A walk across the liberated zone

By Utpal Raj Misra

After 3 days of convincing, I finally got the green light from the Kathmandu bureau to go to Rolpa, but it was obvious that I would not get the same from the local authorities. It was only a few days back that the police had stopped a group of journalists from getting into Rolpa from Dang, stating that they could not guarantee their safety.

"It’s no use asking the local authority for permission, they’ll never grant it," said Khim, my colleague. He was in the group of journalists that had been picked up by the police and brought back to Dang. "We’ll go without informing them then," I said.

With only government propaganda trickling out from Rolpa, there was no need to stay in Dang waiting for something to happen. It was already more than a week after the Holleri incident, where the Maoist rebels had captured 71 policemen declaring them prisoners of war. Two days after the incident the media started saying that the Army had surrounded Nuwagaon where the rebels held the ‘POWs’ making it sound like there was a standoff between the two sides.

The truth came out after a group of journalists went to the spot along with the Human Rights Observation team and found no RNA soldiers nor any abducted policemen. But the army was there in Rolpa. According to reports they had moved from Nuwagaon to Budhagaon VDC.

July 18th. Morning. The two of us left Tulsipur and entered Rolpa from Kapurkot in Salyan. A wooden pillar with a Maoist flag on top and "revolutionary" slogans written all over it told us that we were entering "the liberated zone".

"Where are you from?" a voice asked us authoritatively. We looked back and saw a young man running towards us. "From Kathmandu." We kept on walking. He caught us up. Realizing that we were journalists his voice softened. He explained that we were in the "liberated zone" and all outsiders needed permission from the local Maoist authority to enter. We told him that we needed no permission to enter a district of our own country and that we had met his leaders (although we had not) and started taking their names. He then lost his authoritative manner and left saying that it was his job to inquire and that he did not mean to offend us. We moved on talking with the local boys returning home after dropping their load of tomatoes at the market in Kapurkot.

"There were a lot of Maoists around before the army camped down at Lingdung," said a boy. "It’s been a few days since they were here and all the Maoists have run away, they don’t walk around this area."

After a short rest at Simpani Village, we walked on with the boys who supplied us with general information about the Maoists, their activities, their strength etc. At Jhenam we left them and reached the army camp at Lingdung by the evening. The boys had told me that the army did not mix with the locals and they were right.

I tried talking with one officer but he was tightlipped. I asked him several things but he shook his head and said he did not know anything. It was only later I found out, from the Chief District Officer, that the army was there to implement programmes under the Integrated Security and Development Package and would be slowly moving towards Liwang, the district headquarters.

We spent that night at Nerpa in Jungar VDC and met the locals who were reluctant to speak initially thinking that we were army-men but opened up remarkably after finding out that we were journalists. "There’s a lot of negative things about the Maoists. They forcefully try to implement their decisions on the public. They come here and declare Village Development Committees null and void and hold another election but if their candidate does not win then they say they need to hold another one," a man there told us.

Another said that the villagers were willing to support the government if it could only ensure their safety.

We saw that the locals were getting along with their lives as usual. In every village we would be looked at with suspicion and surprise. "Nowadays no outsiders come to these parts, you two are certainly brave to have come here," said a man, amused, after we told him that we were there just to see the place.

The villages were peaceful, the landscape magnificent and the entire surroundings serene. The only things to remind us that we were in Maoist territory were the red and white signboards at road junctions and signboards with "Village People’s Committee" written on it at the local VDC offices.

On entering every Village People’s Committee there would be a "martyrs gate" with pro Maoist slogans written all over it. A spectacular gate was at Tila, where by the looks of the elaborate writings on the walls and the gate itself one could tell the place was one of the Maoist strongholds. The people looked tense and I could sense everyone was looking at us but when we raised our eyes they looked away.

