<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114131156/63723b839c7e80680e0c95c9jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1024" height="683"/><figcaption>Photo: SUMAN NEPALI</figcaption></figure>The thing about Dasain is that I’m never good enough for it.When I was a child, I wasn’t good enough because I was a girl. It meant I could not participate in certain rituals by the virtue of being female.Over the years, I learned to make peace with it. Rituals were not my thing, anyway.One Dasain, after the main practice of sacrificing the gourd, painted as the demon Mahishasur was over, my sister picked the khadga dagger handed down from our Malla ancestors, and started to slice the gourd. It riled the male guardians in the clan. My sister tried to argue that it is after all the goddess who kills the demon, and the goddess is female. Not like her argument would work.After that, the age-old practice of impaling the gourd in our clan met a sudden end — causing our strand of the Tuladhar men to disperse into nuclear family Dasain celebrations.While my childhood memory of Dasain, or Mohni as the Newa people call it, has always been about the Tika big day (this year on Wednesday) when the men came together to perform the violent act against a painted gourd, the festival has changed over the years. Some of those changes are very welcome, including the one that put an end to the simulation of violence performed by certain Buddhist Newa families in Kathmandu.Growing up, I also experienced discrimination shared by some of my cousins, who were not allowed the tika by certain relatives because they were not Buddhist. But wasn’t Dasain a Hindu event in itself? I never understood that. And while I stood on the other side of the line where I was allowed tika, their sense of humiliation for being refused the blessing was mine, too. We were children together.Over the years, I also learned to stage fake periods when I did not want to receive tika. And while isolation during period is something my family has never observed, I still have mood swings the moment I see the tika tray.Lately, they remind me of the Asur people in certain parts of India, who mourn their dead during Dasain. But the tika is also sticky and leaves a mark on my forehead, reminding me that I have the privilege of it because I was born in a certain family.Also, for women, neither having or not having your period during Dasain is a privilege. Either way, it means you spend the festival running household chores or being banished for bleeding. All things become tied to birth eventually—who you were born to, where and how—your gender, your sexual orientation, your religion, your civil status and your social station in life, to mention a few. They make that everything about you. In this case, they is Dasain and Dasain is they.Once upon a time, I worked in a newsroom. The country was declared secular and we stopped calling Dasain the biggest festival celebrated by Nepalis. We started writing: the biggest festival celebrated by Hindus in Nepal. But every other day, one person would change it back. All Nepalis are Hindu by default, he would say. How? I would ask. And he would say: it is just how it is. In my head, I would say: It is just how a newsroom you lead is. Closed to everyone who is not you.Over the years, Dasain has kept finding new ways to defeat me. When it discovered that I am a woman without a man, it naturally relegated me to the lower-station of social life. You need a husband to do certain things in the society that calls me its own. Doesn’t matter that this time of the year is about a woman who rides on a ferocious animal and is independent.I have met Dasain with an entirely new fear recently, because it’s given me fresh reasons for disdain. It tells me I’m not good enough. My hair is greying, and fast. Dasain wants me to discover hair colour. I’m told my cousins who are in their 50s “upstage” me in looks and it is why I will never “find a husband”. I’m also being told I’m too conservative in how I dress and in the topics I like to discuss. And so, I’m too conservative for this festival.It is never going to be good enough for Dasain that I’ve learned to play kitty to entertain my nonagenarian grandfather. Not good enough, that I let the spindle reel against my thumb, flying a kite with my nephews and my brothers.Dasain is often a reminder that singlehood is not even a concept available to one and that we must make the choice of finding a partner. It doesn’t matter that the partner might have been someone who slammed the door on your face or held you to the ground by your hair, or spent his entire time watching pornography on his phone while you sat up in bed wondering. But you must have a partner because that’s what is acceptable to Dasain.I’m never going to be good for Dasain. And that, is just fine.Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Pratibha Tuladhar

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Reasons for disdain at Dasain

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114111124/637217609c7e80680e0ba9e3jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1772" height="1183"/><figcaption>Photo: AMIT MACHAMASI</figcaption></figure>If you leaf through any fairy tale, it seems the sole purpose of the female protagonist is to find a suitor, and the story ends with the couple then living happily ever after. Except, life is not a fairy tale.Even in 2022, many girls grow up thinking that their primary purpose in life is to find a husband. Education, skills, and talent are encouraged, but the sense of existence always ends with marriage.Modern society speaks highly of gender equality, and even as women continue to fight for equal rights in all aspects of life, including equal pay, much of it is limited to words with no follow-up actions.Growing up in a Newa family, I did not look forward to gatherings where I was constantly asked, ‘Kaile bhoj khuwaune?’ When was I getting married?There would barely be any mention of my professional achievements, that topic is solely reserved for a boy. Because as a girl, my marriage is more important than my career or goals in life to Nepali society.From a young age, girls are programmed to think that if they are not able to find themselves a husband by marriageable age, they are failures. This is not a diss on women who have chosen marriage and are happy, but we are focusing on those who are mentally traumatised by the underlying pressure to get married or have to continuously justify the reasons they are not married yet.Our sad reality is that early on girls learn it is more important to be pretty than competent. Sure, everybody wants to look beautiful and beauty is valued everywhere. But how far will you go to attain it?Read Also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/childless-by-choice/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Childless by choice</a>, Anjana RajbhandaryAccording to a <a href="https://www.jstor.org/stable/26979336" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">study</a> published in Journal of International Marketing, ‘the pursuit of beauty’ is very high in Asia, evidenced by the amount of “‘appearance-enhancing products’ Asian women use.While there are now voices about accepting yourself for who you are, the desire to be prettier, fairer and thinner still largely exists, and the pressure is predominantly higher for Nepali women than men.Think of every wedding you have been to this week during the marriage season, one of the first things you say is how ‘beautiful’ the bride looks.There countless stories of accomplished women who are valued more for how they look than who they are. Given the amount of work women put in to be academically and professionally successful, if it comes down to just looks, many women would rather stay single than be selected from a catalog of girls.Sara is a college student who got a full scholarship to study in the United States, but she gets constant comments about her weight. “Marriage is a partnership between two people. It depends on compatibility and compromise. I value myself too much to be ‘chosen’ based on my appearance,” says Sara. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with someone who chooses me for my size or skin colour. I’d much rather be happier single, living my life.”Read Also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/nepals-unequal-marriages/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepal's unequal marriages</a>, Anjana RajbhandaryTara is a successful banker but when it comes to her private life, she has stopped attending family parties frustrated with people not respecting her boundaries.“Aren’t you getting too old? Who will marry you now? You will have to settle for a divorcee or a widower at this point” are just some of the comments she has received. “I know my worth, but the continuous belittling makes me furious,” she says.I myself waited so long to settle down because I did not want to give up my financial freedom and live with the in-laws to cook, clean, and serve, and become a glorified maid of sorts.If I were lucky enough to marry into a family that allowed me to work, I would still have the obligations and put myself last. I have heard many stories of this kind from my girlfriends and cousins.One’s financial condition can also determine the preference for marriage. Tina is a medical doctor and has been practicing for several years now. “I am financially and emotionally independent. I am self-sufficient, so I don’t feel the need for a partner,” she says.In Nepal, men are more financially independent than women. This is mostly because most women are not as educated or are not allowed to work after marriage, limiting their resources.Read Also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/letter-to-a-nepali-aunty/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Letter to a Nepali aunty</a>, Anjana RajbhandaryThis also makes them dependent on their spouse for support. The Covid-19 pandemic has made it worse with limited economic opportunities as it is or reduced income for many.“Women choose to remain single because they have a choice and capacity to navigate and lead their own life,” says LOOM Nepal founder Jyotsna Maskay.Indeed, women today do not feel the same pressure as our parents and their generation to settle down. Educated women know that they have a choice, and one of them is marriage.One choice is not better than the other but they choose to do what is right for them and what makes them happy.Isha recently got out of an unhappy marriage, and the resulting social stigma has followed her everywhere. “It is not easy being called names and held responsible for an unsuccessful marriage, especially as it was mostly his fault. But in our society, we women are to be blamed,” she says.Isha had her own painful journey and the path to self-acceptance was filled with challenges, but in the end, she chose herself over the image expected of her.She adds: “Some days are harder than others. In the marriage, every day was torture. Honestly, I feel empowered to have broken stereotypes.”All marriages are not awful, of course, but some can be. In the end, you have to prioritise yourself instead of being a people pleaser. Given a choice, it is always smarter to choose happiness over a husband.Anjana Rajbhandary writes this fortnightly Nepali Times column Life Time about mental health, physical health and socio-cultural issues. Some names have been changed.

