TEST

I’m not sure how three months have moved so swiftly, but I have just returned from my time in Nepal. It has been 23 bus rides, eight flights, countless taxi rides, two knock-down drag out flues and thousands of ‘momos’ since I began my work this summer. But sadly, the time has come for me to begin the transition back to my life in Washington.

I must admit that though I’m looking forward to returning to the things left undone in the states, I’m sad my time as an AP Fellow in Nepal must end. For the past three months my work has been my life, and I’m not ready to disconnect. This summer saw the successful execution of a way to empower Nepal’s Dalit by giving them a voice. Ted and I, together with JMC’s Prakash Mohara, traveled throughout the far reaches of Nepal interviewing Dalits on the lowest rungs of Nepal’s social, economic and cultural ladders to tell their stories. We strengthened a network of Dalit journalists living in and covering these remote regions by producing a means of disseminating their work to an international audience. I shared my knowledge of information systems and American slang, and met people that I will always be proud to call friends.

There were also many elements that I didn’t anticipate, but were equally instrumental in making this one of the most powerful educational experiences of my life. Living in Nepal during such an important time gave me insight into the countless inputs affecting her future. It pulled the country from the lifeless print of newspaper and endowed it with the context that only names and faces can provide. It also gave me an insider’s view of both the assets and ills of the NGO world. For better or worse, international development is an important industry injecting valuable currency into poor countries like Nepal, and it was wonderful to have such a close view of how international organizations work together.

I had a platform to grapple with the many facets of discrimination -the propensity for humankind to divide itself into groups that subvert each other based on arbitrary differences. Against the advice of many Nepali Americans I met before my arrival in Nepal, I couldn’t help comparing caste-based discrimination to the discrimination problems in my own country. It is true that there are many differences, but there are so many similarities. Though someone’s caste is virtually invisible based on physical attributes, it still causes many to believe false stereotypes based on ignorance.

Finally, amidst the poverty and conflict that continues to plague Nepal, I experienced the beauty of humanity. I was inspired by the group of young Dalit journalists for their courage and commitment to what they believe in. And I witnessed the kindness of strangers on a daily basis as I was continually given so much from those who owned so little.

I started this blog wondering whether my time in Nepal would serve to help human rights on some small level, and my inclination (and hope) is that it has. If I merely succeeded in helping a few more people learn about caste discrimination in Nepal, perhaps that’s still a rupee in the coffer of tolerance. I hope that at the very least, acknowledging a system of discrimination taking place on the other side of the globe helps us articulate how we as Americans engage with discrimination issues at home.

To say that I am incredibly grateful to have received this once in a lifetime opportunity is an understatement. It has been one of the greatest experiences of my life. My warmest regards and heartfelt thanks go out to everyone who gave their time, words and support to this project. I’ve enjoyed your company immensely.

Devin

The JMC produces a television series called Dalan which depicts the lives and struggles of three generations of Dalits. The following shots are from a recent taping.

Two young twenty-somethings illustrated a different facet of the generation gap by sharing a slice of life for Dalit youth in Chitwan. They told me they’d found themselves in a social circle free from the confines of caste, as many of their friends were non-Dalits and cared little for an awkward division they had no part in creating. Though many of their non-Dalit friends would admittedly avoid a parental battle by not bringing them into their homes, caste division was not their doing, and they refused to take ownership.


I thought this was beautiful. Having witnessed the pain this hierarchy inflicts, I was given hope that youth could push caste discrimination through the gap between its proprietors and assailants, toward a lonely graveyard full of shameful practices human being’s inflict on one another. But then these guys said something troubling.

They explained that it was their youth that was currently freeing them from many caste divisions, but they predicted it would change for them and their non-Dalit friends as they got married, got jobs, and got older.

