14/09/2025
Humanity Lost in Political Fire – A Woman’s Heart Amidst Political Chaos
Writes - Dechen Anna Sherpa
December 10th, 2022 - I left my home and my country, stepping into my husband’s home as my own, embracing this new land with hope, carrying memories of Kurseong, Darjeeling, in my heart. I was only 21 years old, a young daughter married early, bound by the threads of household duties, traditions, and relationships, I barely understood.
Though my father had passed away when I was small, I was fortunate to receive the love that had been missing in my early life—from my in-laws and my husband. Their affection filled the empty spaces of my heart, and in their warmth, I found a sense of belonging. I felt seen, cared for, and for a moment, whole. And then, life gave me a miracle—I discovered a tiny heartbeat growing inside me, a daughter who would become my quiet strength and my endless joy. In her, I found a reason to endure, to embrace this life and this country as my own.
Life, in its simple moments, had beauty. Though my tastes differed from what most here ate, I often enjoyed meals at Baudha, savoring the small joys of food and memories of hometown. Yet returning home, the stern faces of my father-in- law would scare me sometimes. Even when bringing household supplies, I felt sharp gaze from his study watching me. As he believed, we should spend our money wisely.
The saying, “You must swallow the bone by watching the throat” (meaning, learn to be cautious and shrewd), was often heard in our home, and I had to absorb it. Sometimes I wondered — how could someone who once held a high political post, someone capable of running the country, become like this? But over time, I learned much from these little things. I learned the value of money ,the discipline of saving, and how to navigate life wisely — I learned to navigate life with prudence.
Some said, “The daughter-in-law of a leader has everything.” While some things were indeed available to me, I never craved luxury—no branded bags, no glittering watches, no extravagant clothes. Perhaps growing up in hardship taught me joy in simplicity. If someone gifted me a luxury, I would smile and wear it; but I would never spend my own money on such things.
I never saw our father-in -law wear a single piece of jewelry, and my mother-in-law would wear only a pair of bangles she bought from her first salary, as a teacher. Our family was simple. I never witnessed loud arguments or harsh words. Even during difficulties, we would sit together and resolve matters as a family.
And so, I became a mother to a little girl — the first daughter of our home. My daughter grew up preferring books over toys, flipping pages in her grandfather’s study. I realized, “Children learn from what they see at home.” Before she was even two, my daughter had already developed a love for learning. Watching her grow made me realize how deeply children reflect the home they inhibit, her curiosity mirrored the love and learning that surrounded her.
When my daughter was just over a year old, my husband and I got a chance to work in the same office. Each morning, we fed our daughter and left for work. My mother-in-law, daughter, and house-help sisters stayed at home. Days passed normally, though my mother-in-law often felt unwell, and we sometimes rushed home to care for her.
Life had a rhythm, a sense of normalcy, until the day of the “Gen-Z” protest against corruption. That day began quietly, almost deceptively calm. But as hours passed, the world outside turned unforgiving. Reports trickled in—small children had lost their lives, lives full of promise and innocence. Wombs once filled with hope were emptied. The images, the reality of their suffering, shattered me. My heart broke into pieces weighed down with sorrow, grief, and helplessness. The night felt endless, haunted by the faces of those who should have had futures, stolen before they even began.
The following morning, my heart was heavy with dread. Around 10:00 AM, while in the kitchen, I noticed a man on a motorcycle circling our gate, his intentions ominous. Fear froze me. My husband, sensing danger, acted quickly. We fled, leaving behind everything—our clothes, our belongings, our memories.
Within an hour, hundreds of people arrived. Our home—was ransacked, burned, destroyed. My father’s car, PSO’s bike, everything we had cherished, every memory, every trust, every hope—gone in flames. When the mob demanded our presence, my stomach churned with terror. Were we to be hurt? To be burned alive? The criminality of it all was unimaginable. The world I trusted, the people I relied on, had turned into monsters in an instant.
How quickly loyalty disappears when hardship strikes. Aren’t family and friends supposed to shield each other, to share both grief and joy? Our “So-called “ family were busy cutting ties, busy destroying other homes. It seems misfortune is celebrated rather than mourned, and self-interest outweighs loyalty. When hardship strikes, relationships vanish. Is this not the time when love and support should shine brightest?
The home I once called my own is now nothing but ash. The trust I placed in the people I relied upon was destroyed. Greed, lawlessness, and an anarchic mentality turned everyone’s world upside down. People say Nepalis have soft heart, but I saw none of that softness in the faces of those who tore through our lives.
Was it my mistake to marry into this family?
To love my husband? Was it my daughter’s mistake to be born into this country, into this family? The family you know and the one I have lived with are worlds apart. People outside may have heard of “Ishwar Pokharel,” but what I know is entirely different. Destroying an entire family in this manner is wrong — it is criminal.
I have no visa for any other country; I haven’t traveled abroad as people might assume. I buy clothes from India because goods in Nepal are expensive. I prefer local food because expensive Thai or Korean cuisine does not suit me. Since joining my husband’s life, I have seen many changes in him, too — and I am proud that he too prefers a simple life. I strive to raise my daughter close to nature, in mud, streams, forests and countryside.
The popular “Nepokids” tagline has never mentioned me, but I know what any parent feels. We sacrifice everything—hunger, comfort, our dreams—for our children. I want my daughter to live fully, to never suppress her desires, her spirit, her truth. We work, we accumulate, but for what? Not for ourselves, not to hoard, not to claim. Everything is entrusted to the next generation. Why, then, is wishing good for a child seen as a fault? People raise children differently; some show, some quietly nurture. Humanity, at its core, is love.
I dreamed of becoming a high-ranking officer in my birth country—a dream I still keep tucked away—but I sacrificed it to live here. And yet, I am unacknowledged, mocked, insulted as “foreigner” or “Dhoti,” reminded that “Darjeeling is also Nepal.” But I grew up singing “Jana Gana Mana”—so how is that my fault? Obtaining citizenship, securing work, simply living here, is a struggle for people like us. When Citizens abroad face injustice, the world rises in protest they are defended fiercely, who speaks for people like us? Who ensures justice for the innocent?
Stories of “Roti-Beti,” of ties between two nations, now feel like fairy tales. My heart is broken, fear has taken root, and uncertainty shadows every thought of the future—for me, and for my daughter. Sometimes, I dream of returning to my homeland, of finding safety and belonging. But my love for my husband and my sense of duty keep me here. I know I must stay here, permanently.
I share my story not for pity, but for remembrance. Brick by brick, I have built a small home with words, a fragile sanctuary against the chaos, against the fire. If my words fail, I ask forgiveness.
Yet above all, one truth remains: nothing is greater than humanity. No party, no politics, no country can endure without it. Without empathy, compassion, and kindness, the world cannot exist. And it is in that humanity—scarce, fragile, yet sacred—that we must believe, even when all else is lost.
