Echoes of forgotten lives: The silent struggle of southern Madhes

In a quest to delve into the seldom explored, a journey commenced several months ago to the southernmost regions of Nepal. Despite the frequent mention of “Madhes” and “Tarai” in popular discourse, the true essence of these places remains elusive, only truly grasped through direct experience.

While often in the headlines for their relentless protests demanding basic state facilities, the reality of these regions is one of profound vulnerability and isolation. As one local poignantly expressed, “Vulnerability is still a better state for us than the condition where even feeling something is a luxury for some of us.”

The level of isolation in Madhes communities is so intense that they are willing to share everything they have with anyone who visits. They would offer the last bit of food in their kitchen and even give up their only bed for a guest, despite their own desperate needs.

My research trip to the southern parts of Bara and Parsa became a journey of profound realization and sorrow. Growing up in one of Madhes cities, I had never truly comprehended the depths of daily struggle. Their laughter, tinged with misery yet radiating hope, contrasted sharply with my own sense of hopelessness. 

With the intention of researching the social, agricultural, and legal conditions in the Bara and Parsa regions of Nepal, my team and I embarked on an ethnographic study, aiming to confine our focus to specific areas. Being my home province, I was particularly eager to visit and work within these communities. Our journey began with a bus ride from Kathmandu to Birgunj, and everything proceeded as anticipated until we ventured further south. There, the eerie silence, isolation, and lack of visible population across vast expanses became unsettling. Fields, capable of producing abundant harvests for generations, lay barren, devoid of any human presence.

With a myriad of questions and growing confusion, we made our way to the local market. There, we were struck by a scene of profound despair: tons of vegetables being sold for as little as Rs 10, 20, or 40, many of them destined to rot unsold. A man shouted that a buyer from Bihar was willing to pay Rs 2,000 for all the produce, but the pervasive sense of disappointment and resignation among the vendors was palpable.

What was intended as structured interview-based research soon revealed itself to be unnecessary; the brutal reality of our observations spoke volumes.

As our journey continued, we uncovered an even darker reality, one we could barely imagine. The land was barren and silent, almost haunting. Water pumps were installed by various embassies, NGOs, and other organizations, but none of them worked. Women had to travel miles for a single bucket of water, and farmers worked without basic tools like tractors. Even owning a bicycle for transportation is a luxury only the wealthy can afford, forcing many to walk long distances. Life here feels like it is stuck in the 1900s.

When we asked the locals about their municipality’s budget and the lack of basic facilities, one local responded with palpable frustration. He recounted seeing the mayor only during election times and explained that reaching the municipal office took one or two days. He added, “We cannot sacrifice a day’s wage only to be met with hopelessness upon arrival. These officials are corrupt; they do not acknowledge our suffering. It has always been this way. My grandfather was poor, my father was hopeless, and I, without education, am dreamless.”

This grim portrait painted a vivid picture of enduring hardship—a cycle of poverty and despair that seemed inescapable.

To put it simply, there are no schools here, so no one is educated. Yet, the people possess courtesy, hospitality, and good manners. They don’t have much money, but they still give generously from the little they have. Many of them believe that having access to even a few basic amenities is enough because they haven’t traveled beyond their community, given that there isn’t even a single public transport option available. Constitutionally speaking, their right to a dignified life is miserably exploited.

With lost hope in the government and the state, people in southern Madhesh are enduring a life of neglect. The place is vulnerable, and their situation is dire. Their frustration, often misrepresented as a threat by political propaganda, portrays "Madheshis" unfairly. They seek recognition from the state, just as Kathmandu and other towns are acknowledged. They want the basic dignity of three meals a day. The constant disregard by the state is driving them to a rebellious stance for the sake of their loved ones. The political narrative framing this vulnerability as a national security threat is misleading. If the state continues to ignore these people as its own, the consequences could affect not just the southern Madhes, but all of Nepal.

Dikshya Adhikari

BA LLB

Kathmandu School of Law