Anjana Rajbhandary

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Why are some Nepali women not getting married?

<figure><img width="1342" height="899" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101140/63720cf99c7e80680e0b789ajpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Photo: DARAZ</figcaption></figure>Aanchal Kunwar sits in her office that has an overview of employees of Daraz busy at their desks. A meeting is in progress in  a conference room next door.In January, Kunwar became one of few women in leadership in Nepal’s corporate sector, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/business/anchal-kunwar-at-daraz/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">heading the operations of Daraz</a>, the company now owned by China’s Alibaba.Kunwar was working for Amazon in Seattle when a recruiter reached out to her via LinkedIn to let her know that the Managing Director position was open at Daraz in Nepal. “I felt like coming back to Nepal after gaining all the experience would be more impactful than whatever else I could be doing right now in the US,” she says.Kunwar was born and raised in Kathmandu and spent her early childhood moving around the country because of her father’s job. She left for the US after high-school, graduated in maths and economics, and began to work for Carlson Wagonlit Travel (CWT) while doing her MBA. She then worked for Amazon for five and a half years, managing the company’s mass cosmetics business, working in global expansion -- helping launch the platform in countries like Sweden, Poland, Saudi Arabia and Egypt.  “Four years into that job is where I was starting to think --what do I want to do next in my life?” Kunwar recalls.  <img width="126" height="150" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101140/63720cfb9c7e80680e0b789bjpeg.jpg" alt="">“There was a clear path in terms of just moving up the ladder in the corporate world. But something in me was telling me that wasn't enough, and that I needed not something more, but probably something different, something that I believed would be more fulfilling.”  Kunwar had been considering going into the non-profit sector when Covid hit. “With the pandemic, I thought I’ll just hold my thoughts for a little bit because there were a lot of other things to handle.” When the Daraz opening in Nepal came up, she remembers thinking: “That would be cool.” Daraz would be a perfect fit: she was Nepali, had similar approaches to running a business in terms of being <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepali-company-wins-global-environment-awards/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">socially and environmentally responsible</a>, and a customer focus.  Kunwar’s entry into Daraz coincides with a <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/nepal-e-shopping-booms-under-covid-19/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">dramatic growth in e-commerce in Nepal</a> as Nepalis locked up at home during the pandemic began to explore online purchases.   “The pandemic has definitely helped push people towards e-commerce more,” Kunwar notes. “Prior to the pandemic it was probably just the younger generation but during the pandemic, even the older demographics understood the convenience and started buying things online.”  Kunwar is convinced the Nepali market is quick to adopt new technologies, and gives the example of the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/nepals-e-conomy-rapidly-goes-digital/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">growth in e-payments</a>. Even till last year, only 10% of Daraz business was through e-payments, now it is half.  Kunwar’s experience at Amazon has given her insight into how global markets operate, and the unique set of challenges that markets across the world present with legal restrictions, logistics, and tools. Nepal’s challenges include lack of experience in e-commerce which means sellers need the right kind of training and education to be able to answer questions, so buyers have the information they need to make a judgement call, she says. Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/nepals-budding-e-commerce-ecosystem/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepal's budding e-commerce ecosystem</a>, Sikuma Rai Another challenge is that Nepal does not have a proper GPS mapping system, and deliveries still have to call people to figure out where exactly they are located. “An unstable government adds to the challenges with banda announcements,” Kunwar says. “And during Covid, if there is a lockdown or odd-even rules, we have to navigate that and ensure proper delivery. These challenges are unique to Nepal, you wouldn’t see them in the US.” She adds, “The companies I worked for in the US are very mature businesses, where processes are defined. Here in Nepal we still have a <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/regular-columns/Cross-Cutting/Start-ups-need-staying-power,439" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">start-up</a> culture. But we will probably be where Amazon is now in a number of years.”  Daraz currently operates in 47 cities across Nepal, and plans to expand to 80 this year. But Kunwar wants to take one step at a time, and have the logistics in place for growth. “In the last two years, we have had to run before we could walk, but in order to keep growing, we just need to have processes in place,” she says. “We need our key account managers to focus more on strategy and then have execution be more on a lower level.” This is dependent on improvements in connectivity, people being able to shop online, road infrastructure, and mapping systems.   As Daraz Nepal’s managing director, Kunwar joins a growing number of <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/women-leaders-set-example-for-rest-of-nepal/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepali women taking the lead</a> in the corporate world. “My family raised me no differently than my brother,” she says. “So I’ve always questioned the status quo. I don't take 'This is just how things are’ as an answer.” She admits that there have been instances since she joined Daraz where men in power have shut her down halfway through her introduction.  “It is something that I wish was different but it’s not,” she admits. “But I don't necessarily let that get to me as long as it is not preventing me from doing what I want to do for the business, and for the country.” Kunwar says her driving force is putting in the hard work, and making her presence felt. Outside Daraz, Kunwar is passionate about education for under-served Nepalis and sponsors young students.   She wants to focus on mentorship because even when students have funding for education, they cannot dream bigger because they are stuck in their social milieu.  “I came back to make an impact for Nepal, it is broader than just Daraz,” says Kunwar. “Five years from now, I'm hoping to make some impact here, in addition to taking Daraz to new heights with the team.” Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/holding-up-half-the-economy/">Holding up half the economy</a>, Ashutosh Tiwari

