Diva KC | layout editor

I spent much of my childhood in Kathmandu, Nepal. I distinctly remember the streets of my neighborhood, the friendly faces of my neighbors as they watched me run by and the hum of conversation in the air. Since I was 10 years old, New York City has more or less become my home. Yet, I continue to yearn and mourn for the life I lived and could’ve had in Nepal.

My perception of Kathmandu feels trapped at 10 years old, with my friends, family and neighbors frozen in time. Of course, that is all quickly shattered when I scroll on Instagram or video call my relatives back in Nepal. My baby cousins are taller than me, my aunt can’t see well anymore and the adults from that time look so much older. This perception extends past Kathmandu to Nepal as a whole. I hear of higher prices, new trends and landmarks. Many of the streets that were once second nature are entirely unrecognizable. I can never return to being that kid, nor can I return to the Nepal I knew so well.

A bigger heartbreak lies in watching everything from the sidelines. I’m not able to be there for my people, my home when I so desperately want to be. I watched the protests that took place last year and the floods in Nepal this month through my phone screen. I was often frozen in shock, my head constantly ringing with, ‘I should’ve been there.’ It feels wrong to have safety and comfort thousands of miles away and to only hear stories of pain and suffering. I don’t want to keep seeing this. The helplessness and guilt is all-consuming at times.

A year ago, I watched videos upon videos of people my age on the streets, demanding change for my country. There was so much uncertainty for the future state of the country at the time, and I spent every spare moment on my phone, checking updates on the current situation. As things escalated, I was on edge. I had to continue on with my life, go to classes, go to work, all while my heart and mind stayed with the people on the streets.

The daily news was an ongoing nightmare for Nepalis across the world. There was nothing I could do but hope things wouldn’t take a turn for the worse while talking to my friends and family at home. The school I attended as a child was burned, police brutality was rampant and countless lives lost. Many of the streets that held treasured memories of a foundational time of my life were on fire. All I could do was simply just watch it all unravel.

The feeling persists now; I’ve watched videos of the floods crashing through several regions in Nepal, and there is a hollowness in watching it all happen across the world. I worry for the people hit by the floods, the kids who lost their parents, the families who lost their loved ones and I want so badly to help in ways more than simply donating. I run into videos everyday, always with at least one about people still missing or dead. The videos show people grieving their loved ones or pleading for help in Nepali. Everything hits so close to home, but I no longer live anywhere near.

Many Nepalis are bound by circumstances that prevent them from going home. I’m fortunate enough to be in the same place as my immediate family, and not everyone has this luxury. A family friend of mine spent 15 years not being able to see her mother and she continues to mourn her loss to this day. Almost every conversation we have includes a reminder to hold my mother close. I haven’t seen my cousins in almost a decade — my aunt hasn’t seen her sons in that long either.  

Time is slipping day-by-day, but there is nothing I can do to stop it. Back home, my family is getting older and older, and I’m losing time I could have spent with them. Nepal feels like it’s getting further and further away from me, and suddenly I’m without a tether. I cling desperately to feelings of home: speaking Nepali with my family, frequenting Nepali restaurants in Jackson Heights, eating momo and sel roti at home, celebrating Dashain and Tihar. Even if it’ll never be the same as it was in Nepal, it’s all I have. I try desperately to hold onto the parts of my culture that I do have.

Life has a way of sweeping you away. If I close my eyes long enough, I’m right back to where I was, walking the streets of Kathmandu. I’m walking to the little shop near my home in Baluwatar, buying treats and chatting to the aunty who runs the shop. I’m walking to my stop in Pavitra Workshop where my school bus will pick me up and take me to class.

I open my eyes and the school I cherished doesn’t exist anymore. The aunty who ran the shop is much older and I have no idea who might be in charge nowadays. I’m almost a decade older, the streets are unfamiliar and I’m suddenly lost much faster than I thought I would be.

Time has swept me further away than my tether, yet I relentlessly cling on to what I still have. My friends and family back home throw me the rope and pull me closer. Maybe it isn’t ever completely over. Maybe home is closer than I think. Or maybe I just really need to step foot in Kathmandu once more.

Diva KC can be reached at kcd@duq.edu