The unfinished revolution

By Bela Malik

It is refreshing to see a large format, well-produced, bilingual, reasonably priced, locally printed, and heavily illustrated book that does not deal with a ‘feel-good’ theme and instead documents a process of social transformation in contemporary Nepal. Kamaiya— divided into three parts—slavery, freedom and land, presents the kamaiya movement, begun in the Panchayat era and still ongoing, through photographs and interviews. It portrays a range of visuals and voices from the districts of Kailali, Kanchanpur, Bardiya, Banke and Dang that defy easy classification: landlords who are kamaiya organisers; elected legislators who perpetrate the system while extolling democracy and human rights; illiterate, exploited, overworked, bound, oppressed and abused workers whose prospects have improved; and political organisers and human rights activists struggling in the face of reprisal. The book does not attempt to simplify an existing complex reality, nor does it gloss over hard-hitting facts that serve as uncomfortable reminders of the limitations of Nepal’s political present. It contends with ethical issues of representation through a self-reflexivity that is evident in both the text and the photographs. The expressive pictures do not seem to be directed by the photographer (we have to give the benefit of doubt) but seem to be taken in the way in which those photographed wanted to be depicted. The text, though edited, is in the words of the historical actors.

Is a picture book an appropriate medium in which the kamaiya situation, past and present, ought to be captured since it does not address itself to the kamaiyas? Yes. As an essay in documentation, it serves its purpose. Additionally it shatters the idea that large picture format is equal to coffee table book. The format allows it to sneak into the drawing room and take its discordant place next to expensive, beautiful and often-banal picture books. Besides which MS-Nepal can hardly be accused of simply bringing out a glossy book and neglecting every other aspect of kamaiya existence.

The first section, ‘slavery’ offers a glimpse into what life is like under the kamaiya system, where the interlocked informal markets in land and labour tie the labourer to the land, often for generations, where not only the labour but often the family and the body of the labourer are deemed the property of the landlord. The process of servitude distorted the original meanings of terms like ‘kamaiya’ (one who works) and ‘bukrahi’ (young bride). The section foregrounds the condition of hunger, sexual and physical abuse, degradation, backbreaking labour without enough capital to lead out of the current system, contracts sometimes written, but always illegal, and of spiralling debt. Interesting takes come from landlords about the origin of a system that left more than 100,000 humans under slavery, 95 per cent of them Tharu: ‘The kamaiya system was started in Dang by the Tharu people and we learned from them.’ The now-famous quote of ex-minister Shiva Raj Pant, ‘kamaiyas are not slaves, they are simply people who work on land-agricultural labourers’ is contrasted with the statements of the freed kamaiyas from his estate who testify to their prior condition of bondage. This general circumstance prevailed well into the years of electoral democracy and of the 1990 Constitution that banned bonded labour affirming that a right is only a right when it is exercised and secured.

The second part of the book describes the metamorphosis of a mass, segregated farm-wise, into a collective spanning several districts and demanding the realisation of a notional right. The role played by organisations like Base (Backward Society Education) and Insec (Informal Sector Service Centre) and individuals such as Dilli Chaudhary and Yegya Raj Chaudhary in the initial period was vital and has been subtly brought out, though more focus on the history of these organisations would have augmented the record. After all, Base went through many transformations: as a literacy mission, vanguard of the movement, organiser of relief and lobbyist for basic amenities for the freed kamaiyas. That it was central to the revolution is evident from the recent assurance of Home Minister Khum Bahadur Khadka to the leaders of the district units of the ruling party that the organisation would be banned if it has been allegedly helping the Maoist cause and found to be working to the detriment of social harmony and societal values (Kathmandu Post, 3 April 02, p. 8). In any makeover, social ‘harmony’ as defined by status quoists is bound to be disturbed and societal values, the kamaiyas’ case shows, need drastic redefinition.