Shristi Karki

New Daraz MD seeks to make an impact in Nepal

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101136/63720c889c7e80680e0b7875jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1053" height="1012"/><figcaption>Photo: PRATIBHA TULADHAR</figcaption></figure>On nights when things got unbearable, Laxmi Maya always stepped out of the house in the quiet of the night. There was nowhere to go, really, but the <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=7121#.YiRUsy8w3u0" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">gully</a>. The gully or galli, as she said it, was the long tunnel that went from under the house on the main street into a courtyard where one of the four houses flanking the square, brick-paved space, was hers. Her husband’s family’s rather.The bickering over the house had gone on for so long. Every few weeks, government officials showed up at her threshold, and asked her innumerable questions. Where was the infamous husband? “I don’t know,” was Laxmi Maya’s consistent answer.As time went by, she had learned to say those words without at all batting an eyelid. And as she said it on repeat, the words became more believable to the government officials, as they did to her. She had started to believe she had no idea about his whereabouts.In her mind, Calcutta was a distant country of which she did not know anything. She did not know what its streets or nooks looked like or how the tram she had heard about operated. And so knowing that her husband was in Calcutta was tantamount to not knowing where he was. So, her statement was not entirely false.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/coping-with-the-patriarchy/">Coping with patriarchy</a>, Bhumi GhimiréThe government officials always appeared in a pair. Laxmi Maya would hurry upstairs to her baiga after asking them to sit down on the wicker mats and quickly poach two eggs and pour a dash of aeila into little copper kholas and present them before the men.“So you do not know where your husband is?” one of them would ask between taking a sip.“I don’t,” she would say quietly.“We are only letting you live in this house because you have three small children. By law, he is banished and so everything he owns is now government property, we hope you know.”“I know, Sarkar. But this house was given to me in dowry by my father,” Laxmi Maya would lie again. It had become a drill.Promptly, the officers would leave after polishing off their snack, setting in motion for Laxmi Maya, the wait for another such visit.Did she miss the husband? She could not say. His presence had been punctuated by his time spent with the dancers, or neighbourhood events from where he always came away as the feared. What was there to miss of such a man, besides moments of imagined intimacy when his limbs were hers to hold? She wondered, had she been a dancer, would it also have kept him from straying? Yes, they said he had strayed.Read also: <a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/nepals-unequal-marriages/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Nepal's unequal marriages</a>, Anjana RajbhandaryBut the women in her clan did not dance. They had not been taught to. Dancing, they said, was for women who were “loose”. They had taught her to speak softly, tread softer and to hold her tongue and restrict her movements to grace. That was who she was-- all those things they said she should be.<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221114101136/63720c8a9c7e80680e0b7876jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="126" height="150">Standing in the darkness of the galli, Laxmi Maya often felt streams of hot tears soak her face. She had never learned to cry before others, so the quiet of the night was a good time. On one such night, she had seen rows of carriages go by, carrying large boxes. They were followed by rumours that the Ranas were getting their belongings removed to India because some kind of revolution was afoot to throw them off. They said that was why the king had left for India.Tonight, though, there was no such activity. It was quiet. As Laxmi Maya stood there, tears finding their way down her jaw, she thought she saw a light flicker near the Naradevi temple. It was followed by the clanking of a door and then of ghangala, the bunch of bells worn by the goddess. Wafting in with the sound was the goddess herself, stepping out of her temple, draped in a long red frock, a <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/getting-behind-the-divine-mask/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">mask</a> on her face. As the deity started doing the familiar dance, lilting her hands in the air, feet shuffling, Laxmi Maya froze, but her tears ran down in thick rivulets. She stared in awe and trembled.…“The wedding was fun?”“The ratyauli was fun.”“The what?”“Yes. Ratyauli. I had heard about it but never seen one before,” says Mamu.I ask her to explain, but she says she cannot because it would embarrass us both. She will not divulge any detail, but tells me how she felt a tinge of envy that <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/parodying-patriarchy-at-tij/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">women had the liberty</a> to engage in that kind of lewd talk without being judged while singing and dancing and acting.Read also: <a style="font-weight: bold; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/boys-will-be-boys-is-never-an-excuse/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Boys will be boys is never an excuse</a>, Anjana Rajbhandary“How come women in our community don’t dance?” I ask.“We have the gods and the goddess, the masked dancers,” she says.“But they are all men wearing masks,” I remind her. Then Mamu goes on to explain how apart from the Jyapu community, women from other clans had never been given that kind of freedom.“Don’t you think that is so unfair? Taking the right from you to revel, to be in tune with your own body. When else do you explore the joy of being in your body as you do with dancing? It is so much to take away from a woman.”“I don’t know, I never thought about it. My movements don’t sync and so I don’t dance.”Mamu often sits in a corner watching others dance. When asked to dance, she will sometimes try, but her footwork never matches her hand gestures or the music: “I guess, I just watch people dance.”Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/editorial/patriarchy-in-an-oligarchy/">Patriarchy in an oligarchy</a>, Editorial…Dance! My senior, who is having a “ragging” session with me, orders. Do the twist, she says, and sings a Rafi number. What is a twist, I wonder. She says, if you do not obey your seniors, you measure the entire campus with a one rupee coin. In my heart, I wished I could just dance and get over it. But I can’t. Like Mamu, my feet are wooden, too. I just stand there, my face burning in shame and fury.Here, she says. Take this coin and now go measure the entire place with it.As I bend down at her feet and place the coin on the ground, I wish I could have told her I cannot dance because women in my community <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/letter-to-a-nepali-aunty/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">are not expected to dance</a>. But saying that, would also require a dance-- of the tongue. So, I bend down and start flipping the coin inch by inch across the campus.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/anger-management-for-nepali-women/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Feel angry? read this</a>, Anjana RajbhandarySuburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

