storiesofnepal "Even today, I sometimes wonder if he is still alive somewhere. If he had only been imprisoned instead of killed, I would have sold every piece of land we owned to bring him home." My husband had just returned from a pilgrimage to Babadham. He was about to put on a shirt when they arrived. They dragged him out of our home, locked the rest of us inside a room, and took him away. We cried, screamed, and begged, but there was nothing we could do. Later, we learned that he had been killed near Lohendra Bridge. His body was taken away, and we never saw him again. His only crime was that Maoist cadres sometimes came to our house for food during the conflict. We had no choice but to feed them. Because of that, people assumed he was a Maoist. In reality, the security forces had mistaken him for another man who shared the same name. After his death, my life changed overnight. I raised our children alone, sold puffed rice in weekly markets, worked our fields, and struggled every day to keep the family going. There were many nights when I cried myself to sleep. But whenever my sons saw me crying, they would say, "Mother, don't cry. When we grow up, we'll take care of everything." Those words gave me the strength to carry on. Today, they do. Yet one thought has never left my heart. Maybe he is still alive somewhere. If he had been imprisoned instead of killed, I would have sold everything we owned to bring him home. Even today, that is a price I would gladly pay." Video story in BIO. #MemoriesOfWar with @undivided_wwbp #madheshpradesh #conflict #nepal #women #storiesofwomen #undivided #voicesthatmatter #storiesthatmatter #courage #loss #injustice #justice

storiesofnepal "I still remember being asked, “Which is greater to you—your daughter or your gun?” I answered, “The gun.” Not because I loved my child any less, but because I had carried a weapon long before I became a mother. Drawn by dreams of justice, I left home with a note for my parents and soon found myself in battle. I fought in ten engagements and rose to become a platoon commander. I married in a ceremony where my husband and I exchanged guns instead of rings, and I gave birth to my first daughter in the midst of war. Yet I eventually left the movement when I could no longer accept its contradictions—especially being told that educating our children in schools was a betrayal of the future we had fought to build. Today, I live quietly, raising my children and tending a small pig farm. Still, I think often of the women who gave their youth to the struggle and now stand at its margins. I have learned that freedom is never handed to us; we must claim it ourselves and keep raising our voices until it is truly ours." #MemoriesofWar with @undivided_wwbp Watch the full story on the YouTube link in BIO.

storiesofnepal “I was only ten years old when I found a small metal object while collecting firewood and brought it home. I did not know it was a bomb left behind after a clash in my village. My mother thought it was a piece of scrap iron and struck it with a hammer. It exploded instantly. The blast took one of my eyes. My mother lost most of her hand. In a single moment, my life changed forever. I could no longer continue my education, and I grew up carrying the scars of that day. Fearing for my future, my parents arranged my marriage when I was still young. Today, I care for my children, tend the cattle, cut grass and fodder, and look after my home. But what I miss most is my mother. No one can take a mother's place. She felt my pain as if it were her own and stood beside me through every hardship. Sometimes I wonder what my life might have been if that day had never happened. But I cannot change the past. All I can do is keep moving forward and try to build a better life for my family.” (Anju Muhkiya) Watch Anju Mukhiya story on our YouTube channel. Link in BIO. #memoriesofwar in collaboration with @undivided_wwbp

