Up Close and Personal - Stateless in Kathmandu : Nuzhat Shahzadi

It was a difficult time. 2001. A time of sorrow and hopelessness. After the royal assassinations, Nepal spiraled to a never-ending downward climb . . .


Two days after the tragedy, I ventured out of the house. The main street that connected with my alley was deserted. I walked towards the nearby market. I saw grief. People were walking barefoot; men had shaved off their heads out of respect for the dead king. In Hindu religion sons do so when their fathers pass away. I later learned that the barbershops around Kathmandu were giving free head shavings. The country was in mourning.


I took off my shoes in solidarity.


The Maoist movement escalated. Tourists stopped coming. Economy collapsed. Hotels, restaurants and shops were closing down. Even my favorite Java Café in Thamel started shutting down by10 at night. Some days we couldn’t go to the office due to the threat of political violence. Luc, our security officer in UNICEF-ROSA advised us to stay home after dark and not to drive on the road before 7:30 a.m. In the mornings, Nepali forces diligently combed the streets for anti-personnel landmines, implanted by Maoists.


Kathmandu lost its spark. The roads were barren. Uncertainty loomed. Life stagnated for months. Load shedding was frequent at night. The villages at the bottom of the hilly-slope near my house were embalmed in darkness. Villagers had little extra money to buy kerosene oil for lamps or candles. On such nights I sat on my terrace that jutted out towards the mountains. The sky broke with a trillion stars. I could hear the sound of silence. I felt so alone . . .


My house had an inverter-generator with the capacity to light up one lamp in my bedroom and one at the staircase––whenever power outages happened. This luxury seemed obscene. Summer times were bearable, as it never got too hot. Winter nights were challenging––I diligently switched off the portable gas heater before going to bed to avoid fire hazards. The cold was brutal. Two comforters and hot water bags gave some relief in the shroud of darkness.


I lived in the outskirts of Kathmandu valley and had to cross the US embassy on my way to the office. It was a possible Maoist target. “Don’t be in the first car on the road. Let someone else get blown off,” the security warned, seriously. Maoists didn’t pose a direct threat to the UN. But accidental casualties could happen.


Maoists constantly called for strikes that shut down the entire country. Luc was concerned about my safety. During brief strikes he tolerated my living alone in a house on an isolated location with Gurkha guards, 24/7. He checked on me regularly. In case of longer strikes he wanted to evacuate me from my house. I was helpless against the UN security measures.


Besides me, there were two more international female officers in ROSA who didn’t have their families with them. Soma, a Sri Lankan had brought a male cook with her from Colombo. Linda Li Li, our EPI officer was from Myanmar (I think). She lived alone but her house was in the heart of Kathmandu. We were friends. One time I was evacuated to Linda’s.


Linda was an interesting person. And she was fun. She came to the office wearing a diamond necklace on return from one of her home leave travels. She knew my weakness for trinkets.


“It’s genuine. Got it on sale for $10,000. Much less than the actual price,” she enlightened me. “Now I am paying for my greed. Can’t leave it at home––wearing it daily when outside.” Regular break-ins were happening all over Kathmandu. I guess Linda didn’t trust the bank lockers.


“The dead Albatross around the sailor’s neck,” I referred to Coleridge and we chuckled.


Linda was older and wiser. After Nigel Fisher (RD) left, staff had adjustment issues with the new management. People struggled, more or less. At an all staff meeting she whispered to me, “Nuzhat, why do we need husbands when the office is giving us so much trouble?” I had a hard time controlling my laughter.


Linda was a great host. I enjoyed my evacuation to her house. We cooked rice and pasta and vegetable curries and sat down (on her balcony?) to eat as the sun went down behind the Himalayas––the sound of footsteps and voices faded on the streets.


After some days, I got restless. Wanted to go back to my place. On sunny days from certain bends on the road to my house I could see the sparkling snow of Everest. I missed my mountains. I missed my silent starlit nights. I missed my own bed. I missed being alone . . .


“What’s eating you?” a friend sensed my anxiousness and asked while I was crashing in at Linda’s.


“I feel like a refugee! Lost––I’m now ‘stateless’ in Kathmandu!” I was truthful.


. . . And my many challenges continued as a UN officer––in good times and bad times, in different countries and cultures.

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