The story begins fifty years ago, or so we’re told, when community members from the tiny village of Khasur, in western Nepal, grew tired of ploughing up skulls and other human remains.
Khasur is a picturesque ethnic Gurung village tucked into the shadow of the towering Lamjung Himal mountain. A few dozen tidy stone and mud houses tumble down a steep terraced hillside, linked by slate steps and surrounded by scattered fields. This himalayan paradise also happens to be located directly between two ancient graveyards.
Gurungs, in contrast with traditional Hindu practices, bury their dead in graveyards or chihandanda. The hillside above the village was designated as the final resting place for children, and the area below for adults. According to Prithvi Man Ghale, a village elder, this practice ended when the majority of the inhabitants converted to Buddhism and adopted cremation, discontinuing the tradition of burying dead bodies. The tradition changed further in the late 1990’s when Nepal’s much-lauded community forestry movement reached the village.
The community organized and formed the Khasur Community Forest Users’ Group, which set the chihandanda aside for forestry. They planted trees and regulated use of the area. As the trees grew, the once barren land became a thriving forest of valuable sal, walnut and oak covering 326 hectares. Locals began to harvest medicinal herbs, creating a side income stream. Wild boars frequented the forest, too, where community members began to hunt for meat. Springs that had dried up came back to life, creating such a surplus in drinking water that Khausar began to share their surplus water with neighboring villages.
“Traditionally, Jal, Jungle and Jamin [water, jungle and land] belong to Indigenous communities,” Prithivi Man said, before proudly adding, “As an indigenous group, Gurungs know how to apply our traditional respect for nature in a sustainable way. We were only able to do this once we had the political authority to create the community forest.”
Even as the forest grew, the history of the area was not forgotten. Community members believe that if any of the trees were cut, the souls of the people buried underneath them would come in the night to haunt the village. Firewood is only harvested when the trees themselves die of old age.
“Because of our traditional practices, the forest coverage has increased significantly,” said Nanda Bahadur Ghale, principal of Janajagriti Higher Secondary School. “But now we have to deal with monkeys and other wildlife that come right into the courtyards of our homes.”
“The forest has supported us in so many ways,” says Sarita Devi Ghale, treasurer of the Khasur Community Forest Users’ Group. “We distributed timber for all households as needed after the 2015 devastating earthquakes.”
Using funds generated by the community forest, the community established a cooperative tea house in the village center that is run by single women and now functions as a resource center for tourists that come to the village, connecting them with local homestays for the night.
“The community forest has helped us set up homestays, which generate job opportunities,” said Rupa Ghale, a local of Khasur. There are currently eleven households that offer homestays to tourists, with an additional seventeen houses that are seeking approval.
As local residents have traveled to Nepal’s major cities or abroad for work, Ghale sees opportunity. She has ambitious plans to use empty homes as home stays, which may draw foreigners in and revive tourism in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic. She also sees scope to create industries that benefit from the healthy forest such as workshops for furniture and natural leaf plates.
But, as with much in Nepal, this thriving example is under threat by dysfunctional local politics. In 2011, Local forest authorities refused to renew the registration of the Khasur Community Forest Users’ Group, citing a border dispute with neighboring villages. Of a total seven disputes related with neighboring community forests six have already been resolved. One remains still unresolved. Because of the last outstanding border dispute with neighboring forests, Khasur community forest users’ group is unsuccessful in exercising its authority to the fullest. Without this authority, the legal ownership of the land comes into question. Prithvi Man states, “Without the registration or land certificates, we can’t use the forest as collateral to seek bank loans to further develop industries or promote tourism.”
The community members in Khausar have created a sustainable model that combines indigenous values with modern tools to promote conservation and prosperity. As they wait for their legal registration to be renewed, the future depends solely upon the byzantine workings of Nepal’s local bureaucracy. It’s not hard to imagine that, once again, their ancestors are turning over in their graves.