In Dumla, it seemed everyone supported the rebels. They were happy with the local Maoist administration and the local youths were all impressed by the charisma of the militia. "We’re relieved that the police aren’t here, while they were around they did nothing but create trouble. Now at least we are at peace," said a local shopkeeper. He explained how more than 1600 armed rebels had come to his village only a few days back along with the abducted policemen and feasted at their village and dispersed in small groups going in different directions. "They bought each and every item from my shop except cigarettes," he said with a smile, adding that he made a profit that he would not have normally made even in a whole year.

The Maoists had named every road after their martyrs, built bridges, resting-places and gates. At one place they had even opened a cooperative and a school. On reaching Kotgaon we came face to face with an armed group of rebels, most probably patrolling the area.

I looked at them. Pretty young girls hardly 17 or 18 years old were wielding heavy looking homemade guns with locally made hand grenades hung around their necks. They looked fearless and confident, their stern expressions contrasting with their beauty. Young boys of similar ages were carrying heavier loads. All marched along without uttering a word, as we let them pass.

Their commander was walking behind the group. He stopped us. On hearing everything, he said that whoever came to their territory were their guests and that they guaranteed their safety and well being. Despite our apprehension and refusal, the commander, Jagriti, insisted. A young boy with a heavy backpack and hand grenades slung around his neck escorted us to a house where there were a few of his comrades. We found that the whole village supported the Maoist movement and at least one person from one family had joined the militia.

"The police are no more than a band of robbers, this place is much better when they are not around," Ramesh said. "This very house where you are staying was a police post some time back. They forced the people living here to leave and threw their belongings out; the owner of the house joined the militia leaving his wife and children here," he said pointing at Man Maya Tamang and her three little children playing just outside the room.

"The only reason why the locals out here support the Maoists is because they hate the police for what they have done to the villagers." He told us tales of police looting houses, assaulting women, beating and murdering innocent men and burning houses. In this village alone there were around 10-12 children fathered by different policemen posted here, he told us. "All have vowed to fight till the end," he said.

I looked at the young woman who brought us tea. She looked hardened. I was sure that she understood no word of Maoism nor had any idea of the ideology behind the people’s war but was set to take revenge on the policemen who had tormented her and her family. It dawned upon me then that this was the story of every village in Rolpa, of every person raising arms.

Even if the Maoist top brass sit for talks and come to an agreement with the government, thousands of such people carrying guns will not support it. They will want to go on fighting, killing all the people they think are responsible for their sufferings.

Next day I watched the young women disappear into the hills, after escorting us to the banks of Madi River. "Just take that turn and you will see a bridge, cross that and follow the path. You should reach Liwang in 2 and a 1/2 hours," she said before turning around and starting uphill. Her voice showed no emotion. All it had was determination to fight on... Fight for what? I could not draw any conclusions and I am sure she would not be able to answer as well.

Self portrait in a rear view mirror

Suman subba

Morning

I was smoking my second cigarette of the morning when the telephone rang. I let it ring on while I drank some more from my second cup of coffee, hot and heavenly round the mouth. Another morning. Another day. Another phone call. I was getting used to this. I put the coffee down by the phone and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hello."

Silence, crackling like boots on a gravel drive.

"Yes?" I said.

"Hello," said the voice, after a pause.

"Is this 4446..." Then the line went dead.

I put down the receiver and stared at the phone, thinking it would ring again. The coffee was getting cold. I put it to my lips and drank some more. I could’ve sworn that the woman’s voice at the other end was no more than a whisper. Whispering in the daytime. It didn’t ring again. Yes, it was another day, another phone call.

Light relief

I turned the corner into Dharmapath. A chorus of girls wearing blue jeans and creamy pastel coloured tops paraded past me. A couple of them laughing, a couple of them smiling at some private inner joke. I recognized then instantly. Like a tableau of all other girls crazed by this media age. But their world was not unlike the world I was walking through. I could feel their smiles hit me and vacantly glide through me. For a moment they reminded me of flamingoes, pink plastic flamingoes you’d find in any fun park anywhere in the world. I smiled as a sudden spark of sunlight glanced off a pair of stylized sunglasses.

