Widowed Women in Nepal
Kamala Sarup
November 12, 2008
"I had wished for peace when my husband left home to resume his duty three days before he was killed at Dang Ghorahi. I will never forget his simplicity. I cannot believe that he is no more now," says Rita, a 19-year-old who lost her husband in Dang Ghorahi in 2003. Twenty-five-year-old Bambahadur had joined the police just one year earlier. He was transferred to the District Police Office in Dang only three months ago.
"Bambahadur is said to be in the hospital. Rita, get ready. We should leave right away on the 2:00 bus," I had told Rita hurriedly.
"My husband loves me so much. I love him too, so passionately as though life itself comes with it. Since our marriage we didn't even have time to talk fully," Rita said. "He should have stayed at home to farm. We shouldn't have let him take such a life-consuming job," Rita's mother said with great pain.
Rita was a woman like any other in the village, who would talk with anyone and sing around the fields and forests.
The Rita's house is not more than a 15 or 16-minute walk from mine. Though Rita was the third-born daughter among seven sisters, she was more like the eldest in terms of household work, and in addition she was the most beautiful girl in the village, so all the village boys liked her. Of course, there were some rumors about Rita's marriage when I was in the village. A number of people would come daily to her house to persuade her to marry, and her mother would harass others telling their number, counting on her fingers.
"Rita, Bam has come back." After returning from Kathmandu training, Bambahadur had come straight to see me. He was smartened up with nice clothes and talked with my father of big things about the nation and the world. After training, Bambahadur had become well-learned, my father had commented. Then we went to the market for the whole day and had tea and talked about the village, about his wife Rita.
Really I had no fear of the world. I was thoughtless and free in the world. I was in a passionate hurry to exchange my feelings with him and wished to tell him, Bambahadur, you are the best.
The red nose pin in a case which Bambahadur gave me, I have kept very carefully in a small box on the floor. Cream powder, hair oil and scent I have kept in the same place. Even to remember those things brings tears to my eyes.
Then, after Bambahadur started sending letters twice a day, I would wait for the postman every day. I would give him two rupees as a tip to make him happy so he would come first to my house. I used to be greatly pained if I didn't see the postman even for a day, and I used to go and sit under the shade of a tree that leaned over my house, facing south.
"Did he send any message? Policemen are being killed daily," said Shyam. Shyam knew me from my childhood so I sensed that he wanted to help me. "Nothing would happen to Rita's husband." I told Shyam with a trembling voice.
I could hardly speak. "OK, now I will hang up the phone. I can't pay the bills any more." He hung up.
"At least we should have four children, got it? If one cannot help, there will be another. There is a saying, the brave have twelve." Only last month, Bambahadur had written that in a long letter to my friend Rita.
"Kamala sister I always see only your face in front of me. I have been so restless to meet you. There is a big risk of losing my life. There are many security threats everywhere around. No one knows where and how we will get killed in an ambush or by a bullet. At all times, I have been living with your love." I repeat his last letter again.
With no other source of income, Rita is dependent on the pension she receives from the police for her survival. "Kamala, my husband has been killed. I am homeless, loveless," said the teary-eyed Rita. Rita is not alone. Nepal's conflict has left in its wake hundreds of young women widows, homeless and displaced. The overwhelming majority of women victimized by conflict are hovering between life and death, due to lack of timely financial support.
This article was originally published by UPI Asianews. http://www.mediaforfreedom.com/
"Bambahadur is said to be in the hospital. Rita, get ready. We should leave right away on the 2:00 bus," I had told Rita hurriedly.
"My husband loves me so much. I love him too, so passionately as though life itself comes with it. Since our marriage we didn't even have time to talk fully," Rita said. "He should have stayed at home to farm. We shouldn't have let him take such a life-consuming job," Rita's mother said with great pain.
Rita was a woman like any other in the village, who would talk with anyone and sing around the fields and forests.
The Rita's house is not more than a 15 or 16-minute walk from mine. Though Rita was the third-born daughter among seven sisters, she was more like the eldest in terms of household work, and in addition she was the most beautiful girl in the village, so all the village boys liked her. Of course, there were some rumors about Rita's marriage when I was in the village. A number of people would come daily to her house to persuade her to marry, and her mother would harass others telling their number, counting on her fingers.
"Rita, Bam has come back." After returning from Kathmandu training, Bambahadur had come straight to see me. He was smartened up with nice clothes and talked with my father of big things about the nation and the world. After training, Bambahadur had become well-learned, my father had commented. Then we went to the market for the whole day and had tea and talked about the village, about his wife Rita.
Really I had no fear of the world. I was thoughtless and free in the world. I was in a passionate hurry to exchange my feelings with him and wished to tell him, Bambahadur, you are the best.
The red nose pin in a case which Bambahadur gave me, I have kept very carefully in a small box on the floor. Cream powder, hair oil and scent I have kept in the same place. Even to remember those things brings tears to my eyes.
Then, after Bambahadur started sending letters twice a day, I would wait for the postman every day. I would give him two rupees as a tip to make him happy so he would come first to my house. I used to be greatly pained if I didn't see the postman even for a day, and I used to go and sit under the shade of a tree that leaned over my house, facing south.
"Did he send any message? Policemen are being killed daily," said Shyam. Shyam knew me from my childhood so I sensed that he wanted to help me. "Nothing would happen to Rita's husband." I told Shyam with a trembling voice.
I could hardly speak. "OK, now I will hang up the phone. I can't pay the bills any more." He hung up.
"At least we should have four children, got it? If one cannot help, there will be another. There is a saying, the brave have twelve." Only last month, Bambahadur had written that in a long letter to my friend Rita.
"Kamala sister I always see only your face in front of me. I have been so restless to meet you. There is a big risk of losing my life. There are many security threats everywhere around. No one knows where and how we will get killed in an ambush or by a bullet. At all times, I have been living with your love." I repeat his last letter again.
With no other source of income, Rita is dependent on the pension she receives from the police for her survival. "Kamala, my husband has been killed. I am homeless, loveless," said the teary-eyed Rita. Rita is not alone. Nepal's conflict has left in its wake hundreds of young women widows, homeless and displaced. The overwhelming majority of women victimized by conflict are hovering between life and death, due to lack of timely financial support.
This article was originally published by UPI Asianews. http://www.mediaforfreedom.com/
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