For the Sake of Single Verse

For the sake of a single verse,
one must see many cities,
men,
and things.
One must know the animals,
one must feel how the birds fly
and know the gesture with which the little flowers open in the morning.
One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions,
to unexpected meetings
and to partings one had long seen coming;
to days of childhood that are still unexplained,
to parents whom one had to hurt when they brought one some joy
and did not grasp it (it was a joy for someone else);
to childhood illnesses that so strangely begin with such a number
of profound and grave transformations,
to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet
and to mornings by the sea,
to the sea itself,
to seas,
to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars
—and it is not yet enough if one may think of all this.
One must have memories of many nights of love,
none of which was like the others,
of the screams of women in labor,
and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again.
But one must also have been beside the dying,
must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the fitful noises.
And still it is not enough to have memories.
One must be able to forget them when they are many,
and one must have the great patience to wait until they come again.
For it is not yet the memories themselves.
Not till they have turned to blood within us,
to glance, and gesture, nameless,
and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves
—not till then can it happen that in a most rare hour
the first word of a verse arises in their midst
and goes forth from them.

Ranier Marie Rilke

Loktantric Sambaad (Democracy Dialogues)

Over the weekend, I travelled outside of Pokhara to see some of our Democracy Dialogues, the civil society component of the UNDP Constitution Building project that I've established with my colleagues. Since the original small grants were given to 18 Nepali NGOs (representing the 'historically marginalized' communities) in March, after I left for the States and Dad's subsequent death, I hadn't had the opportunity to see this community-based, grassroots process yet in person.

So, with our new Communications Officer, Christian Clark, and two colleagues, Surendra Chaudhary, the Grant Manager (who worked with me at SC/US), and Kalpana Sarkar, our UNDP Program Officer, we flew to Pokhara on Saturday morning and came back today (Monday). We spent Saturday & Sunday out in isolated, rural villages on the ridges of Syanga and Tanahun districts.

We were all incredibly impressed by the local community interest to participate in the drafting of a new Nepali constitution. There were 40 to 70 villagers at each of the Loktantric Sambaad (Democracy Dialogue) sessions, men, women, grandparents, teenagers and children. Of course, since these were indigenous villagers, Magar people, who live in the hills around Western Nepal, the events were preceded by an hour of delightful and joyful dancing & singing -- not to mention the garlanding of us, the 'honored' guests.

Even after ten years of a civil conflict which has torn at the fabric of Nepali society, these two days showed us how much the local culture and pride of Nepal is alive in these villages. There was an immense sense of honor by the Nepal Magar Association in hosting these day-long constitution building events. It was clear in the speeches by the local leaders and women's associations that they take their responsibilities seriously and are exceptionally eager to participate in drafting a new constitution for what everyone refers to as the "New Nepal".

The process itself takes anywhere from four to six hours, at least, depending on the amount of debate, discussion and facilitation. Although, of course, with the introductory culture show and mid-course breaks for snacks or food, the whole process can easily take a full day.

After all of the individual comments had been gathered by the facilitator and assistants, with names noted for each comment, these recommendations were written on public pages of newsprint for all to see, read aloud, and vote upon by voices of consensus.

Afterwards each person in attendance came up and either signed the newsprint themselves or, for those not literate enough to write their names, to put their John Hancock-like finger print on the sheet in dark, cobalt ink.

As you can imagine, this was an amazing, inspiring process in a dusty, dissicated village high above the wide Himalayan river valleys below. Yet, no matter how remote, these communities are eager to engage in the writing the new Nepali constitution, especially as the years of civil conflict, recent multi-party elections and Maoist political education have more than alerted them to their rights and opportunities.

These days, among many rural Nepali citizens, there is a palpable sense of urgency to recreate the identity of the Nepali state to be a more inclusive, more equitable and more representative nation. Although no one is trying to make constitutional scholars out of the 27 million Nepalis, there are certain values, priorities and needs that seem to run the gamut of people who are aware of the drafting of the new Nepali constitution.

Since the UNDP Civil Society Outreach initiative aims to reach the 'historically marginalized' communities in our first iteration of the Loktantric Sambaad (Democracy Dialogues) process, these events was organized by the Nepal Magar Association, who represent one of the largest indigenous communities in Nepal (with just over 7% of the nation's population). The head of this NGO, Nabin Rokka Magar, is an extremely energetic and organized individual from Rolpa district (considered the heartland of the Maoist movement during the conflict). Nabin led the village-based process we observed in both Syanja and Tanahun districts.

Many of the issues that were identified and highlighted during the day-long process had to do with fundamental rights of the people, e.g. women's rights, children's right to education, the rule of law and people's own sense of security, as well as language rights (right to be taught in one's own mother tongue), religious rights (freedom of religious worship), as well ethnic rights (as described in the ILO Convention 169), including self-determination and the federal restructuring of Nepal based on a combination of ethnic, geographic and linguistic lines.