The light of feet

<figure><img width="1500" height="1000" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110161132/636d19ae9c7e80680e0ac832jpeg.jpg" alt=""/><figcaption>Photo: SONAM CHOEKYI LAMA</figcaption></figure>The climate crisis is a water crisis – either too much of it, or too little. Droughts have dried up springs, and when it does rain, it comes down to unleash deadly <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/kathmandus-flash-floods-are-4-decades-in-the-making/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">flash floods</a>.
If there was an effective farm irrigation network, reliable and safe drinking water in every village, Nepalis would find it much easier to cope with the impact of the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/un-climate-report-declares-planetary-emergency/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">climate emergency</a>.  Historical state failure has provided neither, and blaming climate change now is just a convenient excuse to cover up for past neglect.
There have always been <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/first-drought-then-downpour/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">droughts in Nepal</a>.  For millennia, Himalayan rivers have unleashed catastrophic floods. The climate crisis has just made them worse, as poorly designed infrastructure and settlements lead to more destructive disasters.  
Melting icecaps get all the media attention as the world deals with climate change, but it is the<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/tracing-past-glacial-floods-in-kangchenjunga/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer"> state of our streams, rivers, and ground water</a> that affect more people immediately. 
With outmigration of men from rural areas, it is mostly women who are left to farm, raise livestock, fetch water, and care for the household. Even before the climate crisis hit, the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/educating-girls-for-climate-action/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">work of Nepali women</a> was demanding and undervalued. Global warming has just made their drudgery much worse.   
<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/climate-change-is-a-disaster-in-the-nepal-himalaya/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Climate change is a disaster in the Nepal Himalaya</a>, Sonam Choekyi Lama
In Kavre district, women who had to walk a few minutes to fetch water now have to make one hour roundtrips because <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/nepals-silent-emergency-springs-going-dry/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">springs have dried up</a>. With the men-folk gone, women like Namdak Sangmo in our special report from Dolpo struggle to survive after their farms were swept away by a glacial flood. 
You do not need to be a gender activist to see how <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/nepali-women-doubly-burdened-by-climate-change/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">women bear a disproportionate burden from the climate crisis</a>. Across the Himalayan foothills, farm terraces lie dry and fallow. Women are not just heading households now, they also have to make decisions about planting, irrigation, harvesting, grazing, foraging, cooking, and taking care of children. 
While remittance money has helped raise the standard of living, extreme events like the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/monsoon-hits-nepal-with-a-bang/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">deadly floods and landslides this monsoon</a> season add to the misery. Three-fourths of Nepal’s farmers are dependent on rain-fed agriculture, and the combined impact of weather extremes and the pandemic have added to food insecurity. 
Increased work for women in the household means many daughters drop out of school to help with household chores. Most of these problems predate climate change, but <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/women-in-climate-hot-spots-face-challenges-adapting/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">global warming has added to the challenges women face every day</a>. 
The most low-hanging fruit for climate adaptation in Nepal is to <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/the-waste-land/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">provide women with enough water</a>,  or protect their families from too much of it. And that is exactly where most of Nepal’s success stories are happening. 
<a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/himalayan-floods-a-sign-of-worse-to-come/">Himalayan floods a sign of worse to come</a>, Mukesh Pokharel
Faced with dry springs, Mother’s Groups and Forestry User Groups in Kavre have joined forces to harvest monsoon water for household use in the dry season. They have revived traditional network of ponds for groundwater recharge, and nurtured indigenous plant species in community forests.  
In Kailali district in the western plains, farmers who used to suffer from chronic floods are using botanical buffers. Bamboo and napier grass on embankments and sugarcane on riverbanks block floods, while providing cash income. In Kanchanpur district, villagers also grow banana, watermelon, pumpkin, squash and gourd after the floods recede, taking advantage of nutrient-rich soil deposit.
While developmental partners, aid agencies and non-governmental organisations have played a crucial role in introducing climate-specific interventions, theirs is a piecemeal approach. In fact, it often lets the government off the hook. We need to scale up these successful pilot projects nationwide.
With or without the climate crisis, it is the state’s responsibility to ensure access to water for households and irrigation. After all, droughts and floods are nothing new here. 
Nepal’s delegation to the <a href="https://ukcop26.org" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">COP26 Climate Summit</a> next week will be led by Prime Minister Sher Bahadur Deuba. But instead of going to Glasgow, Deuba should head out to his home constituency of Dadeldhura-1 to see for himself how the most marginalised women have coped with this year’s triple whammy – drought, wildfires and floods.  
In Glasgow, the focus is on emissions reduction and compensating countries like Nepal for loss and damage. Nepal’s delegation has little right to hold out the begging bowl when it is doing so little for its own people back home. Climate justice and historical emissions sound good in speeches, but it does not deliver food security today. 
Women and their added vulnerability to the climate emergency should not be limited to sound bites at international fora, but goad real action that prioritise them.
Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/latest/think-globally-in-glasgow-and-act-locally/">Think globally in Glasgow, and act locally</a>, Raju Pandit Chhetri
Sonia Awale

Sonia Awale

Women and water

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110161128/636d18c29c7e80680e0ac7e1jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="5616" height="3744"/><figcaption>Photo: MONIKA DEUPALA</figcaption></figure>If you are a woman, it is easy to get angry. If you are a Nepali woman, it is even easier to get mad at cultural norms and societal pressures that have become an unnecessary constant in your life.Despite our progress, women are made to feel like they are there to serve the men, many of whom speak of gender, class or ethnic equality but <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/here-now/epidemic-of-online-sexism/">rarely apply it to their lives</a>.For example, it is pointless trying to convince a man that it is not an insult to his manhood to prepare a cup of tea for you. Alternatively, when was the last time your <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/boys-will-be-boys-is-never-an-excuse/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">older brother or husband</a> brought you a cup of tea when you came home tired from work?I have held on to years of frustration and anger within me, and talking to other women, I realised that they do as well. It is terrible to constantly feel negative emotions because it affects our physical health and our overall well-being.When I was younger, I vented out my anger a lot but over the years, it has adversely affected my relationships with people. My inability to let go has affected my life quality and the time spent with my loved ones.Early on in life, I learned that it is better to <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/staying-mum-about-sexual-assault/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">speak up</a> about the issues bothering you than holding them in. But I misinterpreted it so that I started to express my frustration over minor problems instead of thinking about them critically.When I asked others for help, they told me not to get angry, which made me angrier because I already knew that. I didn’t want to be angry, but I needed to learn how not to be.I once met this wise person who told me that there is nothing wrong with anger, that it is normal — but it is how we express the anger that makes a difference.Having been angry for years, he told me that I would not stop at will, but it was possible to change. He told me to think about a few things when I get angry, which can be challenging in the heat of the moment, so I decided to write them down to look at when I get mad.“Ask if it is worth it.”“How is this anger benefitting me now?”“Do not react, no matter how mad you feel—hold it in and be patient.”“Put your phone away.”We have all become more impulsive about the need to express anger. In this digital world, it means expressing it via instant messages or social media, angry Tweets that you cannot take back.I thought holding things in was a sign of weakness, but sometimes it is a sign of intelligence.Often, I have regretted the things said and texted when I was angry. So, practicing patience is one of the best pieces of advice for anger management. It allows me to feel anger but not react until I have cooled down. Generally, things don’t seem as awful after you give it time.This is not me saying to hold things in, but it is always best not to react in the heat of the moment when things usually come out wrong. It is also not about letting all the anger go, but analysing it to see why it bothers you so much.Anger is oftentimes hidden sadness, and as such, I thought of it as my strength. But I have hurt too many people in the process, so I am trying to rid myself of this habit.So now, whenever I get angry, I look at my notes and wait. It is difficult, but I do it because it is the best way to approach anger. I take it one day at a time, and it works.I am still working on not reacting unnecessarily to people but giving myself time to see if what caused the anger is worth it, and the truth is, it never is. In the past, I used to realise it too late, but not anymore.It will take a long time for our society and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/coping-with-the-patriarchy/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">its patriarchal ways</a> to change. In the meantime, we cannot afford to lose more of ourselves and our ability to reason by giving into negative emotions. Change comes from within and from a mind at peace.That is why the first step is to channel the energy productively. We need to be mature about this and know which emotions to express and which ones to hold in.When I feel myself boiling inside, I wait, breathe, and pray for the strength to let go of the anger that benefits no one. I am working on controlling my anger rather than letting it control me. It is the best present I can give myself this Festive season.

