Submit your Article

In the corridors of Singhdurbar, a comforting consensus has long resonated among the lawmakers of Nepal whenever the dark specter of modern slavery is raised. The refrain is predictable: Nepal’s laws are robust, our penal thresholds are fiercely punitive, and what the country lacks is not legislative text but the administrative political will to implement it. 

On paper, it’s an easy argument to make. The 2007 Human Trafficking and Transportation (Control) Act (HTTCA) mandates punishments of up to 20 years’ imprisonment, placing human exploitation on par with the most serious offenses within the national penal matrix. But this constant reassurance from parliament is based on a fundamental misunderstanding of what good law is. It combines the harshness of the punishment with the accuracy of the definition, thus creating a profound, systemic disconnect between the statutory language of Nepal and the rapidly evolving mechanisms of transnational crime.

The bleak reality is that Nepal’s anti-trafficking legal framework is not just poorly implemented, it is fundamentally broken. The statutory framework is completely out of step with the contemporary geography of human exploitation, characterising the crime through a medieval lens of physical ownership and forced prostitution. 

The state boasts of a 20-year prison sentence for anyone who “buys or sells” a human being, but the international syndicates operating out of cyber-scam compounds in Southeast Asia or labor camps in the Gulf do not buy or sell their victims in a literal marketplace. They use them. They weaponize economic desperation, using deceptive recruitment and fraudulent documentation.

The law is effectively blind to non-sexual, transnational forced labour because the base offence under Section 4 of the 2007 HTTCA does not contain the essential elements of “means” and “purpose”, which are the cornerstones of contemporary human rights jurisprudence. The law creates distinct offenses of “human trafficking” and “human transportation,” a unique legal structure found only in Nepal that breaks the continuity of cross-border cases. 

A Nepali prosecutor faces an insurmountable wall of evidence under the anti-trafficking act when a broker cheats a young man in a village in Sindhupalchok, smuggles him across the open border into India and eventually leaves him in an abusive labor camp in Dubai. There is no evidence of an actual sale, nor an intent to exploit sexually. 

This narrow view requires a catastrophic legal downgrade. Law enforcement authorities routinely funnel these sophisticated trafficking operations into the regulatory bucket of the Foreign Employment Act of 2007 to achieve any semblance of a conviction. This alternative path reframes a serious transnational human rights abuse as a regular administrative breach of contract. Instead of decades-long prison sentences, traffickers are treated like unregulated or rogue travel agents, getting away with minor administrative fines and a requirement to pay restitution to the victim. A legal system that privileges bureaucratic categorization over human dignity erases the trauma of forced labor, captivity and psychological coercion. 

The costs of this legislative inertia are felt well beyond the domestic courtroom. In June 2020, Nepal’s Parliament ratified the United Nations Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, Especially Women and Children, or the Palermo Protocol, after years of sustained advocacy by civil society. By signing this treaty, Nepal did not sign a declaration of intent but accepted a binding international treaty obligation. 

The Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties prohibits a state party from pleading the defects of its own internal laws in justification for failure to perform a treaty. The Palermo Protocol offers a detailed three-fold definition of trafficking in persons: an act (e.g. recruitment, harboring), achieved by a specific means (e.g. threat or force, coercion, abduction, fraud or deception), for an ultimate purpose of exploitation (e.g. forced labor, servitude or removal of organs). Nepal’s failure to fully domesticate this tripartite definition in the HTTCA leads to a huge compliance gap. 

Even more troubling, the domestic framework does not clearly distinguish human trafficking from human smuggling. In the newly proposed HTTCA First Amendment Bill, legislators have lumped human smuggling into the definition of trafficking, which is disastrous.

Human smuggling is regarded under international law as a crime against a state’s sovereign borders based upon a voluntary, transactional agreement to circumvent immigration law. Human trafficking, however, is a continuing violation of a person’s basic human rights that is predatory and based on exploitation. By conflating the two, Nepal’s legal machinery often turns victims into criminals, penalizing migrants for irregular border crossings or visa violations instead of rescuing them from systemic exploitation. Nowhere is this isolationism more starkly illustrated than in the changing legal realities of Nepal’s South Asian neighbors. 