Institutions as part in parcel to a common life as growing up and getting married would bring them back into the norms that inform their society, and back into the caste hierarchy. This made me think about the battles we take up in our youth, and abandon as our circles become smaller, our lives busier, and our contact zones lessened. How divisions of status, race, language and caste seem tamable in the twilight of our idealism, but rear their heads as we take up the more banal fights of adulthood.

I’d never give up the belief that future generations will be the catalysts for social change in Nepal, (and the rest of the world for that matter). But perhaps there is something to gain from acknowledging the mechanics of a generation gap, or more importantly, recognizing that there is something inherent to youth we must maintain in order to continue fighting inequality. We obviously don’t need to be young to know something is wrong or do something about it, but we do need to hold on to that part of us that’s not yet cynical enough to stop fighting.

Youth seems to represent both a crisis and opportunity within the confines of tradition. It allows freedom from history and space to negotiate one’s own response to what the world delivers, but puts us in check when the system seems so much bigger than we are.

Take the 19 year old Dalit boy from the far the far Western village of Silgadi. With his Guns’n’Roses wristband and his unguarded smile, I liked him immediately. He asked so many questions about life in the city that it seemed the breathtaking scenery surrounding his quiet mountain village only confined him. Humble yet confident, he’d already developed a stare that would reach Kathmandu if the mountains would let it.

He showed no apology when recounting the beating he took at his local temple, and was even less apologetic for defying village customs by gathering water from the village pond. (In Silgadi, it is still believed that snakes will plague the village if Dalits come in contact with the pond). Confident enough to know what basic dignities a human should enjoy, he won’t surrender in a system he doesn’t believe in. But there is another division which complicates a teenager’s life in Silgadi.

There is a generation gap that exists within his own Dalit community. It is wide enough to allow the 19 year old to refute traditions he knows to be cruel, but it is narrow enough to restrain his actions. He has not approached the pond again, but that’s because of his own elder’s requests, not because of the beliefs or repercussions non-Dalits wield.

It is difficult to say whether his elders have been forced to accept the village myth on some level - bought just enough of it to assist in its preservation. Or are simply battle weary and have found shelter for their families on the path of least resistance. For a 19 year old relegated to life in Silgadi’s caste system, perhaps there’s little difference.

I’ve been lucky enough in my relatively short life to see a good portion of the globe. From Seattle to Barcelona, Bangkok to Kathmandu, there has been one face to whom I’ve grown quite accustom – Che’Guevarra’s. In fact, I’m almost convinced that next to Ralph Lauren, he may be one of the greatest T-shirt salesmen of my time.

Though somewhat contradictorily, Che’ represents rebellion against inequality for a comfortable generation armed to the gills with debit cards and fashion sense. At ease with a caricature that’s been contextually removed from the horrors of the battlefield and made light like a diet soda, my generation is fond of rebels that don’t complicate our values… that don’t make us judge the worth of violence for utilitarian ends.

So what am I to make of Maoist Chairman Prachanda sitting only shoulders away? - A living, breathing revolutionary in the year 2007. Not revolutionary in the palatable Gandhi ‘peaceful resistance’ sense, but in the Mao Zedong ‘political power through the barrel of a gun’ sense. Sitting only several feet from me, he bears greater resemblance to a common businessman than someone who spent a decade in Nepal’s jungles leading the violent Communist rebellion against Nepal’s feudal system.

I must admit that the Communist bit sits a little tardy with me. A child of the Cold War, Communist ideology was something that threatened the foundation of civilization as I knew it. Communists were cold fascists that hated Christmas and pointed nuclear missiles at my backyard. But though by my calculation it’s a seriously fatal platform for Clinton/Obama 08, Communism is no longer the boogeyman I grew up with.

It’s the other part that’s unsettling me under the heat of this tent - violence. 13,000 people died in the 10-year insurgency, including scores of innocent women and children. The choices this man made behind those wire-rimmed glasses were accountable for many of these. Maoist rebels are said to have committed extortions, intimidations and murder of government officials. They are also said to have abducted numerous children to bolster their military.

