storiesofnepal "Like many girls living along the Nepal-India border, I came to Nepal after marriage and began living in my husband's home in Nepal. For families like ours, the border has never completely separated people. For generations, marriages, births, relatives, language, festivals and culture have connected families on both sides. I was born in India, but after marriage, my life became rooted in Nepal. My husband used to sing, dance and perform, and he played the Dholak. I worked too, while raising our children and managing the household. He also drank, and sometimes much of what he earned went towards alcohol. I had to make whatever remained stretch as far as possible. Today, when he gets work, he can sometimes earn two or three thousand rupees. My sons also work when they can. But after all these years, we still don't have land registered in our name. Without a Lalpurja, even getting a bank loan becomes difficult. How can we provide land documents when we don't have them? Where would poor people like us find five or ten lakh rupees without something to use as security? Sometimes we earn only four hundred rupees a day. We cut firewood and do whatever work we can find. We are used to working hard. What hurts is that after a lifetime of work, we still have no land to leave our children. There are fifteen people in our household. When I look at them, I wonder what will happen if we are told to leave. For us, a Lalpurja is not just a piece of paper. It is the possibility of security for our children and grandchildren."

storiesofnepal (Part 1/3) “Our home was previously in Bhelahi. Now we live in Chakraghatta-2, on what we have been told is ailani, government land. We have lived here for years, but we still don't have a Lalpurja in our name. Many times, we were told we might eventually get one, so we kept waiting and hoping. This is where we built our home, raised our children and watched our grandchildren grow up. For others, it may be government land. For us, it is the only home we have known for years. Our forefathers once had land, but they lost it while repaying loans. Little by little, everything was gone. I often wonder what our lives would have been like if our family had been able to keep that land. But we cannot change the past. We can only think about what we will leave for our children. We once went with our citizenship certificates because we had heard we could get a Lalpurja. We thought perhaps our long wait was finally over. But we were told the land was recorded as gaucharan, or grazing land, and that a Lalpurja could not be issued. I don't know what the government will ultimately decide. If the land is legally required for a public purpose, then the law has to be followed. But I have one question: if we cannot stay here, where will we go? We have no other house. We have no other land. We have nowhere else to return to. For us, this is not simply a question of land ownership. It is a question of where our family will live tomorrow.” (Bela, Ishwarpur, Sarlahi)

storiesofnepal "The story of our settlement goes back generations. Most of this land once belonged to Jimdars, who controlled large tracts of land. During the Rana period, people close to the ruling power were often granted land as Birta. We, the Musahars, were never given land. Instead, we were forced to work on the Birtas in return for permission to live here. We had little choice: resist and risk becoming homeless, or till their fields and keep a roof over our children’s heads. So we stayed, worked and endured. They claimed the land through power—guns, authority and laws that favored them. But to us, this was never simply land. Our families grew up here, our children were born here, and generations have spent their lives here. My parents remember when there were only a few houses. Open fields, farmland and empty spaces surrounded us. There were no proper roads, only narrow dirt paths. There were no drains or dense rows of houses like there are today. As the settlement grew, the land around us steadily disappeared. Roads were built, drains were dug, and parts of the land we had used for generations were taken away. The fields and open spaces that once surrounded our homes have almost vanished. Our biggest problem remains the lack of ownership documents. Many of us have lived here and built our homes for decades, yet have no land certificates. Some families surveyed under the Gaun Block system have received certificates, but many have not. For them, there is still no legal proof that the land beneath their homes belongs to them. So we live with a constant fear: What if the Jimdar comes tomorrow and says, “This is my land. You have to leave”? Where will we go? We have no other home. No other land. Yet our names are still missing from the papers. This is not simply about land. It is about our home, our identity and our future. After generations of living here, we still fear being forced to leave the only place we have ever called home. We built our lives here. But our names never made it onto the papers." (Bela-10, Ishwarpur, Sarlahi)

storiesofnepal (Part 3/3) "My daughter was born by cesarean section at a hospital in Lahan. The surgery cost around 70,000 to 80,000 rupees, and once again, it was my parents who paid every expense. The bullet wound from my childhood continued to affect my health. I underwent two surgeries, but my body has never fully recovered. I cannot walk long distances or do physically demanding work. Even a short period of activity leaves me drained. Today, my two-year-old daughter and I live with my parents. They provide everything we need—our food, medicine, treatment, and daily expenses. My husband has never come to see his daughter or ask how we are doing. Sometimes I wonder what my life would have looked like if that bullet had never found me. Perhaps I would have finished my education, built a career, and stood on my own feet. The conflict took away my childhood. Society took away my confidence. Marriage took away my dignity. Yet I continue to hope that my daughter will inherit a future free from the suffering that shaped my own life." (Suman Kumari Mahato) @undivided_wwbp

storiesofnepal (Part 2/3) "Because I never had the chance to receive vocational training or higher education, I struggled to become financially independent. Even today, I wish I could work in a bank or an office—any job that doesn't require heavy physical labor. But my injured leg still limits me. Standing or walking for long periods is painful, and even an hour of work leaves me exhausted. Only a few months after my marriage, I began facing constant emotional abuse and humiliation from my husband's family. I was blamed, insulted, and never treated with dignity. Eventually, I spent more time at my parents' home than in my marital home. Then came another painful chapter. For three to four years, I could not have a child. My husband's family blamed me for it and subjected me to even greater pressure and emotional abuse. I cried countless nights and prayed endlessly. Eventually, I gave birth to a daughter. But motherhood did not bring peace. My husband drank heavily, used drugs, and often beat me. He accused me of things I had never done and subjected me to constant mental and physical abuse. Although ours was an arranged marriage, I was never trusted. His family always stood by him, never by me..." (Suman Kumari Mahato) @undivided_wwbp

storiesofnepal (Part 1/3) "I was only four or five years old when I was caught in crossfire. A bullet struck my leg. My mother was also shot in her thigh and leg, and she still carries the scars today. I was too young to remember what happened, but the consequences have stayed with me my entire life. To pay for my treatment, my father sold our farmland and property. Relatives told him, “She is only a daughter. One day she will leave for another family. Why spend so much on her?” But my father ignored them. He sold everything he could to save my life and remove the bullet from my leg. Looking back, I realize he wasn't just paying for treatment—he was fighting for my future. The injury left one of my legs shorter than the other. My childhood was never like that of other children. At school and in my village, people mocked me, calling me "the lame girl." Those words hurt far more deeply than the bullet itself. Despite everything, I loved studying. I reached Grade 11 before I was married. Before the wedding, I was promised that I would be allowed to continue my education. But once I arrived at my husband's home in Mahendranagar, that promise disappeared. I was told that a married woman belonged in the house, not in school. My education ended, and with it, many of my dreams..." (Suman Kumari Mahato) @undivided_wwbp

storiesofnepal "Life is fragile and uncertain. The only way out of the suffering is to smile and continue living." (Bir Man Tamang)

storiesofnepal "The greatest pain is not my own suffering. It is watching my children inherit the same fear that I inherited from my parents. I do not want my children to grow up believing they are less than others because they are Dalit. I do not want them to fear every knock on the door. I want them to go to school with confidence, to dream without limits, and to be treated with the same dignity as every other child. I may never become rich. I may never own much in this life. But if one day my children receive even a small piece of land registered in their own name, I will feel that my struggles were not in vain. One or two dhur of land may seem insignificant to others, but to us it would mean safety. It would mean dignity. It would mean that no one could tell my children they do not belong. This is all I ask. Let my children grow up on land they can finally call their own." (Chinta Devi Majhi)