The sub-continent shared the same stale legacy for decades; trafficking as a crime that was only sex work crossing national boundaries. Yet neighbor after neighbor, in line with international legal and ethical developments, has seen that this antiquated, limited legal regime provides paralysis rather than power to law enforcers. 

Take India, for instance. Although India’s pioneering 1956 Immoral Traffic (Prevention) Act was focused entirely on sex work, India implemented a judicial and legislative reform. The addition of Section 370 into the Indian Penal Code translated Palermo Protocol definitions directly into domestic criminal law by criminalising labour trafficking, slavery and deception. In turn, Indian law enforcers are able to break down nationally based labor rings that previously operated beneath the local vice-squad’s purview.

Likewise, Bangladesh took a huge leap forward with its Human Trafficking Deterrence and Suppression Act 2012, transforming the anti-trafficking framework into a comprehensive standalone criminal offense comparable to international benchmarks. Most importantly, Bangladesh has legislated specifically around the very problem currently hindering Nepal. It has bridged the gap between fraudulent overseas migration and human trafficking and criminalized the offenses before anti-trafficking tribunals to speed them up.

Even Pakistan has been the subject of criticism for its enforcement but the Prevention of Trafficking in Persons Act in 2018, for example, was an act which carefully unwove migrant smuggling from human trafficking. The experience and ongoing development of laws in these neighboring countries should provide Nepal with a valuable roadmap, as the laws governing criminal enterprises can hardly stay in place as the latter become digitalised, fluid and global corporate bodies.

While the state has repeatedly rescued individuals who have fallen victim to trafficking, this is not enough. The moment of rescue is just the beginning of another painful trauma. Victims often suffer further at the hands of the same state that is supposed to help. Section 13 of Nepal’s HTTCA outlines a basic plan for rehabilitation centers and a fund for institutional support. 

However, the reality is grim. Once rescued from traffickers, victims lose their agency and autonomy. They are confined to shelter homes with limited movement. They undergo institutional training programs that rarely lead to real economic independence. The issue is both institutional and societal. 

Right now, every interaction a survivor has with state authorities, from filing a police report to seeking help for citizenship or rehabilitation, is filled with humiliation and moral judgment. Officers often question the victim’s status as a victim, focusing on their complicity instead of the state’s failure to protect its citizens. This shaming often leads survivors to stay silent rather than seek justice.

However, we cannot change decades of deep-seated patriarchal discrimination in the bureaucracy just by passing new laws. To improve how the state interacts with survivors, Nepal must go further to build a “Trauma-Informed Bureaucracy”. This means implementing thorough, accredited training on trauma-informed service delivery, not just offering one-off awareness programs. Such training should be a core part of programs at the Nepal Administrative Staff College and the National Police Academy.

Additionally, the Ministry of Women, Children, Gender and Sexual Minorities, and Social Security should set up independent Oversight and Accountability Ombudsman units at the district level. These units should be staffed with civil society experts and public interest lawyers and serve as places where victims can report administrative harassment and abuse of power while still managing their legal cases. A police desk officer or sub-inspector aware of potential investigations or negative marks on their record for mistreating a victim will likely rethink their conduct.

Making laws is not just about words; it’s about protecting people. As long as Nepal’s parliament hides behind outdated punitive laws, they leave the country’s youth vulnerable to complex international crime networks. Following the Palermo Protocol and implementing the National Policy Against Human Trafficking is not just a bureaucratic task for foreign reports or improving international rankings; it is a crucial defense need. 

Nepal does not require more laws or better enforcement of existing ones. It needs effective, modern tools to fight against current crime and a compassionate, responsive government, which understands that a victim’s struggles do not end with their rescue but only when they can live freely in their hometown without fear or shame.

Shuffling through the realities of Nepal’s Adult Entertainment Sector (AES) meant spending days absorbing stories of survival, economic displacement, wage theft and a quiet, systemic cruelty. It is a recurring pattern. Once these issues are translated into writing, the other, more important, question remains: how do we fix it? 