Spare time

Everything was still in place. The same books were there where they had been weeks ago. I looked back at the entrance hoping someone I knew would drop in. Just another browser. Another book left unsold. Opposite, New Orleans was badly dreaming about New Orleans. And I didn’t blame them. I thought of those vacant smiles. My fingers moved alphabetically over all the Ms but I couldn’t find him. Maybe it was under W. No hope. My fingers felt dead with too much scrambling, too many names expensively priced and waiting to be read. All I thought about was Black Betty.

I had to get back to the world outside. Then I remembered I had an appointment.

Dead body

It was always like this. And there was no getting away from it. However far you tried to run, however many times you tried to walk a different line, it was always there, waiting like a bad handshake. Like the last gate you had to open and then shut behind you. The waste and the loss, always the invisible burden carried from one day to another. From one human touch to another. And it was never, ever enough just to cry and think that everything would turn out all right in the end. That some huge unseen force of forgiveness would fall from nowhere to comfort you.

I put my lips and then my cheeks against the cool marble, letting the hard metallic pool of coolness ripple down my cheeks to fill every pore in my body.

Insomnia

Suddenly I was so tired. I wanted to forget everything. To forget the way I had met her. The whole sordid business. The way I still remembered the cool touch of her hands. The way she had walked into my life and out again. I wanted one of those Sundays you read about in brochures and catalogues. With Sunday mirrors held in hands. Sunday shoes. Everybody with Sunday smiles. Yes, I just wanted something easy and simple like that. No complications. Sitting out with Mr and Mrs Sunday relaxing on deckchairs in a void.

I walked across to the bed, lay down on my back, turned off the bedside light and tried to sleep.

Fort in disrepair: Sindhuli

By Sagar Kumar Dhakal

The name of Sindhuli Gadhi perhaps resonates far and wide. History students must have come across it in the course of their studies. But the number of people who have actually seen this spectacular ruin may be just a handful. Sindhuli Gadhi lies at a height of 1300 to 1500 metres from sea level and nearly 15 kms from the district head quarters at Sindhuli Madhi. This fort has had a long and eventful history.

Sindhuli Gadhi shows its historical importance especially from two aspects. First, this place stood splendidly against the empire-building expedition of Britain and secondly, Sindhuli Gadhi gave renewed vigour and enthusiasm to the Gorkhalis to continue with their unification campaign. One truth is that if the Gorkhalis had been vanquished here modern day Nepal would not exist. It would have been a part of a foreign country.

The campaign of unifying Nepal by Prithivi Narayan Shah had been succeeding formidably. Even Kirtipur, the once powerful princedom succumbed. Thoughts of a seizure by the Gorkha ranks caused widespread fear and trepidation throughout the remaining princedoms.

The local population believes in a story:

King Prithivi was a tremendous believer and worshipper of Guru Gorakhnath who had conferred a boon on him in his childhood. By this boon he would remain undefeated. One night after reading the then British governor’s letter King Prithivi Narayan Shah was lying on his bed anxiously. As he plunged into short bursts of sleep Guru Gorakhnath appeared in his dream. Gorakhnath caressed his hair and told him not to worry because Mata Manakamana would help him only if he could erect her Mandir near Sindhuli (hermitage of Siddha sage). The king couldn’t believe what had come in his dream at first, but having been a profound believer he felt great relief and didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

Early in the morning he set out for Sindhuli with his trusty henchmen Vir Bhadra Upadhyaya, Sikari Vansu Gurung, Vansa Raj Pandey, Shree Harsa Panta and 1100 warriors. After a 2 days walk, they arrived on top of the hill from where they could pay homage to the hermitage of sage Siddha and overlook the plain valley of Sindhuli and the thick and dark forest of the Madhes. King Prithivi erected a mandir of Bhadrakali, a sister of his homeland deity Manakamana. The locals claim that this Bhadrakali Mandir is the first temple which the king made with his own hands. This historic and holy place can still be seen today. Bhadrakali is worshipped in various ceremonies especially in Dashain. Hundreds of local pilgrims pay homage every year. A VDC where this temple lies has been named after her. People say that there used to be a pagoda style temple, later on Chandra Shamsher removed the roof of the temple because he saw Bhadrakali in his dreams who ordered him to do so. But this may not be reliable information because many don’t agree with it. Now all that is left is a structured wall. The idols have completely worn down. Tridents are found stuck on the pulpit. Tall sal trees have roofed over this historical temple.