The timeline at the end of the book and the chronologically and thematically arranged narratives of the various players in the historical drama, show that the struggle was arduous. The peaceful and ‘legal’ movement faced backlash from the landlords and the police, proving perhaps that the framework of electoral democratic politics is not necessarily equally accommodating. Brought alive are the initial difficult days leading up to the historic 17 July 2000 announcement that bonded labour is illegal and punishable, the first new legislation recognising a problem that existed for over 50 years. Dilli Chaudhary’s urges the international community to learn that change can only come through movements, and that projects are only required after change has been brought about. Otherwise projects, by displacing movements, end up as more self-serving than transformatory.

We then move to the aftermath of the declaration, the reaction of the landlords, the exultation of the freed kamaiyas who left their landlords without rice or their belongings and surged the relief camps. ‘ Free’ but starved of land or sustenance, the ex-kamaiyas continue their battle for justice leading to a parallel between the situation in Nepal in the 21st century and that of the serfs in Russia in the 19th. Freedom does not fill bellies but it sustains fortitude. Some freed kamaiyas went back to the landlord to work, others sent their children to work, increasingly, an unfortunate fall-out; yet others occupied government-owned land only to be rudely ousted by a 300-strong riot police (against 7,000 unarmed citizens) who burned their huts. Similar measures, it must be noted, were not taken against landlords who also, as land surveys seeking to find ‘surplus’ land found, were often illegally occupying government land in addition to the 10-15 bighas they legally own: a demonstration of the differential distribution of the ‘rule of law’.

The third section addresses the single-most pressing issue of the freed kamaiyas: land. Today freed kamaiyas demand 10 kathas of land and 75 cubic metres of timber for housing. Pause at the figures: 20 katha make one bigha (2/3 hectare). The government has selectively allotted 1-2 katha of land to some freed kamaiyas. This land is inadequate for subsistence. Meanwhile life is lived in camps, which are intolerable in the monsoons and on food bought in return for sweat-stained wages that are uncertain. The struggle for getting identity cards continues. Has the freedom been worth it? Can the benefits be measured? Possibly. From the testimonies of the kamaiyas, there is strength in solidarity, in the proximity of habitation, the experience of having won something, and the realisation that the battle has only perhaps just begun.

(B. Malik is a freelance editor)

Where is Nepal's Harry Potter ?

By Lucia de Vries

When a group of writers were asked recently to recount their first love, most felt  embarrassed. Conveniently forgotten memories of teenage infatuations were read aloud, and either met with bursts of laughter, or sympathetic silence. 'I’d forgotten all about it', some said. 'This is painful', others commented. The writers had gathered for a workshop on Teenage Novel Writing, organised by Ramailo Kitaab (part of Sunbird Publishers) in co-operation with UNICEF Nepal.

Few Western teenagers will realise how lucky they are when they lay hands on novels specially written by or for them. In many countries generations of teens grow up with a choice of classics and popular teen fiction such as Hardy Boys and Sweet Valley Twins. In contrast Nepalese youth have no other option but move on to adult novels prematurely, or forget about recreational reading altogether. Urban teens might get a chance to buy Indian novels or ‘pulp fiction’: cheaply produced but not great quality Western titles, such as those by Carolyn Keene and Enid Blyton. Relating to the characters in those novels requires a bit of effort on the side of teens, to say the least; a Bhaktapur youth might not easily understand the world of Anne, turning into a young woman in the lovely surroundings of Green Gables. A well-meaning Westerner recalls giving Carolyn Keene’s novels to a Solokhumbu girl who found it both frustrating and embarrassing that she could understand the words, but not the plot. Despite watching tourists pass through her village her world is simply too far removed from that of Nancy Drew.

The overwhelming response to the novel radio programme ‘Sathi Sanga Man Ka Kura’, specially reaching out to teenagers, proves that Nepal’s ‘kishori’ are starving for information about things that matter to them - relationships, career, sex, pregnancy and social problems. A study conducted by UNICEF last year found that teens are not ready to discuss their problems with parents or teachers. Eighty percent of them turn to friends when the going gets tough. Those who do have access to radio are not likely to turn on a teen programme with their seniors present. Most likely they’ll listen by themselves, or with a group of friends. Novels, with the advantage that they can be read in privacy and can be consulted and enjoyed over and over again, theoretically would be a perfect source of information and inspiration for Nepali teens. With over half of the population being younger than eighteen and most of them not having access to radio and TV, the market potential is enormous. A simple calculation learns that if one out of every one hundred teens would buy a novel once a year, publishers could sell 110,000 books annually. But teen novel publishing is virgin territory for local producers. The first Nepali teen novel is yet to be born.