I struggle to fathom what kind of circumstances inform the decisions made during war. What kind of suffering triggers violent reprisal? How is the worth of an innocent life measured against a party’s agenda? And how do civilian deaths ever become justified for a movement in the people’s name? I personally believe that there are extremely few instances when violence can achieve greater outcomes than peace. But perhaps someone would claim that’s merely a comfortable philosophy that my good fortune as a middle class American, isolated from the conflicts of the 21st Century, has allowed me to subscribe.

Speaking of America, Prachanda and the Maoist party remain on the US Government’s terrorist list. Recently departed US Envoy James Moriarty wouldn’t so much as refer to the Maoist Chairman as Prachanda (a battle name he took on during the revolution meaning ‘fierce one’). This would confer on Prachanda the respect of a warrior. Instead, Moriarty refers to him as Puspa Kamal Dahal – his less ferocious birth name which somewhat ironically means 'lotus flower'.

Truth be told, I’d like to think of this man sitting near me as a flower… like a sanctimonious ideologue with a caricature suitable for a coffee mug. He is considered a great leader to many for the life he’s led and there’s no doubt he left more than a fingerprint on Nepali history. I would like to be able to remove him from the realities of violent conflict, and strip him from a history that both compels and confounds my judgment. But right now I’m simply unable.

*an interesting yet somewhat dated article on Prachanda's role in the conflict

When I arrived in Kathmandu I began digging under rocks to find the places where the undercurrents of discrimination lay. I engaged people in conversations and would occasionally move from the topical to the substantive to understand the powerful generalizations that contribute to exploiting the Dalit.

One such conversation about educational opportunities led to the declaration of my friend that “Dalit children don’t want to go to school, they’d rather work.” I couldn’t believe it when I heard it. It sounded like such a poorly informed stereotype. Surely this was someone who simply believed Dalit children were somehow different – incapable or unwilling to pull themselves up through perhaps the only means of providing opportunity. I wouldn’t believe let myself believe this claim and was disappointed my friend would even say it.

My recent trips have led me to the sad realization that this is true in some cases. One of the Dalit children I met with the opportunity to attend school preferred washing dishes in a roadside restaurant to attending class. But there is so much more to the story that my friend did not tell me.

Schools are perhaps the chief place where Dalit children experience discrimination in Nepal. In addition to their books, many children must bring a separate mat to sit on so that they don’t contaminate the place where they sit. They are recent cases where Dalit children had been sprayed with cow urine for purification, and others were not included with non-Dalit children in cooking courses. Dalit children also suffer general neglect from instructors. One Dalit man I spoke to in a village didn’t send his children to school. Citing the neglect of his children for being Dalit, he complained that his children had been in class for 3 years, but didn’t know a single word of English. This is problematic as English is a large part of Nepali curriculum and a very important skill.

Facing such great obstacles, why would these children prefer to go to school? Many are forced with the decision of earning money to help needy families, or face a daily battle of discrimination. This complicates the idea of education as a means of eradicating caste. If the gatekeepers of knowledge subscribe to exploitative beliefs, how can schools do anything but strengthen beliefs that should be challenged? Education is an incredibly important means for empowering Nepal, and organizations should continue to do everything possible to enable children to attend regardless of caste. But there are so many facets of the educational experience that need to be addressed. Perhaps core curriculums could explore caste and its role in Nepal. Perhaps Dalits could be provided with incentives to teach. I don’t know the answers, but I’m continuing to find that this rabbit hole is very deep, and sadly, very real.

I’ve been traveling into the far reaches of Nepal over the past several weeks working on a project for the JMC. Each place presents a new landscape, new people, and a sense that Kathmandu is extremely far away in more ways than one.

