The Globe and Mail
Save us from such saviors
What happened at Bageswari shows that Nepal's Maoist insurgency is being inadvertently aided by a ruthless government crackdown, says CLAUDE ADAMS
Wednesday, March 13, 2002 – Page A19
Katmandu--Late last year, Nepal's ragtag Maoist guerrillas attacked an army base in the mountains near the town of Dang. After shooting up the barracks, the rebels carried off three 81 mm cannons, but forgot to take the base plates. "Army officials are smiling," reported a local newspaper. Everybody had a good laugh imagining the carnage if the rebels tried to fire the cannon without the steel supports.
Nobody is laughing anymore. Nepal is in the fourth month of an official state of emergency during which a few thousand poorly armed insurgents have tangled with an army of 50,000. Just before parliament was due to vote last month on an extension of the emergency, the Maoists staged their deadliest offensive, leaving 167 people, mostly security personnel, dead. This past weekend, Nepalese soldiers countered, killing 19 guerrillas.
Nobody thinks the rebels can win their so-called People's War, but they seem to be able to demoralize politicians, undermine the economy, and terrorize the authorities at will. The capital, Katmandu, and some southern tourist spots are relatively safe, and the rebels have so far left foreign trekkers alone. But most of this achingly beautiful country is verging on anarchy.
How could a small rebel force using terror and the tired slogans of a dead, discredited Communist revolutionary make such an impact?
When I visited Nepal recently to find out, I found Katmandu grim, its merchants desperate. Hotels were offering deep discounts. Soldiers stood at busy intersections. And aid agencies were bemoaning the fact that millions of dollars earmarked for development were now going into the war effort.
And it is a war. In six years of rebellion, more than 2,800 people have been killed. The guerrillas, who model themselves on the Peruvian Shining Path insurgents, want to topple the country's constitutional monarchy, and transfer power from the landlords and the urban elite to the rural poor.
Tensions escalated last summer after Nepal's reformist king Birendra and other members of the royal family were massacred. The new King, Gyanendra, doesn't have the support of his late brother, and he raised the stakes in the civil unrest by ordering the army to crush the Maoist rebels. The army simply isn't up to the task.
"If the Maoists come here, we will kill them," a young major, Binaya Rana, told me as we sat in a heavily guarded base north of Katmandu. The absurdity of the boast was lost on him: What kind of army waits for insurgents to attack it?
The answer came in due course from the major himself: an army that was under-equipped and underpaid, an army that would much rather be out on United Nations peacekeeping duty than chasing Maoists through the hills. "I was in Sierra Leone on peacekeeping duty, and I earned $150 U.S. a day," he said over a cup of hot, fragrant tea. "Here, I make $120 a month. I like peacekeeping duty."
The Maoists are targeting mostly policemen and politicians vocally opposed to the Maoist cause. For the most part, they are careful not to kill innocent civilians. The army, on the other hand, seems less discriminating. One human-rights campaigner told me: "Before the state of emergency was declared [on Nov. 26, 2001], the Maoists were a legitimate political party. Now the government is saying that if you're a Maoist, you are a terrorist and we have to kill you."
Human-rights groups in Katmandu are trying to pull together information on hundreds of suspicious deaths, but the data is sketchy. Among these files, I came across the case of a 24-year-old peasant farmer named Khet Lamichhane.
The story, as I reconstructed it, begins shortly after daybreak on Saturday, Dec. 8, 2001. Five platoons of Nepalese infantryman and about three dozen policemen in the town of Trisuli are ordered into military transports. They are acting on an intelligence tip -- reports that a group of 30 armed Maoists are spending the night in the farming village of Bageswari.
The trucks rumble up a dusty, curving road into the hills. The morning fog is heavy, so they move slowly. At about 8:30 a.m., the force rolls into the village -- nearly 150 armed men, fingers nervously on the trigger.
Bageswari is just awakening. It's a cool, damp morning. A handful of children play in the dust. A few women have begun their weaving circle in the village square. All heads go up as the security force pulls in.
Suddenly the peaceful morning explodes into violence. It's not clear what set things off. The police say three shots were fired in their direction. "It was an ambush," an official would say later. The townspeople say no, they heard no shots.
Whatever the case, police and soldiers open fire. They spray bullets everywhere. A half-dozen shots hit the local school. One of the bullets strikes Khet Lamichhane in the midsection. He goes down screaming. Soldiers are running everywhere, firing as they move. A group of soldiers and police races into a wooded area in pursuit of a fleeing man, Ganjayan Tamang, a herbal-medicine dealer. They catch up to him and kill him.
Soldiers then order all villagers into their homes and tell them to shut the doors and windows. Those who refuse are beaten.
Cowering in their huts, the villagers do not see what happens next. However, at least three people say they distinctly hear a soldier ask an officer if Mr. Lamichhane, now nearly unconscious, should not be given medical care. According to the villagers, the officer replied: "He doesn't need medicine. Give him another bullet." Then there is a shot from a semiautomatic rifle.
Khet Lamichhane's 21-year-old wife, Ishwori, hears that her husband has been gunned down. She scoops up their daughter and begins to run down the path toward the scene of the shooting. A soldier stops her. "Get back into your house."
Six days later, I seek out the district police chief, Bikram Singh Thapa. At first, he refuses to say anything about the incident, except that the Interior Ministry in Katmandu has "the full report." And that the security men brought Mr. Lamichhane to a hospital in Trisuli, where he was seen by a doctor. He died of his injuries the same day. Then, presumably, the body was cremated before the family arrived to request it. Could I talk to the doctor? "He's not here," Mr. Thapa says.
Khet Lamichhane. I take the name and the story to the Nepalese government. I contact the Defence Ministry, and the Interior Ministry, and I ask: So what happened? And why?
I phone a dozen times, send faxes and e-mails. I give them dates, chronologies. I quote villagers, ask to talk to the officers involved.
Finally, a spokesman tells me: "We're looking. We'll get the real story for you." He never calls back.
Anyone trying to understand what sustains the violence in Nepal might want to begin with the death of Khet Lamichhane.
Hong Kong-based journalist and documentary filmmaker Claude Adams is a former CBC foreign correspondent.