For a long time, AES like cabin restaurants, dance bars, and dohori sanjhs have been viewed as a societal taboo that needs policing. This completely deters us from the fact that it is an informal economy where workers are systematically stripped from their basic legal rights. This is not merely an accident but a result of policy vacuum that gives employers leeway to operate outside the boundaries of law, essentially profiting through labour exploitation. The law exists on paper, but the implementation is bleak. 

The majority of AES workers are denied written contracts, forcing them to maintain an informal relationship with the employer. This goes against Section 11 of Nepal’s Labour Act (2074), which prohibits employing anyone without a written agreement. Ideally, these workers are supposed to receive a written contract with wage that matches or exceeds the government’s minimum wage standards, independent of tips and commission. 

This lack of paper trails not only takes away their labour rights; it ripples into something worse. It enables rampant wage theft, arbitrary transmission and employers have a terrifying leverage against workers when they force them toward unsafe situations with the clients like coerced alcohol consumption.

To tackle this, the next step is to make use of the already existing law that has failed to protect this community. The state is responsible for ensuring that there are mandatory, industry-specific standardized contracts that ensure workers’ fair pay. Additionally, to make this work, local governments must make the annual renewal of an establishment’s commercial license dependent upon digital payroll records. If salaries are paid electronically into a bank account, employers can no longer retroactively claim a worker was never employed there when a dispute arises.

However, the risk of working in AES does not stay confined within the four walls of their workplace. Kathmandu does not have operational public transportation after 11 pm. These workers have no choice but to walk home, which is often rendered unsafe as their work ends at 2 am. Most often, they face inappropriate interactions and abuse on the street. 

Under Section 132 of the Labour Act, employers are required to ensure that a workplace is free from sexual harassment and abuse. This law hasn’t been implemented within the workplace as many experience abuses camouflaged as client engagement. In a work that involves late-night economy, commuting home is a direct extension of that workplace. To address this issue, the most practical solution would be to amend local municipal byelaws to make it legally mandatory for any commercial establishment operating at night after certain hours to provide verified, door-to-door drop-off transportation for their staff. 

Finding a place to live is another big issue. Housing insecurity is a major problem among these workers. As working in AES is considered more of a taboo than a job in Nepali society, most landlords are unwilling to allow these workers to rent a place. Even if they do, workers are exposed to humiliation for doing a job that isn’t socially approved. 

Facing intense social stigma and sudden evictions, many women are pushed into unsafe live-in relationships just for physical protection. Local governments need to use municipal funds to partner with specialized civil society groups to fund subsidized, safe-haven hostels where workers can find secure, stigma-free housing and immediate mental health support to cope with deep occupational burnout.

What’s more heartbreaking is that the trauma is passed down through bureaucratic violence to the next generation. As mentioned in the previous article in AES, there are workers left by their partners to raise children on their own. This is often the result of live-in relationships, again, a temporary solution workers comply with to ensure a roof over their head. Despite needing the state’s support, these workers hit a brick wall at local ward offices. 

Officials are known to refuse birth registration or to process citizenship applications, frequently demanding the physical presence or identification of the father. This administrative gatekeeping is a direct violation of Article 38 of the Constitution of Nepal which guarantees the rights to women and Article 39 that protects a child’s right to identity. 

More importantly, it violates landmark Supreme Court precedents like the Sabina Damai case, which explicitly ruled that a mother has the independent legal right to register her child’s birth and give citizenship matrilineally if the father cannot be found or is uncooperative. To solve this problem, the Ministry of Federal Affairs should issue clear directives to local levels regarding the refusal to register a child in a single mother’s name. Municipalities should also establish permanent free legal aid desks in wards so that these women have immediate representation to fight through the bureaucracy.

Finally, the pipeline to the entertainment industry must be recognized for what it is: a web of duplicitous recruiting and trafficking. Brokers exploit regional economic desperation and prey on vulnerable groups. Once these women are caught in the city, their financial independence is demolished through unpaid wages. Under Nepal’s Human Trafficking and Transportation (Control) Act, 2064, it is a serious crime to keep someone in forced labour or exploit them by using deception, coercion or withholding of financial support. 

