our two campaigns, raising AUD514,386. But we had not thought through the logistical challenge, the online hate and the delays. We needed to release the money to the right organisations in Nepal, get complete information about the families of the martyrs and injured — our primary target groups.&nbsp; We faced a huge amount of backlash after a hate narrative instigated by a few people spread online. We just could not get our message across that it was not as simple as raising the money and handing it over. People believed what they wanted to believe. Internet hate can take you to very dark places, even when you believe in your cause and know it can bring some comfort to grieving families. You try to focus on the positive message, because many people did support us, but the hate and accusations do bring you down.  <figure> <img src="https://publisher-publish.s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/pb-nepalitimes/swp/asv65r/media/20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98.png" data-media-id="editor_3" data-image-id="20251204121232_3045b4b91371fa210362f49a8d9ff279e1bb1cbee9fb8cc0641dbcbd6594aa98" data-rendition-name="original" width="1320" height="2868" loading="lazy" alt="Things eventually work out NT"> </figure>  When I was paralysed by the internet hate to carry out even the most mundane activities like cooking and cleaning, my roommate Bibek took over. He even made me watch an episode from the Mahabharat capturing Krishna’s teachings on karma without worrying about the fruits, a lesson that did not just help me get out of that depressive episode but has become a guiding principle for life. How would I have emerged out of that darkness when I was battling with suicidal thoughts if people had not showed up for me? We worked day and night to find the right partners, and because of the large amount of money and the level of transparency we asked for, many influencers or organisations turned us down.&nbsp; This was not easy because we had our own jobs to take care of, our own bills to worry about that were not linked to the fundraiser. It helped that my team at 8848 let me deal with this during work hours, and assured me that they will stand by me no matter what. Thankfully, we finally partnered with Nepal Rising (Daayitwa US), a professional and transparent organisation that stepped in and saved the day. GoFundme finally released the funds to their account and it has begun reaching the right people. My sister helped ensure the money is delivered properly. As a final check, I speak with the families in Nepal and offer my condolences. I honour their loved one’s contribution to our country and we will make sure it is never forgotten. But no matter what we say or how much we try to help, the heartbreaking truth is that their young son or sibling is not coming back. The narrative is slowly changing. Slaps are now claps. But the trauma of the public hate is so great that it still gnaws at me, I have anxiety about attending Nepali gatherings like concerts here. I remember when a dance I had created for Bola Maya went viral on TikTok, with tens of thousands of people picking it up. A chef friend told me it was time to use that influence for a social cause. Those words stayed with me. As I navigated the backlash, I was also reminded of my parents who worked on social causes and asked my mother if they had faced similar cases. She had, and she reminded me that all we can do is stay focused on the cause and drown out the noise. Things will eventually work out.

Things eventually work out

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

In a democracy, governments come and go. But Nepal had become so entangled in the triangular affair between Sher Bahadur Deuba, K P Oli and Pushpa Kamal Dahal that it was becoming impossible to tell who was canoodling with whom.&nbsp;
All three had long since abandoned their party ideologies. Staying in power was all that mattered as they turned Nepal’s democracy into a kleptocracy.&nbsp;
For the past at least 20 years, we have warned them to mend their ways. Democracy had to be rescued from the hands of such kakistocrats. Waiting to pounce were monarchists and anarchists of every ilk, outcast Maoists, and supporters of a leader jailed for fraud. Tycoon Durga Prasai said his rally in March was to restore a Hindu monarchy, but he was just a temporary royalist whom even the ex-king spurned.&nbsp;
All this converged into a perfect storm on 8 September. Commandos shot and killed 19 innocent young people outside Parliament, the anger boiled over into targetted arson and vandalism the next day. The government fell, and Sushila Karki was elected interim prime minister through Discord.&nbsp;
With not just their monopoly on power but also their very lives in danger, the triumvirate was at first in total shock. Then came conspiracy theories and an inability to gauge the rage from decades of misrule.
Nepalis had assumed that after September the old parties would see their folly, and step down to hand over the leadership to a new generation. But 10 weeks later, there is no sign of any act of contrition.
In the NC, Sher Bahadur Deuba has sidelined the caretaker he himself appointed, Purna Bahadur Khadka, and is active again as the party prepares for a showdown in its Convention next month. The UML is proceeding with its own General Convention, where Oli is fully assured of a third term as party boss. Dahal sees no alternative to himself in his newly-forged Nepali Communist Party and is eagerly eyeing becoming prime minister for the fourth time.&nbsp;
The three leaders who everyone had hoped would finally retire have reincarnated. It is obscene for obsolete politicians to still hanker for power after all that has happened.&nbsp;
SHOCK AND AWE
The three leaders who have been prime minister a dozen times between themselves want to cling on, but this is not abnormal if we apply <a href="https://www.bbc.com/audio/play/w3cszmjz" target="_blank">Elisabeth Kübler-Ross</a>’ theory of the five stages of grief. The author of <a href="https://www.google.com.np/books/edition/On_Death_and_Dying/GlSq0AEACAAJ?hl=en" target="_blank">On Death and Dying</a> was analysing how people with terminal illness deal with their situation, but her 5-stage theory may be applicable to the way heads of the NC, UML and NCP are reacting to the shock of being overthrown — first with denial, then anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance.&nbsp;
On 9 September, distressed by what had befallen them, the three were in total denial. Then began the stage of anger. Oli ranted in public about a conspiracy to install an ‘unconstitutional’ interim government, blaming the Nepal Army, and vowing not to take part in election even while preparing for it.
The NC has decided to participate in elections, although it has to first sort out its internal power struggle. The NCP and the RSP have united with smaller parties and are actively preparing to campaign. GenZ groups are speaking in different voices, with Sudan Gurung and Miraj Dhungana openly trying to unseat an interim government they themselves installed.&nbsp;
The parties are now in the third stage: bargaining. Instead of asking himself in hindsight what he should have done, Oli wants Parliament restored but has also registered his party for elections. The UML won't allow elections unless the government lifts restrictions on Oli’s movement.
Likewise, GenZ groups are putting up conditions for supporting polls: arrest Oli and others. Karki is single-mindedly focussed on elections, even if it has to be put off by two months. The Army would also like polls on time because it does not want a repeat of September when it had to intervene to form the interim government.
If Karki’s 6-month mandate ends without elections, and if by then the GenZ’s trust in the interim government collapses, then UML and NC could plan to press for an all-party election government, restoration of Parliament which would then dissolve itself to appoint a new prime minister that Karki would also be agreeable to.
The current state of affairs makes it difficult to imagine elections being held on 5 March — mainly because polls would be incomplete without the three main parties taking part, and it is unlikely they would participate in polls that they are certain to lose since they have not reformed themselves. Amidst these ifs and buts, the role of the Army will be critical.&nbsp;
The fourth stage of grief is depression, and that is what will happen to the parties when the reality of their unpopularity finally hits them. Only then will they finally accept their fate, realise that it was all their own doing, and perhaps reinvent themselves.
Kübler-Ross said the five stages did not necessarily have to be in that order, or that sometimes there may only be three phases, which may be applicable to the parties. What is for sure is that the three leaders are in no mood to atone for their sins.
Rabin Giri is an editor with <a href="http://nepalnews.com/" target="_blank">nepalnews.com</a>.&nbsp;