“and Miss without education how will our country change?” That was the question I was asked by Avishak from class 6 yesterday on the bus ride home. It was in reference to how Kathmandu is currently out of petrol. This is more and more apparent from the lack of vehicles on the road, the lines that go on for miles at the gas pasals, and the armed military that surround the petrol station. It is no longer uncommon to see the army or police in riot gear along the streets, or to read about clashes, shoot on site curfews, and general disturbances throughout Nepal. We have no petrol, no government to change this, and people are beginning to take matters into their own hands. It is to the point where school buses can no longer get diesel, and therefore we can no longer have school. How to answer this question? How to understand a twelve year olds worry, when at his age my biggest concern was whether or not Matt thought I was cute.
As I read the paper and feel the change in Nepal, it is hard not to think of my students. It is an intense thing for me to pass by an armed officer with an automatic rifle, but what is that like for a 6 year old? How do they understand this? There is no way to hide this from them or to protect them, because they live it everyday. The past two days have brought many discussions and tears as I think about the future of Nepal and what that means for those I see running around SXG everyday. Most of these kids will never leave Nepal, and in a year and a half I get to go home. If things become bad here I have the magic ticket, a passport out of here. They don’t. And this idea breaks my heart.
Whenever I think of what may happen in Nepal and its future, students pop into my head. I think about Aditya, in class 2. He is really little for his age, and absolutely adorable. He is a kid who observes life, very indiscreetly, but you can just tell there is so much going on in his mind. I often watch him and his friends playing football during our chiyaa break, and it always warms my day. On the school bus Monday, he was forced into a seat with three other boys, and I could tell he was being squashed, but he said nothing, so I got up and told him to sit in my seat, as I bent down to hand him his backpack, he whispered (because he never speaks above a whisper) “Thank you miss.” Or Sanjay and Sofit who run around, dance in class and in general do things that they should get in trouble for but make me laugh instead (Sanjay has an uncanny ability to fall out of his chair). And then there is Mille and Julee twin sisters who love to talk with me during lunch asking questions about my favorite color, family, and if I get married can they come to my wedding?
I worry about what will happen to them. How it is unfair that they have to deal with this at such young ages and how helpless I feel. There is literally nothing I can do to change their futures. I sit by helplessly as I watch Nepal fall more into it-self. I can only hope that my prayers are heard by someone and things start to change. It’s just (to sound like a 4 year old) not fair, and I know life isn’t fair, but come on! People here are already dealing with poverty, water shortages, loadshedding, an unstable “government”, violence and now this. And the sad thing is, it effects the kids the most, because so often people just assume they are little and don’t understand anything, but it is because they don’t understand that you have to be more aware around them. They are little, not invisible.
I worry more for them then I do for myself. It just really is heartbreaking when you think of what this means for them. As I write this, we don’t have school because there was no petrol so the buses couldn’t run. It’s absurd to think that it is okay that school is cancelled because there is no gas. It is a major problem when schools are shut down. For awhile things have been on a downward spiral in Nepal, but it is finally hitting me, it is finally getting personal, when we have to start stocking up on food since the whole Tarai is on strike, or when my students can’t go to school. It hits home when I can cross a street that use to be packed with cars and now has maybe four or five or when armed militants running down the street greet me. I wish I could reassure students like Avishak that things will be okay, but to be honest, I just don’t know. I just don’t know how the country will change.