It’s something legal advocates have long pointed to as a perfect example of internal trafficking, since an employer who withholds months of a worker’s salary as an arbitrary “finder’s fee” fits the statutory definition. The Ministry of Home Affairs needs to stop treating these wage disputes as petty civil disagreements and instead should prosecute predatory employers under the Act of 2064. The Department of Foreign Employment also needs to focus on cracking down on rogue recruitment agencies when this exploitation spills overseas, for instance, through manipulation of visit visas. It should also invest in emergency repatriation resources at Nepali embassies abroad. While talks with the authorities suggest interventions are underway, the result is barely visible. 

However, there is the single biggest bureaucratic bottleneck in Nepal that needs to be overcome to implement any of these solutions. It is the total lack of institutional ownership. Right now, if an entertainment worker seeks help, they get caught in a cycle of administrative buck-passing. 

If they complain about a withheld paycheck, they are told to go to the Ministry Of Labour, Employment and Social Security. If they report abuse at work or internal trafficking, they are referred to the Ministry of Home Affairs. If they want protection as a single mother or a vulnerable woman, then the responsibility is on the Ministry of Women, Children and Senior Citizens. 

There is no single entity that takes accountability for the sector because their issues cut across labour, criminal justice, and social welfare, leaving workers to bounce helplessly between different government corridors. The government cannot continue to let these women fall through the structural cracks of its own fragmented bureaucracy. 

Rather than creating a new centralized bureaucracy that risks being driven mainly from the capital, the state must emphasize strengthening and mobilizing existing frameworks at the grassroots level. The real enforcement mechanism is local governments. This decentralization allows municipalities to craft rules, response mechanisms and dedicated budgets suited to their context, letting local authorities manage first-level labor grievances and provide direct oversight.

Real, lasting change for Nepal’s entertainment sector will never come from heavy-handed police raids, moral surveillance or paternalistic bans that only push the industry further underground and empower corrupt actors to exploit vulnerable workers. True justice is removing these workers from the legal shadows and putting them under the full protection of the state’s labour laws. 

The state can begin to dismantle this exploitation by enforcing the existing Labour Act, operationalizing the Supreme Court’s rulings on single mothers and treating predatory wage detention as a serious trafficking offense. The solutions are already written in the country’s laws. All the state needs are the political will to enforce them for the women working in the late-night shadows of its cities.

It is 7 pm on a Friday night. We are at a dance bar. There is a stage and a pole. The red and blue lights flickering is almost blinding. The music is loud. The setting is uncomfortable. We have the luxury of walking away and not returning. This is not the case for performers who were arriving at their workplace. It was time to change. Clients need to be entertained. 

I, along with Samundra Baniya, a field officer from Biswas Nepal, a non-governmental organization (NGO) founded by former employees of the Adult Entertainment Sector (AES), visited dance bars and dohori saajh across Sundhara, Kathmandu. “The obvious reason for them to continue working here, despite several human and labor rights violations, is the financial struggle they grew up with back home,” says Baniya. It is true, but not the only reason.

In an interactive session hosted on April 10 by Biswas Nepal, 10 female performers and one male manager of a dance bar shared their struggles while working in the AES. Their identities and ages were not disclosed to maintain privacy.

These workers resonated with what Baniya said. Most started working in this field to support their families. Some had been working for years while others had just started, and all came from low-income backgrounds These workers resonated with what Baniya said. Most started working in this field to support their families. Some had been working for years while others had just started, and all came from low-income backgrounds and dysfunctional families. One of the workers has no parents, some are victims of domestic violence and chose to escape, and most do not have a supportive family to lean on during hard times. 

Survival is their biggest challenge. “I finished my high school and had joined a bachelor’s program, but the burden of paying fees, rent, and sending money back home was crippling,” says one worker in her early 20s.  To cover these costs, she began working in the sector. “I am a volleyball player,” says another who moved to Kathmandu from a hilly district. She grew up without parents and is on her own. Working in the AES was the financially sound “decision” she made to sustain her life in the city. “I play for the district volleyball team,” she adds. Little to zero financial support for athletes makes it a burdening career choice.