I spent a few of these days meeting Dalits who remain exploited by the caste system. They live in places so different from Kathmandu, where divides generated by caste remain physically visible. Take Phagire for instance. Phagire is 60 years old and lives in a small village in the far western district of Nepal called Doti. It’s a place where caste divisions remain a fundamental part of life. For Phagire, this means he’s strictly relegated to his lot as a musician entertaining farmers in the field. Paid only in grain, Phagire is unable to take any sort of work that would pay him money. This is a great problem for Phagire as he strives to provide a modest life for the grandchildren he inherited when his son died last year.

Phagire punctuates his sentences by referring to us as “God.” Something he has grown accustomed to through his dealings with the ‘upper caste’ neighbors. He explains proudly that the rhythm of his drum energizes the farmers in the field. Having borrowed 3000 Rupees ($46) to buy the plot of land where his family’s 7x12 foot mud house rests, his demeanor dampens when he tells us that this land, his life’s work, was recently sold out from under him.

It is a sad reality that these things still take place in 2007. Coming from Kathmandu where the focus is on the upcoming elections as an entry point for a Dalit agenda, I am curious as to whether Phagire intends to participate. I ask him if he’s aware of the elections and if he intends to vote. Though he’s never voted in his 60 years, he says that he will this Fall. But there is the problem. How will Phagire ever learn which parties promote an inclusive agenda and stand the greatest chance of helping him? Illiterate and without the luxuries of CNN or even radio, Phagire will most likely vote for whoever he’s told by the ‘upper-caste’ landowners. Though there are said to be awareness campaigns that will soon begin educating rural communities about the elections, how will folks like Phagire benefit if they can’t break away from their work to attend?

Problems are also visible in Eastern Nepal. Landless and paid in grain like Phagire, the Dalit settlement in Supteri remains dependent on the system that exists to oppress it. Asked if he had any hope that the elections could provide a hopeful future, 70 year old Bharosid alludes to another problem with the rural voting body. Though he has voted before, he explains that it is difficult to understand what each party has to offer him. He says that the party lines of his village are generally informed by which candidate comes to the village and throws the biggest feast.

Though Dalits represent 20 % of Nepal’s population, it’s evident that they can’t be considered as such at the polls. The Dalits from the villages are just too cut off from the political currents and modernity of Kathmandu, and they have been left behind in a place where education and employment opportunities are scarce if not non-existant. I now understand why it is so crucial that Dalits gain proportional representation in the government. Maybe then something can be done to monitor the discrimination that pervades these far off districts. Maybe then there will be room for places like Doti and Suptari in the New Nepal.

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I’m standing before her, staring at her rough weathered hands as she crouches over a pile of rocks. She spends her days with a small steel hammer pounding stones from the nearby river into small marble sized pieces. These pieces are destined to become cement and pavement in towns many miles away.

If she can fill a nylon bag within two days, she promises to make 20 rupees (of which a middleman will take 2). In other words, she works 12 hours a day to make roughly 15 cents – a paltry sum that forces women in her position to sell their bodies once the sun has gone down.

The fact that we are both 30 years old, imparts on me a compelling sentiment. Crouching before this woman with an $800 camera around my neck gives me the feeling that she represents an unattainable opportunity for everyone I’ve enjoyed. Though I’m here to help and want so badly to accomplish something for her cause, I feel embarrassed at the inequities we’ve experienced in our now-converging 30 years. As a widow, a woman, and a Dalit, she suffers daily at the hands of extreme poverty and social immobility. Yet she sits across from me with such composure and sincerity. Giving me a moment of her time so generously.

This is the Doti district of Nepal, said to be ground zero for discrimination based on caste. As I interview this woman I’m reminded that this is exactly what I wanted in an effort to gain an understanding of this practice – the opportunity to physically see the hierarchy built on the backs of a so many Nepali citizens. But as I sit across from a face of the exploited, learning her name and that she lost her husband last year because they couldn’t afford medication, I have no idea how to respond. I also know that as powerful as this moment is, just by virtue of being a foreigner, a man and an American, I am completely incapable of truly understanding this woman’s lot. No matter how long I empathize with her on the jagged banks of the Seti River, I can never understand what it’s like to be shackled by caste.