What holds writers and publishers back? 'I think first of all the lack of examples', says education specialist Helen Sherpa. 'Writers here do not feel inspired to write books for teens, not even after Harry Potter. It’s hard to get into the emotional landscape of teens and the market does not attract them.' Publishers first of all tend to lack the basic facilities which make writers in the West line up at the gates: attractive royalties, copyrights and distribution systems are hardly in place, and remuneration is appallingly low. Even if a teen novel sold well in rural Nepal, the author would probably never get to know about the numbers of books sold, let alone reprints and response. But there are other factors too. How to write for an audience as diverse as Nepal’s youth? What, for instance, does a Dalit teenage girl from Baglung have in common with a Brahmin peer in Baneshwor? Would a migrant labourer from Nawalparasi understand the deliberations of a computer student in New Road? Probably not. Still, there are good reasons to give the writing of novels for teens a go. Books for teenagers are being written and are growing increasingly popular around the world. Many emotions of teens are universal. Teenage is all about developing a sense of identity and power struggles. Issues like first love, feeling embarrassed, looks, conflicts with parents, worries about the future, can be found among teens all over the world. The level of awareness varies, naturally, and so does the level of exposure, but there are common emotions which writers can tap in to.

One of the main challenges Ramailo Kitaab’s writers will be facing is the use of ‘appropriate’ language. During the workshop a dialogue writing exercise was conducted, which left the two participating teenagers cringe. 'No teenager would ever say that!', they commented. When it was their turn it was the older participants who winced. 'Do Nepali teens use such bad language?' they wondered. Teen dialogue is marked by half finished sentences, obscure language, slang, exclamations, and, of course, burst of giggles and long silences. Even in rural Nepal teens tend to spice up their vocabulary with fashionable language, such as those from Hindi movies and English classes. Anyone who wants to strike a chord to teenagers will have to adopt at least a degree of real life language.

Nepali teen novels are the need of the hour, not only from a marketing point of view. Trying to find footholds in a fast changing society, Nepali teens could do with role models and a bit of guidance. UNICEF’s radio programme and TV show Catmandu grew from a concern about the increase of high-risk behaviour among teens. The majority of those who test HIV-positive are in the 15-30 age group. HIV/AIDS is predicted to become the Number One killer in the 15-49 age group by the end of this decade. Teenagers often lack the information and skills needed to deal with issues such as sexuality, career choice, temptation of drugs, lack of educational and work opportunities and social problems such as girl trafficking. Many of the dilemmas teens face are regarded as a taboo and cannot openly be discussed. Teen novels could prove to be an effective way to address some of the situations and pressures teenagers deal with. Fictionalised role models might show teens creative ways of dealing with life’s challenges. Nepal’s Harry Potter might not be living at Privet Drive and study in a great castle, but he sure does have potential to inspire a whole generation of teens in the country.

(L. de Vries is a freelance journalist and a board member of Ramailo Kitaab)

Diasporic civility?

By Ajit Baral

In the very first issue of Civil Lines, a biannual little magazine, the editors assured readers that Civil Lines would be irregular. That was sensible given the uncertainty that inevitably looms over little magazines. Sure enough, the magazine entered two-and-a-half years of hibernation in between issues. However, five issues later, the editors confidently announce that henceforth the issue will be regular. Perhaps the regularity of the publication derives in some measure from the confidence reposed in the magazine by readers; if not the quality of the magazine, at least in the quality of writing.