The saddening truth is that most of these women want to pursue different careers. However, economic realities have forced them into a job they are not comfortable with. The pressure is extensive, so much so that one worker developed mental health issues. “I started forgetting things, and in the middle of work, I once almost passed out after drinking with a guest,” she says, looking confused. She cannot understand how it happened, as that amount of alcohol had never affected her that way before. It was difficult not to wonder if her drink had been spiked.

It isn’t simply the pressure of the work, the night shifts, or the extended hours that cause these mental health issues. The AES in Nepal is not well-regulated. Although guidelines exist, most establishments take an extra-judicial approach. “There is no respect for what we do, even if we do it to make a living,” says a long-time performer. This disrespect manifests as verbal or sexual abuse, which they are forced to endure to keep their jobs. “Most guests come to me and ask if a particular girl they like is available for the night,” says the manager present at the session. “Even though I say no, I know many managers who will entertain such requests,” he adds.

If asking this upfront is considered acceptable, one can only imagine what it’s like to work for clients with similar intentions while they are intoxicated. “If we aren’t dancers, we are servers, and they write texts on their phones to show us, asking how much we will take for the night,” adds another worker.

“They [the owner] make us drink with the guests, sit with them, or even go spend the night with them if it means the customers will visit regularly,” she says. Most women agreed with what she said. “We have a choice to say no, but it means we lose our commission,” she adds, making it a compulsion rather than an option.

However, following the owner’s instructions doesn’t guarantee a fair or timely wage. While we were on the field visit, a worker in her late teens approached us. She had just started at a new establishment after the owner of her previous workplace refused her paycheck. She was owed around Rs 12,000. Baniya mentions this is a common problem.

Most establishments do not provide valid contracts. Without legally binding documents, filing a complaint is nearly impossible. Recovering their salary through legal channels is difficult because they lack evidence of employment. They further add that all they receive is an ID card valid for six months. Sometimes, not even that. 

This problem follows them home. Finding a room to rent is already a challenge for these women. “No one wants to rent to a woman whose work involves coming home late at night,” they say. It is worse when they cannot pay rent on time. “Once, my landlord would not open the door, and we spent the night on the street,” another added. Almost everyone in the room nodded. They had all experienced this.

Advocate Rasana Dhakal, an independent lawyer who handles cases involving AES, says this is a steppingstone to deeper problems. One of the biggest fears for these women is having nowhere to live. This leads them to make harsh choices. “There are women who enter live-in relationships that result in unwanted pregnancy and abandonment,” she adds.

These relationships are often born of necessity. “Staying in a live-in relationship guarantees a roof over their head,” Dhakal says. But there is more to it: safety. Their commute back home is dangerous. With no public vehicles available at 2 in the morning, some must walk 30 minutes of eerie Kathmandu streets to their destination. “It is scary, and people assume they can say or do anything to us because we work in a dance bar,” says the veteran performer in the group. Living with someone provides a sense of protection, but it creates new hurdles.

“When there is no proof of marriage, it is difficult to claim citizenship or a birth certificate for a newborn child,” says Dhakal. While birth certificates must be provided at the place of birth, many women are refused service the moment they mention they are unmarried. The bureaucratic hurdles and blunt rudeness from officials only add to their trauma.

A question lingers: why work there if it’s so bad? Most AES workers lack a formal educational background because staying in school requires financial stability they don’t have. Jobs are scarce, and when they do find one, the wage is insufficient. “I was offered only Rs. 8,000 for a different job. There were no contracts or guarantees I’d be paid on time,” one worker notes. That amount cannot cover rent and education in Kathmandu. The AES, while challenging, offers better pay.

This is also how many are lured into the sector. Most women get these jobs through friends or relatives who claim the money is “easy.” These individuals are often responsible for bringing more workers into the fold. However, this lucrative aspect of the industry often catalyzes cases of internal and external trafficking.

“The agents who find these women jobs sometimes keep several months of their salary as commission,” says Baniya. This is internal trafficking. “However, most people aren't aware their actions constitute trafficking because legal awareness is minimal,” adds Dhakal. Furthermore, workers are often pressured to leave their current workplace for “better” opportunities offered by other owners, only to end up in worse situations.