storiesofnepal “Middlemen and landowners came here again and again to threaten us. They went to the authorities, brought influential people, and warned us, “If you don’t do as we say, leave this place. If you stop working here, you’ll face the consequences.” They used every kind of threat to keep us under pressure. I believe that if this land had been registered in our names, they would never have been able to treat us this way. People with power in this village say that the Musahar community once owned land elsewhere but sold it and wasted the money on alcohol, and that we would do the same again if we were given land here. But that is not the truth. Every citizen in Nepal has had their land registered in their own name—except the people in our village. You can see for yourself that this land has never been registered in our names. They looked down on us because we are Musahars, because we are Dalits, and because they considered us untouchable. They said we were dirty and did not know how to live properly. But if we don’t own land and struggle just to feed ourselves, how are we supposed to build a decent home and life? At that time, the large landowners needed farm labourers. They wanted to keep us dependent, intimidated, and under their control so we would always work for them. They refused to register our land because they believed that once we owned land, we would no longer obey them or depend on them. So they spread lies, saying, “Don’t register land in the Musahars’ names. They’ll only sell it, waste the money on alcohol, and lose everything.” They said these things to justify keeping us under their control. People may still say, “That caste is just like that,” but times do not stay the same forever. Suffering is still suffering. If only someone truly understood our pain, things would be different. Today, my greatest hope is that my children will never have to endure the hardships I have faced. We are still waiting to see what the government will do. As landless and poor people, we continue to hope that one day it will finally act and improve our lives.” (Rajendra Nath) Full story link in BIO.

storiesofnepal “Sometimes life felt so meaningless that I thought it would be easier to die than carry so much stress. My father went abroad because of me. Not because we were poor. Not because we dreamed of a better life elsewhere. Because I was a daughter. In our Madhesi community, a father is often expected to arrange dowry for his daughter’s marriage. We owned very little land and had almost nothing to sell, so my father spent years working overseas to save for my future. I married for love and dreamed of building a life through education. But after my father-in-law passed away from a brain tumour, everything changed. My husband and I gave up our studies to care for younger siblings, take on debt, and shoulder responsibilities we never expected. Money became a constant source of stress, and there were days when it felt like our future had disappeared. Yet through every hardship, my father stood beside me. He even mortgaged his land to help us survive. Years later, a job opportunity changed my life. For the first time, I could contribute to my family’s future. Slowly, the debts became smaller, the burdens became lighter, and I was able to buy four kathas of land with my own earnings. This is not just my story. It is a story about the hidden costs of dowry, the sacrifices parents make for their children, and the strength it takes to keep moving forward when life falls apart.” Watch Phool Kumari’s story LINK IN BIO. #StoriesOfNepal #WomenOfNepal #Madhesh #HumanStories #Nepal

storiesofnepal “When someone laughs, you have to laugh with them. Your own troubles of the heart should not matter at the time.” (Parbati Tamang, Riku, Dolakha)

storiesofnepal “She is gone. I took her to the hospital six times—Singati, Charikot, Kathmandu—but nothing worked. She passed away before her fifties. It has already been ten years since she left me. I never looked for anyone else. “Take me home, I want to see my animals, my house”, she cried that night. I brought her home. All night she moaned in pain. By morning, she was cold. We called a shaman, but nothing worked. I did everything I could. The next morning, around 6:30, she was gone. Life, happiness, sadness. It is a cycle. Right now I am sad, and it stays inside me. What can I do? Sometimes I feel so lonely that I don’t even feel like eating on time. I stay busy with work, and even hunger disappears. Being alone is very hard. Now the house feels empty. There is no one to cook, boil water, or keep me company. I am alone with the livestock. Life can change in an instant.” (Bhiman Tamang, Riku Dolakha)

storiesofnepal “The Khadkas were among the first families to settle here. My grandfather owned a large portion of land, but over time it was unfairly and gradually redistributed through decisions made by local authorities, forcing Tamang families like ours to adapt and survive. When my father left for the mountains or the plains, we were often left alone with the animals. I remember crying because I could not understand the language of the Khadkas around me and felt completely isolated. Over the years, the distance between families slowly faded. Different customs, food habits, and misunderstandings gave way to familiarity. We worked together, ate together, visited each other’s homes, and learned from one another. What was once divided became connected through shared struggle and survival. Yet the memories of those early days remain. I still remember sitting alone in a shed as a child, hungry and waiting for my father to return. Curled up in a corner, I would often fall asleep from exhaustion, dreaming of food and of seeing him again.” (Birman Tamang, Riku, Dolakha)