Feel angry? Read this.

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141124/636cfbad9c7e80680e0a0b47jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1125"/><figcaption>Photos: PRATIBHA TULADHAR</figcaption></figure>She towered over me like a lone poplar tree. She was four years older than I was at the time she came to live with us. Sita was the eldest of her siblings and her father had sent her to Kathmandu so she could contribute to the family income.Ten-year-old Sita’s job was to babysit for one of our relatives—two babies watching one another. When a bunch of grapes disappeared, the employers decided to dismiss the babysitter. Sita was just being a child picking and popping into her mouth something she liked the taste of, but she was supposed to be an ‘employee’ and expected to behave like an adult.Her father insisted that she stay in Kathmandu, and so the child remained, moving from one home to another, as employers tired of her antics. One of them had to yank her off the balcony railing, after which, she was sent to ours.Read also: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/welcome-to-suburbia/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Welcome to suburbia</a>, Pratibha TuladharWhen I asked my mother recently why she had accepted a child as helper, she said it was because she knew that she would be sent somewhere else if not to ours, and that she thought a house with two girls would be safer for her.Sita showed up one afternoon on the motorbike of her former employer at our home on the outskirts of Kathmandu. She was carrying a small bag of clothes. She was wearing a kurta with traces of lint—something I had seen my relative wear before, now altered to fit a 14-year-old.I had met Sita before when I had visited my relatives, a radiant face resting on tall, lean limbs. Her eyes were light brown and her hair the same colour, resting in an array of curls over her forehead and her temples. She did not look much different when she arrived at ours. And neither did she look nervous for someone coming to live in a new place.<a style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0.01em;" href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/be-water/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">My mother</a> and Nini got busy after her arrival, making arrangements for a bedding of a single mattress, a pillow and a blanket. She would sleep in my room, on the floor. I couldn’t understand the arrangement, but I got used to it.She folded her bedding every morning, arranging it under my bookshelf which hung on the wall. If sometimes she saw me sitting on it with a book between my fingers, she would tell me to get off in fluent Newa: “Maicha! Ana makhu.”Sita made our home hers, quickly. She was expected to bring my sister and me to the bus stop everyday and help Mam run errands. But Mam complained that “the child” delayed her. Clearly, she also made her laugh.Mam, with wisps of gray sticking over her head would sit under a tree in the afternoons, smoking her beedi. On a hot day, she would fall asleep under the tree, and Sita would get to work, poking her ear with a leaf. Furious, Mam would clench her hand into a fist and threaten to hit Sita. “This girl has too much energy. Utauli, chakchaki!”<img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141124/636cfbb09c7e80680e0a0b48jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="853">And as if to prove the point, Sita made sure to punctuate our days with events. One morning, as we waited for our school bus to arrive, Sita pointed at the pipal tree and said, “Nests!” And before we knew, she was climbing the tree.“Sita Didi!” we yelled from below, as she scrambled up like she knew the tree branch by branch. When we got into the school bus, I craned my neck to watch her from the window as the bus raced off with us inside. My heart pounding, I caught a glimpse of her stretching one arm to grab the nest.When we stepped off at the bus stand that afternoon, Mam was waiting for us. Sita had been grounded. Upon entering my room, I saw two weaver birds’ nests. One was over a foot long, the other one was smaller. Sita had nailed them to two corners of our room. I dumped my bag on the floor to touch them.“I saw you read about them in your sience book,” she beamed. My science book had a chapter on different kinds of bird nests, one of them had been the weaver bird’s nest.A couple of weeks later, Sita was allowed to go to the bus stand again. As we waited under the pipal tree, my sister wept. She hadn’t finished her homework. Sita pulled out her notebook and hurriedly wrote her homework for her. “There, your teacher won’t scold you now.” She whacked my sister’s head, “Badmass!”Coming home from school was also coming home to Sita’s radiant face. One time, she greeted us with bruises all over her limbs, spiky branches strewn over the front porch. She had climbed a thorny tree to gather firewood for Shivaratri, bringing down fresh branches that would not burn.When my mother exclaimed how terrified she had been that she might fall, Sita reminded her that she had “conquered” a pipal tree. I did not understand my mother’s patience with her.One afternoon, Sita locked herself in the kitchen for hours. When she unlocked the door, she had made aloo achar. She said it was her “especial” for us, the first time she had cooked. The potatoes were raw and I told her the achar was horrible. But my mother ate it, smiling as she did.When Sita turned 15, her father showed up. Mam found her hiding at the dhunge dhara by the hillside. It was time for her to go home. When we returned from school her bedclothes still sat under my bookshelf but the lightness of her presence was missing. It angered me that no one had told me she was leaving, but no one tells a child such things.Sita had been “<a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/article/Nepali-Times-Buzz/child-marriage-in-Nepal,3863" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">given away in marriage</a>” after she went back home, we heard. A decade later Sita visited my mother in our home in Maharajganj, when she brought a relative to the Teaching Hospital.“She leaned against the wall the entire time we talked. She was wearing a red cotton sari and had grown much taller and fuller. But she looked tired,” my mother recalls.We haven’t heard from her since, but my mother likes to punctuate our kitchen conversations with Sita anecdotes.Suburban Tales is a monthly column in Nepali Times based on real people (with some names changed) in Pratibha’s life.