***

Having just come from the 8 X 12 mud bricked home she shares with her family of seven, she explains that the thatched roof leaks on her and her children every time it rains. Having met her beautiful 14 year old daughter who’s been attending school on scholarship for the past two years, I attempt to uplift the conversation. I ask whether she has hopes that her young daughter will be able to live a different life by getting an education. But it was to no avail. She explains that her daughter’s schooling is only temporary. After all, she is one of five children. As the oldest, she must leave school because the family needs additional income.

Central level government figures were in attendance at the assembly, but the focus was on Chairman Prachanda of the CPN (Maoist) party. I must say it was pretty exciting to be in such close proximity to such an important political figure at this juncture in Nepali history.

Regardless of Prachanda’s politics, he did express a poignant thought about Dalits’ role in the makeup of Nepal. According to Prachanda (and my translator Prakash), Dalit is not a caste group, but a special community. Prachanda expounded by justifying that as the proprietors of Nepali culture, Dalits as musicians, artists and chefs, represent the real Nepal.

I really like this because I believe culture and arts can be some of the greatest inputs to a country’s capital. They give humanity a reflection of who we think we are, and more importantly, they allow us to linger for a short while in the possibility of what we could be. For this reason that I think Prachanda’s assessment is quite accurate.

What are we without our culture? I am reminded of Pol Pot’s Cambodia – robbed of its artists, poets and even recipes as a step toward stripping it of its resistance, it suffered beyond the genocide of 2 million people. Without the identity that culture instills, Cambodia’s progress and possibility were stunted for years after the Khmer Rouge’s collapse.

I know as an American that the arts are inherent to how my country perceives itself – the birthplace of jazz, Elvis Presley, Walt Whitman… And I wouldn’t know where to start if I were to add film to the mix. It’s entirely clear that America’s arts are central to the creation of a national psyche. They articulate who we are by reflecting what we are.

Taking the long road to a simple point, where would Nepal be without its artisans? Who would Nepal be without the reflection of its culture, its song and its arts to remind us? What then, would Nepal be without the Dalit?

CPN (Maoist) Chairman Prachanda addressees participants of the National Assembly of Dalits, as one of his un-armed bodyguards surveys the perimeter.

This weekend marked an incredibly important occasion for civil rights in Nepal. The Jagaran Media Center (JMC) in conjunction with 19 other civil society organizations, assembled over 2000 Dalits from every corner of Nepal. The purpose of this historic assembly was the creating of a unified agenda for inclusion in the New Nepal.

It was amazing. So many different people from all walks of life converged on the lawn of a small school campus, each and every one full of so much hope and pride. A Dalit Badi woman stood on the stage before everyone and passionately explained before central government figures what its like for women to be relegated to prostitution by their sub-caste. This was quite harrowing, and no-doubt powerful to the politicians unfamiliar with some of the limitations that can be imposed by caste.

There was also a great celebration of Dalit people by the music played throughout the asesmbly by the Gandharba (sub-caste of artists) musicians. Their frequent song provided complete testament of just how integral Dalits are to traditional Nepali culture.

I had the wonderful opportunity to interview scores of people, from the organizers to youth just happy to be involved. Each expressed individual reasons for being part of the historical event, but one sentiment was unanimous. They were there because they knew they had to be. They know better than anyone that if there's a change to be made, they must be the driving force. - and at a time when the political parties frantically seek their own representation in the new government, that’s exactly what they’re doing.

It was an exhilarating day. I felt like I'd observed a glimpse of what it means to be Dalit in Nepal through the speaches I'd heard and the people I met. But one of the best parts was when Suvash (the Director of the Assembly) told me that he’d been asked by numerous people throughout the day whether Ted and I (being only two of three foreigners at the assembly), were foreign Dalit. After a day of witnessing the great Dalit pride and solidarity, it felt happy to be included.