Civil Lines 5, like its predecessors, advertises itself as new writing from India. ‘This,’ the editors say, ‘is misleading (as most advertisements are).’ They add, ‘It is a good time to fret publicly about identity...’ I, myself, will indulge in some fretting-not because, as the editors say, ‘Civil Lines has been host to old writing newly translated, writing by non-Indian writers, writing by Indians Elsewhere and so on.’ Indian Writing in English (IWE) increasingly tends to belong to the brand known as cosmopolitan writing and, correspondingly, IWE is being written by jet-setting middle and upper- middle class expatriates, belonging neither here nor there, whose ‘lifestyle’, to quote Amit Chaudhuri, ‘is glamorous, happy but too travail’ to grasp attention. So, IWE, often set in more than one country, takes as its theme diasporic dilemmas and issues of migration and transplantation. No wonder that almost all the fiction in the magazine has either dual or un-Indian settings.

Civil Lines 5 comprises seven short stories and three essays by eight writers. Three out of the five contributing writers of fiction live in the US, and two-Amit Chaudhuri and Avatar Singh-live in India. Expectedly, only three stories by these two writers are based in India. Singh’s ‘Infected’ is about two persons who have never met and their attempt to establish a relationship over the phone. The story is not locale specific. Ditto Amit Chaudhuri’s ‘A Prelude to an Autobiography’ being as it is a kind
of monologue of a struggling writer who satisfies herself that if Shoba De` can write her memoir, so can she. Chaudhuri’s other story ‘The Old Masters’ is a what-is-it-about story: it could be any three or four possibilities, but I am not sure. The impression I have of Amit Chaudhuri from the reading of his novel A New World is that he is like an excellent landscape painter, who draws details with impeccable technique, but whose painting lacks something. His two stories have not helped to change my initial impression.

Mina Kumar’s first story, ‘Reading’, is about a dilettante girl, Anjolie, and ‘her utter inability to bridge the distance between herself and her father’s family’. It is written from the perspective of Anjolie’s aunt who is flattered to think that it was she who, without knowing how, had ‘found a way to bring her [Anjolie] out of the rest of her life... through things [books] she had once owned.’ In her second story, ‘Water’, Kumar highlights the loneliness, boredom and nostalgia of an expatriate/émigré Indian living in some suburban flat in the US. The author makes her statements subtly. That alone makes her stories fascinating.

‘Sexual History of an Accountant’ by Suketu Mehata is a delightful tale of an accountant, who, quixotically, gives money to Vicki, a call girl, for not having sex with her clients. The girl however betrays the accountant. This accountant becomes so cross that he wants to have sex worth $ 20,000, the amount he paid to Vicki for foregoing sex with her clients. Ironically, it is after ‘a day of prolonged sexual conjunction’ that they develop ‘a mutually non-obligatory friendship’, involving neither money nor sex. ‘Indian Restaurant’ by Amitava Kumar, is a longish but well-told account of an Indian family ill at ease with the American way of life. The family returns to its country when a car accident provides a pretext to leave America.

Of the three essays, two-by Sonia Jabbar and Urvashi Butalia-are travel essays. Sonia Jabbar, in ‘The Spirit of Place’ experiences the lives of people in a place, Kashmir, where terror does the tandav nritya. Urvashi Butalia’s ‘The Persistence of Memory’ is a touching story of Bir Bahadur Singh journeying after 50 years to a place which he and his family fled during the partition of India. Bir Bahadur’s is no ordinary journey; it is one of ‘friendship and reconciliation’, and more than that, an attempt to ‘purge himself for distrusting Mussalmans [who had given words that they will protect his family during riots] in his community’. The third essay, ‘Harold and Me’, is Anita Roy’s reconstruction of memories of, and meetings with, the writer Harold Brodkey. The essay is tirelessly vigorous and the quality of Roy’s prose pitches the essay to a different class.

Civil Lines 5 boasts an array of fine writings and a fabulous cover. As quick ratings go it is ‘highly recommended’. Let us hope that the word of editors promising regularity of the periodical is kept.

(A. Baral reviews books on behalf of Martin Chautari)

Interpreting Jihad

By Yoginder Sikand

This little book could not have come at a more appropriate time. In recent years, and particularly in the wake of the attack on the World Trade Centre, Islam has had, to put it mildly, a bad press. For many non-Muslims, it is now seen as synonymous with terror and wild blood-letting. While large sections of the media have indeed played a central role in a concerted anti-Muslim tirade, seeking to tar all Muslims with the same brush, certain self-styled Jihadist Muslim organisations and parties must share a major portion of the blame, spreading terror and destruction in the name of Islam and Islamic Jihad. It is this vexed issue of Jihad that this book seeks to seriously grapple with.