Sita

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110141124/636cfbaa9c7e80680e0a0b46jpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1500" height="1000"/><figcaption>Photo: MONIKA DEUPALA</figcaption></figure>Namaste Aunty,It has been a while. I think the last time we met was at our cousin’s wedding. It was a good one, lasted one whole week, and I can imagine how stressed everyone was, but it went well.It is always a headache to find five different outfits, we cannot repeat saris because God forbid, someone might notice. Also, I did not repeat jewelry because what would people think if I wore the same earrings twice in a week?I know you judged every woman there, you noticed what she wore, how much she ate, who all she spoke to, and you may have also seen some women who were quiet the whole night, either sitting alone staring at the unknown or standing next to their husbands. Not every couple is genuinely happy. But we all gossip and tell tales.But I also know you are strong. To be a woman and a Nepali woman, you have to be. You have the world of responsibilities on your small yet strong shoulders. You have managed households and raised many. I think I am trying to understand how you changed from how I am to what you are at present.I think I know why you are the way you are. It is because we have both lived the same life. You were me at some point, and I hope I am like you in the future, minus some of the qualities that you developed along the way.We both grew up with rules and expectations. We both represented the grace and the shame of our families, where one wrong decision, and we would be scarred for life. That is the life of the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/boys-will-be-boys-is-never-an-excuse/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">woman in our society</a>. We are meant to be pure, untouched and strong enough to wait for a man who comes back home at 3AM.In the beginning, you used to upset me. You always talked about my skin tone, my weight and my <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/dreaded-bliss/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">future wedding date</a>. You made me question if I was still of a desirable age. As I grew older, I realised some things.You had a difficult life because you had it more challenging than me. Maybe it was your in-laws, your aunties or the society that tested you every step of the way and hardened your heart with the years.You had to survive, and you did what you had to do to protect yourself. You grew stern and distant. You hid your vulnerability to the point where you forgot you have a heart. You took away your softness to not feel hurt.But when you say something about me, ask yourself if you would do that if I was your daughter. And if you do not have a daughter, think of me as someone you used to be. Please do not teach me also to harden my heart. Please let me live a happy life without the <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/shamed-for-bleeding/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">constraints of society</a>. You felt the pain, and you know how much it hurts. I wish for you not to let me go through it.Please try to live the life that makes you happy and <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/maybe-baby/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">let me live mine</a> the same way because we only have one. What I feel now is what you felt, you were once tender and kind. It is still there inside you.The beauty in your simplicity is forgotten but remember who you used to be. Remember the light inside you. Remember, you are the same woman who has lived the life we live now and bring to the surface the softness that you have hidden for so long, and all of us will be in a better place.Our lives are divine. Relight the radiance in your compassion. You are a force that can end wars. You are governed by love and kindness. And I know it will be slow, but you and I are meant to get along. You are the light to lead me in the darkness because I trust you to show me the path.Let us not hide the unspoken truth: <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/opinion/educating-your-sons-will-protect-your-daughters/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">you have been hurt</a>, and you have all suffered, so please understand the pain. Do not hide your true self anymore. It is both our worlds together, let us make it more liveable together.I will always carry love and respect for you in my heart because you taught me that respect is mutual irrespective of age and gender. Help me be a better person. Be the guide that I need. Look at me with the eyes that you wish your aunties looked at you with because you were me once too.I promise to text you before tomorrow’s reception so we do not show up wearing the same shoes.Much love,Your Younger VersionAnjana Rajbhandary lives and works in Chicago. She writes this fortnightly Nepali Times column Life Time about mental health, physical health and socio-cultural issues.