Yesterday marked two-weeks in country and it is not lost on me that I’ve yet to blog at length about the very reason I am here – Dalits and caste-based discrimination. The fact is I don’t quite know how to approach an issue that is all but invisible to a foreign eye. Sure I’ve read extensive reports documenting how so many provide proof of their antiquated view that Dalits are second-class citizens, by denying them basic human rights… but part of me needs to gain personal entrance into the problem.

What’s more, I live in Kathmandu – a large city where social divisions based on caste becomes even more difficult to detect. Though I work at an organization that is comprised almost completely of Dalits, I cannot grasp how this group of people could be categorized differently than anyone else I’d meet on an average day. They cannot be grouped according to physical characteristics as they have many, they don’t share religious norms at odds with the majority, and they have not moved here as immigrants from far off lands. Instead, they are extraordinarily normal apart from their individiual talents, exceptional intellect, and incredible devotion.

I am picking up on subtle differences in Nepali culture. For instance, when meeting someone for the first time they give you their first and last name in even the most informal of settings. Last names are demarcations of caste and therefore part of the introduction process. But I get the feeling that the system is so engrained in the culture that it is impossible for those that I meet to know or be able to impart on me every facet of life to which it pervades. Maybe I can’t understand… But I want to and I really need to.

Truthfully, as an outsider my distance from the heart of the issue has been a source of apprehension since I arrived. I’ve been wracking my brain on how I can get closer so that I can begin to comprehend what it is I’m supposed to be fighting. But do you need to witness something to know it exists? Do you really need a personal connection to know something is inherently wrong? Perhaps I'll never get as close to this issue as part of me feels I need to right now... only time will tell.

I walk to work every day beside an incredibly busy street called Naya Baneshwar road. If it were in the states, it would look like a wide two lane street. But since there’s really no reasonable answer why bikes, mopeds, tuktuks, cars and buses can’t share lanes amidst horn blasts and exhaust, the road and its two lanes become an incredibly congested artery as thick with sound as it is with steel.

The action continues on the busy sidewalk. Having become somewhat used to the site of people selling barbequed corn fresh off coals laying in the dirt, umbrella repairmen constructing masterpieces from worn out old scraps, and the wild cannabis that paints good portions of my walk a deep green, I’ve already begun to focus quite intently on my commute.

As I move, I’m continually challenged by a system that everyone understands but me. Perhaps it’s the swift pace I picked up on the DC metro, or the fact that my legs are substantially longer than my neighbors, but everyone seems to walk at half the speed I’m used to. I struggle to pass through narrow lanes of people, but as I meet with commuters walking toward me, I naturally try to pass on the right side and this creates an awkward shuffle that only impedes my attempt to save valuable seconds. (Nepalis pass on you on the right side as they would if they were driving.)

It may seem trivial, but these obstacles in tandem with the muggy afternoon heat, incessant blare of horns, and car exhaust can become quite frustrating at times. They cement the fact that there is indeed a system, but it’s a tempo to which I am extremely unfamiliar.

Speaking of systems I don’t understand, the thought crossed my mind to twist this little entry about walking to the office, into a comment about the office itself… about realizing that yet again that there is a system in place that I don’t understand and a pace to which I am not unaccustomed … about comparing the speed of Washington DC’s T1 internet connections and slick processor speeds to a world of dial-up and power outages… and about subtle cultural differences, expectations and the continual hunt for documents in English. I could then say something clever about how patience is a virtue and there is something to be said about going with the flow and learning a new way of doing things, but that would just seem too cliché.

My head is tingling and my neck feels as if my spinal column has been replaced with jelly. I am returning from the most interesting barber visit I have ever experienced. In serious need of a haircut before he left for the hills of Baglung, Tassos, a fellow Advocacy Project compatriot and I visited the local full-service barber in my new neighborhood.

