By tierneybb
A few weeks ago I found myself in the middle of an argument on the bus. Two young twenty-something Nepalis had gone from a general pleasant conversation about nothing, looking forward to Dasain, but when I made an offhand comment about the stretch of road we were on I set them off. The boy, a well off construction manager was too jaded to even entertain the notion of discussing politics, he just pointed out that peoples interests were not being served by the government and it was too bad, too entrenched to get any better. The girl was a university student studying politics, who was interested in the advancement of her country, and while she wasn't fond of the current government, how was that supposed to change if dissatisfied young Nepalis didn't get involved? I sat back, I was determined not to get involved, but still they kept most of the argument in English, with passioned bursts of Nepali roughly translated for my benefit. But this isn't the only time I've been caught in such arguments, while interviewing a shopkeeper in Namo Buddha a man walked in off the street already hurling political arguments at her, and the interview took a back seat as the two of them discussed local issues with the government, animatedly pacing and gesticulating with their arguments. There always seems to be an odd dynamic where both parties agree with each other, and are very nice, but then point out that the other just happens to be fundamentally wrong about their proposed action.
I have to admit, I'm not too interested in politics. While at school in D.C. it is shameful how far behind I am on the scandals and issues and latest awful quotes. Other than casting my ballot (which I was able to do here via email) I stay out of the sphere, myself nearly as jaded as the young Nepali man intent on living life without concern for the government.
But the echoes of war here affect me. It's the subtle reminders, the concept that such violence, chaos, and conviction is so close temporally, and in this very spot, not too long ago, people I know had to face such realities as I have never known, realities that always seem so sad but distant in America now take on a devastating edge, even without seeing the scars on the city or it's people, knitted over quickly with the advance of construction. Our lecture from Kunda Dixit (one of the international renaissance men of Nepal, you can see the Nepali Times his newspaper for an excellent perspective on Nepali politics and life) was a clear moment for me. As we paced the gallery of photographs from the People's War and heard his accounts of how civil war between the Maoists and the Army erupted for over a decade, I was reminded of Susan Sontag's Regarding the Pain of Others, the power that these images have to communicate seems to take two dramatically different routes, the international communication of what this war was, how people experienced such a range of emotions and events that the distant observer couldn't imagine empathizing with; versus the tours around Nepal where people found that their experiences were not isolated, but captured in the expressions and emotions of others in the same situation.
Having lived such a comfortable and secure life in the US I can't imagine the devastating relief and frustration when a decade of fighting, 15,000 dead, and another lakh still missing, ends in a stalemate. While comments online occasionally convey the venom of a recent battle the people I've encountered don't hold such resentment. They agree with one side or the other, or disagree with whats happening, but with fewer threats or personal remarks as in American politics. I think the anger that sometimes surrounds American politics is a luxury, borne from not having faced real threats and violence in politics. That trauma here was made real and even now I feel like the country is much safer for it. Coming from America I can only imagine, try to sympathize with the recent past here. The horror of a real-life murder mystery in the royal massacre of 2001. The exhaustion over a government unable to put aside their own personal rhetoric and interests. The loss of voice after six years without a constitution, no elections in sight. The lack of agency in a country sandwiched between two superpowers, tugged between India and China, floundering in old failures to play the powers off each other.
But talking to the people here, the scholars, students, and families I've heard more about what this has meant for daily life. The blow dealt to the art world, that I wouldn't have thought of, but how war and corruption has left people too paranoid to invest in something beautiful, and to sensitive to innovate in their work. The impact on education, where many children are sent to boarding schools in India to learn without the interruption of the bunds and extended closures. The fears and cautions necessary when living in a state patrolled by police trained and invested in a foreign power. The sensitivity around centuries old institutions of kings and theocracy now left out of the regime. The attempts to carve out a claim to identity to secure a voice and a homeland in the future of a multi-ethnic federation. Or the sheer effort to carry on daily life and find normal in a "failed state."