This also involves foreign employment recruitment agencies that lure workers with false job prospects abroad using ‘visit visas,’ escalating the issue to international human trafficking. “There is a worker stuck in Dubai, the United Arab Emirates (the UAE), who left on a visit visa. She is not allowed to leave her workplace,” says Kalpana Sapkota, Program Manager at Biswas Nepal. The worker tried to run away but was caught and returned. Her only hope now is to reach the Embassy of Nepal for repatriation. The nearest embassy is in Abu Dhabi in the UAE. 

These issues were identified through direct conversation, but many establishments in the Durbarmarg and Jamal areas refuse entry to NGOs or journalists. It is a sign of clandestine criminal activity. Workers mentioned that clients prefer younger girls, and minors are often brought out after midnight and hidden away whenever authorities are near. While evidence is hard to gather, the workers confirm it happens.

The problem is not necessarily the industry itself, but the lack of regulation. “This industry gets a bad name because of how people view it,” says Tara Bhandari, founding chairperson of Biswas Nepal and a former AES worker. “It’s a place where you eat, drink, and watch a performance. With strict rules, this could simply be a workplace.”

The demand from these workers is not to shut the establishments down. They want job security, ensured safety, legally binding contracts, and intervention from employers when clients misbehave. “We are doing this to make a living, too,” they ask. “Why should it cost our dignity?”

Microsoft said on Saturday that its Microsoft Azure users may experience increased latency due to multiple undersea fiber cuts in the Red Sea, The Business Standard reported.

In an updated status message for its Azure system, the company said its users may experience service disruptions on traffic routes through the Middle East.

"We do expect higher latency on some traffic that previously traversed through the Middle East. Network traffic that does not traverse through the Middle East is not impacted. We'll continue to provide daily updates, or sooner if conditions change," Microsoft said.

CPN (Maoist Center) Chairman, Pushpa Kamal Dahal, has demanded the government to investigate the violent incidents that occurred at Tinkune area, Kathmandu and bring to book the culprits.

Chair Dahal said so  after inspecting the office of the CPN (Unified Socialist) which was also vandalized by the protestors on Friday.

Talking briefly to the media, he said the government also needs to seriously review the lapses in security arrangement.

Waste management in Kathmandu Valley is a big problem. It generates 1,200 metric tonnes of solid waste everyday, where only a few gets recycled. More than 700 metric tonnes of solid waste end up at Banchare Danda landfill site, with around 300 garbage trucks dumping waste there on a daily basis. 

The purpose of the landfill, initially, was for the disposal of solid waste that can neither be recycled. That amounts to around 30 percent of the total waste the valley generates. But sadly, that’s not the case. From degradable to non-degradable waste, everything is disposed of at Banchare Danda landfill site.

There are municipalities like Waling (Syangja) and Tilottama (Rupandehi) that have done a commendable job in managing their solid waste. Their waste management sites do not even emit foul smells. Dhundi Raj Pathak, solid waste management expert, says that the same kind of management can be replicated in the Kathmandu Metropolitan City (KMC). “All we need to do is replicate the same mechanism on a larger scale, and the first place to start would be to ask every household to segregate their waste into degradables and non-biodegradables.” 

Around two years back, KMC had asked Kathmandu’s households to segregate their waste before dumping it in a garbage truck. A fine of Rs 500 was also imposed. Pathak says the initiation was good, but the problem was on how the city workers handled the segregated waste. Everything got dumped into the same garbage truck and ended up in landfills despite segregation. Eventually, people stopped segregating their household waste. 

What Kathmandu needs right now is a proper plan for the disposal of segregated waste, that can be brought into implementation as quickly as possible. For that, the city authority needs to convince every household to segregate their waste. 

KMC Spokesperson Nabin Manandhar says they are already on it. “We will be running awareness campaigns and training in every ward to segregate and collect waste.” 

This time, he adds, the city will not be imposing fines. 

“The plan is to achieve zero waste within Kathmandu,” says Manandhar. “We have completed a one year study on managing solid waste, and we are planning to create a model where every waste material is utilized.” 

There is a plan to convert organic waste into manure and biogas, and sell the dry waste to recyclers. Furthermore, the city is also planning to convert some of the dry waste into coal that can be used in brick and cement factories. To manage biodegradable waste, the city is planning to set up a plant at its garbage collection center in Teku. The facility will convert organic waste into fertilizers and biogas. 