With no more than two twin sized bed sheets forming the door to the establishment, the family own and ran barbershop holds three chairs inside a 12 x 5 foot nook lined with mirrors and posters depicting Hindu gods. It is in this room that I’ve watched ten year old Krishna giving haircuts to the village as I’ve pass by. At a generous three and half feet himself, Krishna must reach high with 12 inch scissors that look older than his father.

As Tassos struggled with a language wall and Krishna’s father fought with a pair of dusty old sheers, Krishna directed me toward the wooden chair and demanded I sit down for a massage. Feeling wracked by a day of Kathmandu traffic and a little curious, I conceded. Little did I know what I had signed up for.

Krishna wet my face and hair with a large plastic weed sprayer and proceeded to slap and punch my head with an intermittent closed fist. Just as I began to think the beating had ceased, Krishna would grab a fistful of my hair and give it commanding tug.

All I could think in between winces and Tassos laughs, was whether this was normal or I was simply getting special treatment. But it soon became obvious that Krishna’s talent is with the comb and scissor rather than massage when his uncle barked an abrasive string of words and took over the head ‘massage’.

My new masseuse exhibited a brand of street chiropractic skills by cranking my neck and forcing a symphony of pops that could be heard on the street. Sensing my dizziness, he then leaned me back into the chair and began rubbing a myriad of ointments into my face and eyes. Had anyone ever gotten one of these before?

The Office

Today marked my first day at the Jagaran Media Center (JMC). Pratik, a young manager at just 30 years old picked me up on his motorcycle, and rode me into the office. It’s a much bigger office compound than I’d expected comprising two separate buildings which stand two stories high.

After slipping off my Adidas at the door, I entered the building and followed Pratik straight into the reading room. Everyone at JMC to begins their day by sitting around a large stack of newspapers and catching up on current events. It was all smiles as I made my way around the circle shaking hands and doing my best to hear names that regretfully sound like a mash of syllables to my clumsy American ear.

The JMC has existed in this building since 2000. Formed by a small group of Dalit journalists who remain instrumental in its daily proceedings, JMC is a media center with the mission of creating awareness about caste discrimination in Nepal. Due to the creative and determined minds involved, it has been very successful and has grown its reach from traditional print journalism to radio, television, and even Internet technologies.

Today the office is busting as the JMC tirelessly prepares for a huge event. It is an assembly that will amass Dalits from every corner of Nepal in order to discuss and devise a cohesive agenda for consideration with ‘new Nepal's’ constitution. Phones ring incessantly and energy fills the small second-floor office. Though I don’t understand a lick, I am becoming accustomed to the Nepali sentences bouncing over my cubicle. And though the afternoons get muggy enough that the large open windows fail to provide relief, I am getting a taste for the hot tea they bring our way.

I am really excited for this assembly and hope that it can give me a better understanding of what I hope to really understand by the end of the summer. It’s an extremely timely event, and the first of its kind. If it is a success and a united Dalit movement can be attained, it will surely help to place significant pressure on the government and political parties of Nepal. We hope that the outcome will provide equal inclusion for Dalits in the future government, and take a large step toward enforcing laws that are presently ignored.

A newspaper in Kathmandu costs 5 cents and is a wonderful companion to a Nepali breakfast of milk tea and limki (chicklet shaped pastry). It treats you to news that seems incredibly distant and at times fantastical. Apparently, tigers are still sneaking into villages and stealing children. For a guy who spent his last year in DC, it seems odd that tigers still live outside of cages in zoos.

It’s also extremely clear that a new part of the world hosts a set of issues that don’t always make it to the Washington Post. Bhutanese refugees await repatriation on the Indo-Nepali border while child soldiers await reintegration to their families. Rhinos on the throws of extinction are being poached because even the most protected will soon bear the brunt of conflict and poverty.

But the real culture shock derived from the pages of The Himalayan is not from news of exotic animals or passport theft. It is from the intense depiction of Nepal’s political climate while an uncertain future unfolds.