Significantly, the Magar Association leadership reiterated and reinforced the idea that no matter which federal state that the Magar people will live in, and they are strongly advocating for a Magar Autonomous State (Magarat), ALL Nepali citizens will have equal rights in that state, no matter their caste, ethnicity, religion et al. The new states would respect the historical/cultural lineage of the people who have inhabited that region, but the fundamental rights would be the same for everyone. That level of political maturity, in itself, is a remarkably hopeful sign for the future of the country.

So, although not exactly Thomas Jefferson and James Madison sitting around a candlelite table in the 18 C., but, actually, something similar might have taken place in the towns of Pennsylvania, Virginia and New Hampshire, if there has been a community process supporting the Founding Fathers when the American colonies were drafting a new constitution after separating from the British empire.

At least I'd like to think so...

In Search of an Identity, by Ezra Man Leslie

1992 was a big year for me, I was born—Ezra Leslie, son to Keith and Shakun Leslie. My mother, Shakun, is a Nepali fashion designer/political activist, taught by the nuns, raised by her culturally rich mother, inspired by her worldly father, and is best described as “the most Jewish women this side of the Himalayas.” Keith, my father, on the other hand, was raised in upstate New York by his Jewish parents (both in the medical field)—he went to Amherest, immediately followed by a stint in the capitol with Senator Percy, and ended up traveling the world for roughly twenty-five years. He, as opposed to my mother, can be described as “the most Nepali man this side of the Atlantic.” This is where I start to get confused—if all of the above is true than I am a Nepali-American Jew, who was bar-mitzvahed in Israel, but has been raised in Hindu-Buddhist Nepal, and now goes to boarding school in Massachusetts—oh and I almost forgot I was born in Thailand. In other words I was marked the second I was born—marked with a crisis, a crisis of identity

My story is like any other, I was born on June 28th and after picking up my passport at the American Embassy in Bangkok flew home to Nepal with my parents and older brother, Josh. I grew up in a simple household that played stage to development workers, fashion designers, philosophers, writers, poets, gardeners, activists, Americans, Nepalis, Jews, Hindus, and Buddhists—all of these roles excellently played out by none other than my parents. Quite simply two parents, who as wise, kind, and intelligent as they were, still found themselves trying to figure out who they were and what they were doing here. As I said I was marked.

At the time I didn’t realize it, but life was getting complicated. My mother’s strained relationship with her family, not of any fault of her own, but rather as a tributary to her own river of a search for self identity, resulted in a strange relationship for Josh and I with our home country, Nepal. A relationship best described as two boys living in a rented house; you refer to it as yours, it is yours, but the landlord never treats you as if it is yours or accepts that it is yours. As a result we associated with Americans, international Americans who were happy to accept us as one of them. It seemed to us a minor detail that we had never lived in the country we called our ‘other home’; it was just nice to have one.

I started my first year of formal education at a community driven school called Lincoln. The next five years at cosmopolitan Lincoln passed in relative ease, but starting in middle school my thoughts began shifting across the Atlantic Ocean to my yet unlived in home, America. The departure of some close friends and a desire to challenge myself were partially the fuel, but in retrospect there was a certain part of me that was just searching for an identity. Personally, I had never doubted my Nepali identity, or my American identity, but it was much harder to be accepted by my compatriots and as I reached an age where I could finally see the manner in which the Nepali people viewed me I became scared. I avoided having to deal with them in groups where it would become apparent that I was not, in their eyes, one of them. Instead I emanated my Nepali patriotism and pride through my interactions with the ‘common’ Nepali. The Nepali people who amused themselves to think that that they shared the same blood with this ‘kuire’ (the derogatory word used in Nepal for foreigner) and so accepted me blindly. Not as a fellow countrymen, but as a spectacle, an item at which they would amuse themselves by humoring it.

Being young, and confused I longed to see if I possibly belonged somewhere else and naturally my inclination was towards America. In my heart I knew I was ‘100% American and 100% Nepali.’ Sadly I had very little say in the two-way street that is acceptance so it was no coincidence that at the end of my 10th grade I decided to pack my bags and follow my brother, who had been called by what he hoped would be greener pastures a year earlier, to Northfield Mount Hermon in Massachusetts. Full of hope I arrived in America, and where should I find myself, but at international orientation, a place where non-American students can be assimilated. Starting off just where I left off—a foreigner in his own country. I quickly realized this year would be no different from Nepal except the countries and the faces had change. It is my bane not to have a home, but a bane I bear proudly; knowing that whatever challenges I shall meet I can pull from the best of both worlds. It is a fate that I will struggle with on a day-to-day basis, but I have also quickly realized that the strength to fight that struggle will come from within. My dad has always said, “there are three truths: my truth, your truth, and then G-d’s truth,” and so I walk out of my door everyday comforted that although other people may not understand who I am and where I have come from, I know and G-d knows. And that is good enough for me.

Ezra Man Leslie
NMH April 2009