Khan, a leading Indian Islamic scholar and a prolific writer, insists that Islam is, above all, a religion of peace. The very word ‘Islam’, he notes, is derived from the root ‘salam’, which means ‘peace’, and he quotes liberally from the Qur’an and the Hadith, the traditions of the Prophet, to make his point. Yet, he says, Islam, like most other religions, also has a doctrine of war. Muslims are allowed, he writes, to take to arms in self-defence but only when their lives and religion are under threat. Thus, the Islamic notion of war is similar to that of the ‘just war’ in Christianity and the ‘dharma yuddha’ in Hinduism and Sikhism.

The word Jihad, Khan tells us, is derived from the root ‘juhd’ which means ‘to strive’. In Islam, Jihad must be undertaken purely ‘in the path of God alone (‘fi sabil illah’) and not for power or other worldly ends. Jihad, as striving in God’s path, can take several forms, mostly peaceful. Thus, Khan writes, to strive for peace is also a form of Jihad, as is, for instance, striving for the rights of the poor and the oppressed. Starting a school in a slum is thus a form of Jihad, as is struggling for the rights of women.

But the highest form of Jihad is reserved for the struggle against the ego, the ‘nafs’, and the temptations of the world. The only violent form of Jihad that is allowed in Islam is qital, wielding the sword purely for self-defence against oppression.

As a religion of peace, Khan argues, Islam insists that Muslims must seek first to explore all avenues of peaceful resolution of conflicts, and only if these fail, are they allowed to take to other means of self-defence. He illustrates this with numerous references to the life of the Prophet Muhammad. All the battles that he fought were in self-defence, and in some cases he managed to avert violent conflict by entering into negotiations with his opponents, the Quraish of Mecca. Despite being forced to flee Mecca, owing to the persecution of the Quraish, the Prophet later entered into a peace agreement with them, the treaty of Hudaibiyah, which provided the Muslims the opportunity to freely preach their faith, although the terms of the treaty were clearly against the Muslims.

The ‘Hudaibiyah principle’ shows, Khan says, that for Muslims, peace must be sought at any cost, and issues of justice can be resolved only subsequently. There is yet another reason why Muslims must strive for peace, Khan states. Islam is a missionary religion, and the principal duty of every Muslim is to propagate the faith. Obviously, Islamic missionary work can only succeed in a climate of peaceful dialogue between Muslims and others. Khan recognises the existence of certain verses in the Qur’an, which self-styled Jihadists take to be a divine mandate for relentless war against the ‘infidels’. Khan argues that these verses, like all others, must be seen in the historical context in which they were revealed. In addition, they lay down clearly that taking to arms is allowed only in self-defence. In other words, Islam does not allow for any sort of offensive war, no matter how just the cause might seem. Further, he writes that strict conditions apply for the launching and carrying on of war in Islam. Thus, it can be declared only by a state, and not by an individual, party or organisation. The declaration of war has to be clear and open. In other words, there is no room in Islam for proxy war or for terrorism conducted by non-state actors. Then again, non-Muslim non-combatants cannot be harmed and their properties cannot be attacked. Suicide attacks are also said to be un-Islamic, for suicide is a recognised crime in Islam. Hence, Khan makes so bold as to argue that the self-styled Jihadists, merchants of terror, are a disgrace to the religion whose cause they so ardently claim to champion.

This attractively produced slim pocket-book is a delight to read, and both Muslims as well as others would find in it more than enough food for thought. It deserves to be widely translated into other languages, and to be made available in a cheaper paperback version. Those already familiar with Khan’s other writings might find it tiringly repetitious, however. If it could help provoke Hindus, Christians, Sikhs and others to develop their own theologies of peace and inter-faith dialogue grounded on their own respective traditions this title would well have served its purpose.

(Y. Sikand is a scholar of Islam based in Bangalore)