No matter how well one thinks they understand the moving pieces of Nepali politics, it’s difficult not to be challenged or utterly capsized in a sea of acronyms. The EPA, PM, YCL, CA, IC, NC, NC-D, RPP, APF, NEFIN, SPDC, NLD, CPN-UML, JTMM-Goit/JTMM-Jwala, and NSP (to name but a few). Each makes multiple cameos in the 12-page publication and will serve to either buttress or baffle one’s conception of the issues. I’ve always been one for brevity, but RUKDING?

Having had elections pushed back from their highly anticipated June date, there are currents of electricity lining expectations of what will happen next. Every day the playing field changes as splinter groups such as the YCL (Young Communist League) tire of the waiting game. “Bandhs’, or strikes that shut down schools and services weekly, happen so often that locals don’t always know who called it or for what reason. But I guess that’s what the paper is for –when your daily plans were crippled or you were unable to get into town, at least you can read and find out why.

It was such a relief to walk through the throngs of taxi drivers and ‘tourist agents’ waiting for the few tourists arriving at the Kathmandu airport. I was to simply look for a greeter carrying a sign with my name. There it was, “Mr.GREENLEAF”. I shook the young girls hand, stuffed my bags into the small 4-door hatchback, and began my drive into Kathmandu.

My sights had been warmed up nicely by the plane’s descent into the valley. The guidebook was right. Sit on the left hand window seat of the plane and the tall steep hills terraced with trees and rice farms are breathtaking. Now I couldn’t get enough, everywhere I looked reminded me that I was completely out of my element (and loving every minute of it).

Having skipped right past the more sedentary rungs on the latter of modernity, Kathmandu is now a pastiche of old and new. The Himalayas are veiled by thick brown pollution. Men transport lumber on bicycles past Internet cafés full of network savvy youths. Cows lay down in the street increasing traffic jams, tempers and Co2 emissions. Even if I was confident enough in my ability to dodge cowpies and street treats, jogging in this town would still be extremely harmful to my health.

Only steps from the sensory overload of New Banisher road, my neighborhood is tucked behind the melee and is absolutely great. A good fifteen-minute taxi ride from the Thamel tourist district, it is also nicely devoid of Irish bars and hash salesmen. Instead, commerce on Karibot relies upon dollar haircuts and goats slaughtered fresh every morning. School children share narrow streets with roaming cows, cows share garbage scraps with hungry dogs, and dogs try to share their flees with chickens that are too fast.

I definitely stick out in these parts, but my new neighbors seem as curious as I am. I can’t wait to make some new friends.

I depart for Nepal in a matter of days. Already I feel great hope, excitement, and nervous anticipation for what this summer will bring. I am so lucky to be able to stand beside a body of people invested in their cause with their lives. I am also thrilled to be able to attach faces and names to a country that until several months ago, conjured little more than melodies of Bob Seger songs and mountaineering tales.

As I pack, news alerts on Nepal hit my email inbox reminding me of what an important time it is to be working for human rights there. Because it is a relatively young post-conflict society, Nepal has lots of momentum and represents great potential for advancing peace among its people and the region.

But as I bounce around Washington crossing off a seemingly never ending list of things like Visa applications and hepatitis vaccinations, I am also reminded of how much there is to learn about the issue I'm working on. I'll be advocating on behalf of Nepal's Dalit or "untouchable" caste – a group of people marginalized for simply being born at the bottom end of a social hierarchy. This is something that challenges my own understanding of civil society. I guess that's not entirely true, for discrimination is discrimination right? A drive past Washington, DC's U Street Corridor, the site of the largest race riots the U.S. has ever seen, attests to my own country's battles with discrimination. But is this even a valid comparison? Can discrimination based on birthright be compared to discrimination based on skin color or even religion?

There are so many questions I'll attempt to ask, and even more I hope to answer. But at the very least I hope my work this summer will serve to further human rights in Nepal on some small level, and become proof of just how important advocacy on a global level can be.