Letter to a Nepali aunty

<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110151112/636d073e9c7e80680e0a5fadjpeg.jpg" alt="" width="1200" height="1600"/><figcaption>Circa 1941. Standing from left: Yagyamuni Sharma, Tara Devi Sharma, Kusum Kumari Sharma, Hem Kumari ‘Gyanu’ Sharma. Sitting on chair: Basundhara Neupane Sharma, on stool: Vijaya Sharma. Photo courtesy: VIJAYA RAJ SHARMA/NEPAL PICTURE LIBRARY (With input from Vijaya Raj Sharma and Kalpana Ghimire)</figcaption></figure>Using old family photographs, I have been able to trace the history of patriarchy over four generations in my clan, right down to the present socio-political milieu in Nepal.Perhaps it is the intimacy with which I know my family as well as my country--as a child, as I grew into an adult, a daughter, and now a mother--that makes me want to do this. I have dilly-dallied in writing about these things, and indeed questioned my very right to even publish it. After all, I was born and raised in Kathmandu, and come from a privileged Brahmin background. Such a pedigree makes me an advantaged Nepali.However, as I once was told, “It is as much of a crime to commit injustice as it is not to oppose it.” The state of most Nepali women in their social, cultural, official, and legal capacities is so appalling and alarming that would be a crime not to speak up.In 2013, motivated by the pristine image of Nepal abroad, my French husband proposed that we go live in Nepal. By that point, I had lived for over a decade in various cities in Europe. I missed being in the Nepali cultural sphere, speaking Nepali, eating Nepali food, so I readily agreed.Most of my immediate family were living abroad at the time, and little did I know that without their network and support, living in Nepal would prove to be quite an ordeal -- especially when legal and official work needed to be done.I was aware that I would face some adverse cultural shock, but nothing could have prepared me for the degree of state-imposed patriarchy that we were about to experience. Little did I know that a daughter who is ‘given away’ (especially to a foreigner) would be viewed at par with an asylum-seeker by the state and the bureaucracy if she wanted to return.On the maternal side of my family in my मामाघर, we are now the fourth generation of women who have had to survive and deal with adversities in a patriarchal society with very little support from male members.Historically, the father figures in the clan have passed away very tragically and prematurely, have been absent or severely disabled, leaving the women to survive and carry on, earn a living, and raise children after a certain point or for long periods of time.Growing up with my mother’s side of the family in a household full of women, I was shown that women could be strong, career-oriented, free and become anyone they wished.Because of her upbringing in Kathmandu, Moscow, and Paris, my mother made sure that I was open to the world but raised in Nepal with Nepali values. Consequently, it made me confident enough to feel that I could fly anywhere.Like every child, I too felt that these unconventional, strong-willed, colourful and opinionated members of my predominantly female family were the norm, and as much as I am grateful for that, it did not prepare me for my return from Europe as an adult, and in November 2013 as a woman married to a foreigner.The NeupanesThis photograph of the Neupane family (see above) is of my maternal grandmother’s side, who lived in Kalaiya in the western Tarai. Standing third from the left is my mother’s mother Kusum Kumari Sharma, with her four sisters surrounding their widowed mother Bashundhara Neupane in a very Jane Austen-esque setting.Her fifth and youngest daughter is yet to be married off, the crescent moon hairpin being the traditional Hindu adornment of married women in Nepal in the community at the time. The Neupanes were a hill-based family who had migrated to the Tarai in the 1930s for better living opportunities, like many others.Basundhara’s spouse held the position of डिठ्ठा administrator in Parsauni, one of the most fertile areas of Nepal. This prestigious status gave the family financial ease, and an overall comfortable life. In 1937, tragedy struck -- literally, in the form of a lightning bolt. Basundhara’s husband Chudamani Upadhya Neupane along with his 13-member team were taking shelter under a tree during a rainstorm.The tree caught fire, everyone was knocked unconscious, and only Chudamani did not wake up. Basundhara, along with their 14-year-old son, rushed to the spot. After the last rites, Chudamani’s nephew took advantage of the situation and pocketed all valuables and ownership documents left behind in the house.Customary to Nepali culture, the superstitious finger-pointing of family misfortunes is automatically attributed as the moral or karmic culpability of a third person--mostly a woman.My great-grandmother was accused as being a लोग्ने टोक्ने. The fact that she later lost her son, the only remaining male member of the family, made the situation even worse. We should be grateful for her eldest son-in-law Dhundi Raj Sharma, then a young lawyer, who came to the rescue from Ilam to save the family from further harm, and settled them down in Kalaiya.Without this help, she would have lost property, all prestige and indeed all standing (प्रतिष्ठा, इज्ज़त) in society. Despite this ordeal, the widowed Basundhara was a strong-willed and determined enough woman to go to her husband’s family and obtain her share of the family inheritance -- something that many women in Nepal do not dare to claim even today.A couple of years later, Basundhara’s daughter, my then 16-year-old grandmother Kusum Kumari Sharma, got married. The fact that she had received an informal education was a problem for the members of her husband’s family, and she was packed off to her maternal home for seven years.Such a situation even today would be considered a shame in many Nepali families. Inspired by her eldest sister and activist Tara Devi Sharma, and her lawyer husband, she got involved in the first wave of Nepal’s feminist movement.Tara Devi Sharma went on to become a member of the सल्लाहाकार सभा (Advisory Council) in democratic Nepal. In 1954, she and fellow activists submitted a bill on the ‘Marriage system and provisions for a woman's right regarding marriage’.As for my grandmother, she was later united with her husband Bal Chandra Sharma, a founding member of the Nepali Congress movement. She even joined the party in 1947.Her education foundation, coupled with her social awareness, prompted her to write many articles in significant magazines like युगबाणी (Yugbani). Despite her involvement in Nepal’s growing feminist movement,  she had to face major discriminatory injustice much later in life based on the legal provision on nationality registration. The spouse of a public figure, albeit widowed, and fatherless, she could not obtain Nepali citizenship.As for my grandmother, only when her son obtained his citizenship was she able to get a citizonship certificate through him. Had she had only daughters, she would have been stateless.<figure><img src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110151112/636d07419c7e80680e0a5faejpeg.jpg" alt="" width="720" height="960"><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>My mother Kalpana Ghimire, earning a living and raising a child on her own, also found herself facing similar challenges much later in life. After her broken marriage in 1982, fatherless and husbandless, she found herself debarred from any property rights.At that time, with her child being female, she would be only entitled to Rs30,000 as marriage expenses from her husband’s property--and being once married, she had no claim to her parental property.Thanks to her education, determination, and her mother’s support, she worked, raised me and earned respect in society. Another major worry and predicament for her was trying to get my own citizenship in 1998.She approached Usha Nepal, the powerful and assertive Kathmandu CDO, whose personal intervention unblocked the process. Thus, like her maternal ancestors, my mother also faced both social and institutional patriarchy, and overcame it.I often get asked why I feel so personally about Nepalis who are undocumented. Here is why: because I was so close to becoming stateless myself. My mother would have shaken mountains to find a solution for my citizenship documents, but the feeling of humiliation and rejection by the state is something one cannot forget.To this day, I find it daunting to enter the Babar Mahal CDO office, and by extension any government office, to get any sort of official paperwork done.Born without a visaMy first shocking encounter with a Nepali bureaucrat was upon my return in 2013, when I had to go to the Immigration office in Dilli Bazar to get my husband’s family visa. I was admonished with a Nepali sermon that returning to Nepal to live in my mother’s माइती home was unjust to my husband’s घर and that I should be taking care them as I now ‘belonged’ to them.I realised that the Hindu marriage कन्या दान ceremony is still taken officially and very seriously in this 21st century globalised world. It seems that the mindset of the maledom has not changed since Nepal got unified in the 18th century.Worse was to follow. In April 2017, we had the great joy of welcoming our little baby boy. I wanted my half-French child to be born in Nepal so that it would be his जन्म भूमि (birthplace) even though he would not be eligible to Nepali nationality as per Nepal’s Constitution that that does not allow Nepali women to pass their nationality onto their children.When my child was two months old, I contacted the Immigration Office concerning formalities to be carried out for a half-Nepali, half-French infant child. To my great surprise and shock, I was asked to pay approximately Rs10,000 fine as according to rules, as the infant French citizen had stayed in Nepal without a visa.Here was a baby, born to a Nepali mother in Nepal, being charged a hefty fine because he was born without a visa. Under normal circumstances, I would probably have taken a strong stand, argued, negotiated and attempted to get this fine annulled, but after an IVF pregnancy, a baby born out of Caesarean section, I was exhausted.Given what my female ancestors, all belonging to a privileged ‘upper’ caste hill family and myself had to go through, I dare not imagine what Dalit, Tarai and hill ethnic women, especially single women, have to struggle with.The state pays tokenism to women by placing them in positions of power, but as Pakistani writer and activist Fatima Bhutto says, the position of women in a country or society should be judged by the state of women outside of power.Somewhere between 4-8.4 million people in Nepal are stateless, mostly because of gender inequality. A dear friend Deidre Breannan, who is doing a PhD on Nepal’s situation with statelessness and patriarchy, says Nepal is one of the few countries besides Malaysia with such a large number of people who are stateless because of gender inequality.Indeed, besides Malaysia, Nepal is on an embarrassing list of 26 other countries that do not allow mothers to pass their nationality onto their children: Bahrain, Barbados, Libya, Oman, Saudi Arabia, Sudan, Suriname, Syria, Togo, the United Arab Emirates and others.As researcher Abha Lal argues, Nepal’s location as a ‘yam between two stones’ means that we define ourselves by what we are not: not Indian, and not Tibetan. This remains in the DNA of all those governing the political rhetoric, and reveals a dire problem in the Nepali identity to this day.Travel bans or restrictions are placed on women wanting to go abroad for work or leisure out of fear of human trafficking, as opposed to creating employment for these women back home. A village in Chitwan is imposing a ban on women migrant workers who have babies aged less than two years at home.Women have to be victims because of the government’s own acts of omission. Earlier this year, Prime Minister K P Oli, in a desperate move to stay in power, created an ordinance in May allowing children of citizens by birth and children of Nepali mothers to obtain Nepali Citizenship.There are 45,000 such cases pending, and instead of debating the issue in Parliament, it was rushed through to appease a faction of the Janata Samajbadi Party that supported Oli in a floor test in the House.Day by day, Nepali women are gaining in their fight against social and culturally-rooted patriarchy. We do not face the same discrimination that our mothers did, but it is a source of great shame that the Nepali state has institutionalised gender discrimination.Is our Constitution, our democratic pretensions just window dressing? How, with such a retrograde mentality, are we going to catch up with the rest of the world?@BhumiGhimir