After setting up the Mandir, the king and his entourage built the forts at appropriate points. Stones were collected from nearby streams and splendid forts were constructed in two places. The one at a higher point was called Thulo Gadhi to keep a watch on any approaching enemy and the other fort was called Aadh to attack the enemies. Aadh is a spacious courtyard surrounded by a wall made of flagstones which can accommodate a battalion of forty to fifty. The wall has holes to watch the enemies and point guns at them. Presently, porters and travellers use the wall for resting bales and baskets. Creepers and undergrowth have covered the wall. There used to be a huge door in the Aadh which later collapsed.

King Prithivi paid no attention to whatever was written in the letter sent by the then British Governor. He continued his campaign. Since the king turned a deaf ear to the letter, a 2400 armed force was sent to overpower the Gorkhalis in 1787. The troops advanced up to the Mahabharat hill. Mountain warfare was quite unknown to them. All of a sudden, the Gorkhalis wadded into the invaders. Stones and log missiles were hurled at the foreign enemies. The invaders had no alternative but to flee from the battle field. Captain Kilnlock returned back with his ranks greatly thinned. He himself escaped death by the skin of his teeth. Only 800 survived out of the 2400. 1600 died. It was their first defeat in Asia. The Gorkhalis seized large quantities of ammunition, guns and a cannon. The cannon was housed here for a long time and was later ferried to Kathmandu.

Sindhuli Gadhi may not have as much historical importance as the megalithic monuments built by Alexander nor has it the majestic lustre of the pyramids of Egypt. But it has its own unique place and value. It has made an indelible mark in the history of Nepal. Although the time was not favourable for the Gorkhalis for warfare because of their economic status, their strong determination and upsurge of patriotism overpowered the enemy. We are still proud of it. Our fame, valour, self respect, glory and independence exist because of such incidents.

King Prithivi Narayan Shah is said to have highlighted the economic and strategic value of Sindhuli to his well wishers. He advised to pay it great heed because of Sindhuli Gadhi’s geographic point- it was the quickest route to India from the Kathmandu Valley. There was the chance of enemies entering the valley via this way. On the verge of the Anglo-Nepal war (1814 A.D), King Girwanayuddha Bikram Shah had garrisoned 200 men in this stronghold.

Chandra Shamsher had been hugely impressed by the grandeur of the buildings of France and Italy. He had seen these buildings during his journey to these parts in and around 1908. After his arrival, he gave top priority to the construction of buildings and other infrastructural developments. Many buildings were made and Gadhi Darbar is one of them. It was constructed in 1911 on the top of the Mahabharat hill. It faced a big, flat and levelled military playground. The Darbar had 65 spacious courts and 3 storeys including the attic used by the degraded Ranas. Later on the building was used as a regional administrative office of Purba 2 and 3 numbers where the Bada Hakim would be in charge. Just after the termination of this regional administration system, the building was a high school until 1952, thereafter it was left vacant. Half of the playground has been a victim of land slides.

Now the roof and the ceiling of the Gadhi have collapsed. There are no more rafters and wooden beams. The flamboyant paint has faded. Cracks and crannies have covered the walls of the building. Overall the Darbar is in a state of disrepair. One may observe the withered bushes in the place of rhododendrons, one may hear the moan of Nyaulis instead of the chirping of birds and one may experience a lifetime of sorrow seeing the sorry plight of the Darbar.

Many programmes were launched, documentaries made, NGOs/INGOS wrote proposals for its preservation and reconstruction, politicians promised indemnity but all in vain. For the lack of any spontaneous effort, these precious heritage sites, where our nationalistic and revolutionary fervour first rose, have been standing in a state of great dereliction.

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