Against the advice of online experts, a volunteer ventures to Narti, Nepal, to support indentured servant girls, hoping to overcome the obstacles in his way to advocate for their human rights and freedoms.
They told me not to go to Narti in the Terai region of Nepal. The minimal information online warned of protests, strikes, and political violence by the numerous armed groups that operated there. It was particularly inadvisable to visit during the monsoon season in June, when torrential rains and soaring temperatures create the perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes and the deadly diseases they carry.
Yet, as a volunteer with Nepal Orphans Home, a nonprofit organization based in Kathmandu, I was determined to leave the capital city and learn more about Nepal. Kira, a volunteer from South Africa, and I arranged to spend a week supporting a home for rescued kamlaris (indentured servant girls) in Narti, a village located in the Terai region that straddles Nepal’s border with India.
As we left Kathmandu, Nepal’s natural beauty clashed with the chaos of unplanned human expansion. Corrugated tin, wood, cement, adobe, and brick were somehow meshed together to create the small huts and kiosks that lined the road. Beyond, lush green hills towered over us, vast and devoid of almost any sign of life beyond the occasional home and terraces of rice paddies, corn, potatoes, and other crops.
Our driver had no idea how to get to Narti and appeared terrified of using the accelerator. We coasted through the countryside, stopping frequently to ask for directions, while buses, motorbikes, pedestrians, goats, and cows all seemed to progress at a quicker pace. Inexplicably, the driver transformed into Speed Racer the moment we reached any urban area. He would slam his foot on the gas, swerve into opposing traffic, and send pedestrians running for safety. As soon as we exited the other side of the town, however, he eased up, and we coasted along again for hours.
Well after dusk had fallen, we finally arrived in Narti. Approximately twenty girls – some as young as seven and the oldest in their late teens – greeted us eagerly, chattering away in rapid Nepali as I tried to catch the odd word. Whenever they directed questions or comments at me, I flashed them an apologetic grin and employed the one Nepali phrase I knew (‘cintā nagara‘ – ‘don’t worry‘). This produced a lot of confused looks and probably some side conversations about my mental state.
While Kira stayed with the girls, I stayed with the local school principal, Krishna, who also operated a nongovernmental organization that supported rescued kamlaris. According to Krishna, the indigenous inhabitants of the Terai region – known as Tharu – were mostly landless farmers who “sold” their daughters as indentured servants to landowners in return for food and lodging as part of a bonded labor system. Many of these girls’ families received only a few dollars a year in payment; others received nothing. These girls, some as young as five, regularly worked more than twelve hours a day, fetching water, cleaning, collecting firewood, and caring for other children. They did not go to school and often suffered abuse from the families they served. A few months prior, Krishna said, an eleven-year-old kamlari hung herself. She had her bags packed, which indicated that the landowner had prevented her from visiting her family.
The rescued kamlaris’ home was near the school, with a large grassy field separating the two buildings. The girls attended classes in the mornings, so Kira and I organized games and activities in the afternoon. A couple of didis (caretakers) prepared the meals and looked after the younger girls. The didis had also been rescued from child slavery and appeared to be in their late teens. Despite the unfathomable hardships these children had endured, they were quick to flash a smile and never seemed to complain or quarrel. The nearly constant sounds of laughter carried across the grounds as Kira and I tried to entertain them with art projects, English lessons, and silly games. When I looked at their beautiful faces and joyful innocence, I felt an overwhelming sadness that they had endured forced labor, family separations, wretched living conditions, and – in some cases – physical and sexual abuse. I became particularly fond of Sita, a diminutive seven-year-old who appeared to manage our afternoon schedules and household chores. Even the didis deferred to her.
June 12 marked the World Day Against Child Labor. After classes ended, Krishna, Kira, and I piled into a bus with the older children and a few human rights activists. We planned to attend a public event entitled Education: A Response to Child Labor and then deliver a petition calling for the release of 35 kamlaris to the chief district officer of the Dang District. As the most senior-level government official in the area, we hoped the officer would use his authority to order their freedom, particularly since Nepal’s Supreme Court had already ruled that the kamlari system was illegal.
I was at the rear of the bus enjoying the beautiful view when I drifted off to sleep. I woke up when something wet splashed on my face. I assumed it was rain until I heard a loud retching a couple of seats ahead of me. One of the kids, unaccustomed to riding in a vehicle, had unleashed the contents of his lunch. This triggered a chain reaction among the other children, with several kids leaning out of both sides of the bus to be sick. We hastily closed the windows, which turned the inside of the bus into a sauna.
When we finally arrived at the venue, the room was packed with local government officials, journalists, civil society activists, and former kamlaris. Kira and I found seats at the back of the room. We waited for an hour in the stifling heat, with no bathroom to wash the vomit from my face and hair. Finally, Krishna approached and introduced us to the event organizers from another nongovernmental organization.
“They would like you to speak,” Krishna told me. He assured me that someone would translate my remarks. Sweating profusely, I reluctantly went to my seat on the stage. Krishna pointed to two men sitting beside me and assured me they spoke excellent English and would serve as my translators.
The organizers opened the event. After a few presenters spoke at length in Nepali, all eyes turned to me. One of my translators gestured at me to stand.
“Good afternoon. Thank you for this opportunity to discuss such an important topic. I’m sorry that I must speak in English,” I said, then paused and turned to my two translators. The closest one motioned for me to continue talking.
I glanced at the other, who said in halting English: “I … not understand… so well.” Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Kira in the back row, her face red with laughter. I spoke for a couple of minutes about the importance of education to break the vicious cycle of poverty and child labor, hoping that maybe a few people in the audience knew enough English to follow along.
After the event concluded, our group went to the headquarters of the Dang District’s chief district officer. A former kamlari presented the petition with the names of the 35 kamlaris and the families that held their contracts. The officer appeared taken aback at the sight of two foreigners among the crowd and kept glancing over at Kira and me. He responded briefly, promising to investigate the issue, and then his staff quickly ushered us out of his office.
As we took the long bus ride back to Narti, I felt disheartened, expecting that local officials would bury the petition with bureaucratic delays. The national government had ignored the Supreme Court ruling, and local authorities probably had an even greater incentive to avoid angering the wealthy landowners in their districts.
The next morning, Krishna informed us that the local press had broadcast the list of kamlaris on the radio and published it in the local newspapers. While the local government had taken no action, the public spotlight had produced results: three girls had already been freed, and several landowners were angrily protesting their inclusion on the list. Meanwhile, human rights activists planned additional initiatives to support the released kamlaris and increase public pressure until all the girls gained their freedom.
They told me not to go to Narti. And they were probably right because I endured countless mishaps and the experience took me well beyond my comfort zone. But the trip changed my life, and when the Government of Nepal finally banned the kamlari system a few years later, I quietly celebrated the significance of that decision from the other side of the world.