Coping with patriarchy

On 5 March 2004, a clandestine feminist movement emerged in Kathmandu, and in <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=4077#.YEWdz7ZR3IU" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D4077%23.YEWdz7ZR3IU&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1615275845111000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHa-omzVGE6i1zUtCq4buMGC3dfBw">a 40-point declaration</a>  to coincide with International Women’s Day, denounced Nepal’s patriarchal order.They called themselves the Charitraheen Cheli (Women of Ill Repute) and their manifesto was a ‘declaration of independence’, denouncing dowry, gender-based violence and discrimination.Point number 9 read: ‘We may have breasts, vaginas, clitorises and wombs; we also have kidneys, livers, lungs, stomachs, hearts, pancreases, intestines, fingers and toes, nails, arms, legs, pubic-hair, skin, eyes, ears, mouth, lips and tongues. All people have independent minds, spirits and souls.’ <img width="458" height="730" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111152/636cd7e49c7e80680e092e10jpeg.jpg" alt=""/>Long before the Women’s March and 15 years ahead of the international #MeToo Movement, Charitraheen Cheli in Nepal laid the groundwork for activism on issues that are just as relevant today as the country records daily cases of rape, killings and sexual assaults, with the state still treating its women as second class citizens. <img width="126" height="150" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111152/636cd7e59c7e80680e092e11jpeg.jpg" alt="">The declaration and subsequent <a href="http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=32#.YEXE0vkzZ0w" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D32%23.YEXE0vkzZ0w&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1615275845111000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFAafqB4a2nLefSBzWU1aCbzASZvQ">contributions in newspapers</a> created ripples and rumours, and the group were eventually criticised for abandoning the cause, as its anonymous members drifted and their movement fizzled out.Another point in the declaration read: ‘Which idiot would think women should have the permission of their fathers/ husbands/guardians to obtain passports, or to travel and work abroad? (The same idiots who framed our Civil Code, that's who). Having reached the age of 18, we exercise the right for complete freedom of movement. Instead of curbing this freedom, the state should fulfill its obligation to provide women with protection, via consulates, in the foreign countries in which we travel, work and reside.’Seventeen years later, <a href="https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/nepali-women-protest-proposed-travel-provisions/" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.nepalitimes.com/banner/nepali-women-protest-proposed-travel-provisions/&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1615275845111000&amp;usg=AFQjCNFbaLLb8SO194QZbmNRMTo8fFhDCg">a government department last month tried to restrict</a> the movement of women by requiring all females under 40 to have a written consent from a male family member and a ward official before travelling abroad.‘Enough is enough,’ wrote the team in a phrase that has since been used in the Rage Against Rape rallies in Kathmandu. The group added that since marching from Bhadrakali to Singha Darbar with a placard is mostly a waste of time and bad for the lungs, it was resorting to ‘non-violent guerilla tactics’.The 40-point declaration was also published in Nepali in Kantipur and gave way to speculation about the identity of its members. Guesswork bracketed them as ‘educated, English-speaking, foreign-bred, elite women from Kathmandu’. <figure><img width="3912" height="2040" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111152/636cd7e69c7e80680e092e12jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>‘We are underground because it’s fun down there,” retorted the Charitraheen. ‘We are everywhere around you, on the streets, in your office and even in your home. You are being watched!!!’A counter-group calling itself Chatrirawan Chela (Men of Good Character) then emerged and disclosed that the Cheli had surnames like, Pradhan, Sharma, Ranjit and Thapa, noting that Ranjit was a ‘painter’ -- clearly identifying the artist Ashmina Ranjit.Ranjit admitted this week in an interview that she was a member, adding: “We used to discuss if we should come out. But for many friends, because of family obligations and safety, it wasn’t possible. We were conflicted because we were all products of a conservative society, so we decided to remain unknown.”Ranjit refused to divulge the identity of her comrades, but said they were singers, writers, journalists, musicians and filmmakers.“Although we came from different backgrounds, we had one objective, which was to dismantle the structure of patriarchy,” Ranjit said. “We had been doing our own bit at the individual level before that, but it felt like it was essential to do it collectively.” <figure><img width="5760" height="3240" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111152/636cd7ea9c7e80680e092e13jpeg.jpg" alt=""><figcaption> </figcaption></figure>Some labeled the group as ‘elite’, but Ranjit said it got support from all kinds of people, including male friends. The seeds of the group were sown in 1998, when Ranjit had put up an art exhibit, ‘Women and Sexuality’ after which she was viciously criticised.“I had a fight with my father and I left home. My work was branded as sordid. Fighting your family is harder than fighting the world,” she recalls. “There were alarming incidents of violence against women at that time. We wanted to retaliate and that’s how the declaration came about.”The choice of the term ‘Charitaraheen’ was also <a href="https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id=3829" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://archive.nepalitimes.com/news.php?id%3D3829&amp;source=gmail&amp;ust=1615275845111000&amp;usg=AFQjCNHro46CDzGpdg82gn9EE6GYbWY9ng">often questioned</a>. But Ranjit said that since women are often judged on the basis of their ‘character’, the group wanted to question society’s norm. <img width="1040" height="755" src="https://superdesk-pro-c.s3.amazonaws.com/sd-nepalitimes/20221110111152/636cd7ed9c7e80680e092e14jpeg.jpg" alt="">“Basically, who are you to define my character? That was the question we wanted to raise at society at that time. The patriarchy made women’s character a weapon against them. Charitraheen was our way of defying that,” she said.Ranjit is glad that the group’s activism has carried on over the years in different forms, and a whole new generation of Nepali women are now carrying on the struggle: “It’s tiring, but we have no luxury to be tired.”

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