“We can’t say when this plan will be operational, but we have taken the starting steps,” says Manandhar. 

Waste collected from Kathmandu Valley, Kakani, and Banepa end up at Banchare Danda landfill site. Rabin Man Shrestha, chief of KMC’s Environment Management Department, says if each municipality, including the ones in Kathmandu, takes responsibility for the waste they produce, it would be easier for the city to manage the waste. 

“It’s always the Kathmandu Metropolitan City that gets blamed for the situation at Sisdol and Banchare Danda, when there are other municipalities contributing to the problem,” he says. 

He claims 55 percent of the total waste generated in the city will be managed once the plan to convert organic wastes into fertilizer and biogas is realized.  

There are no plans to manage non-degradable waste though. In 2013, the KMC  had invited a tender for the management of non-degradable waste. No one applied. Over the years, the KMC officials have also taken several foreign cities to better understand how they are managing their solid waste. They gathered a lot of knowledge about waste management, but the city never took the step to implement that knowledge.  

“The plans are limited to the paper. For things to progress, the tender process that the city activated a decade ago must conclude,” says Pathak, the solid waste management expert. “Only then, the city could start by setting up a material recovery facility to segregate non-degradable waste before selling it to independent buyers or recyclers.” 

If the plans were to be put in action immediately, Pathak believes that the facilities needed for solid waste management can be up and running in approximately three years. 

“We don’t need any pilot programs to test, because we  have had multiple tests already,” he says.

In today’s competitive world, all of us are pushing ourselves beyond our limits, be it at work or in our personal lives. It can be stressful. And we often look for ways to put our minds at ease. Anushka Nepal from ApEx talked to three artists to find out about what they do when they are stressed.

Sushant Ghimire, Singer

There are usually two types of stress that I usually go through. One is just being stressed out after a hectic day or some personal issue. In that case, I just sleep. I like to give myself some rest, take a long nap, and then I feel better. Another one is when I get burnt out from work and need a long break. When that happens, I visit my hometown in Sunsari. I don’t do anything else but spend time with my family. I find that quite rejuvenating. 

Bipin Maharjan, Tattoo artist

Being around nature helps me feel better. I try taking a day or two off from work and plan bike rides or hiking—anything that will help me experience nature. The distance depends on my mood though. I might plan a short or a long trip depending on what I want to do that day. Since I might only have a day for myself, I don’t usually go trekking. I choose destinations for which I can head out in the morning and be back by the evening. Besides that, I love to paint. 

Samaira Shrestha, Model and theater artist

I like to start my day with some positive affirmations. Every morning, I read some statements out loud. It helps me feel good about myself. But when I’m extremely stressed, just affirmations aren’t enough. So I go to the gym. Working out is one of my coping mechanisms. I try to surround myself with people who create a positive and jolly environment around me. I spend time with my family and that helps too. They’re quite a funny bunch and make me laugh more than anyone else I know. Besides that, I meditate. That helps me put my mind at ease.

Syangja/Rupandehi: The mention of the word ‘dumping site’ or ‘landfill’ rarely elicits good feelings. No one wants to go near one, much less have a picnic there. But Waling Municipality in Syangja district has turned this general notion about landfill on its head. Yes, the spot where the town dumps its waste is also a picnic park—and a popular one at that. 

The first thing you’ll see as you enter the municipal waste disposal site is the greenery. The area is covered with vegetation, all the grass and trees with paved walkways. There is no whiff of foul smell about. This is explained by the fact that the municipal office only disposes of non-degradable waste here. 

Every individual household in Waling segregate their waste and municipal workers make sure that non-degradable wastes aren’t mixed with the degradable ones when they do their garbage rounds. Failure to segregate means the waste doesn’t get collected, and the concerned household must pay a fine. By simply involving the community in solid waste management, Waling Municipality has managed to keep itself tidy.    

It is also generating revenue through non-degradable waste. From plastic to paper, everything is sold to recycling companies. Once the non-degradable waste is dumped into the site, it’s further separated by the employees.
“Every material has a different price. Among glass bottles, prices differ between the bottles depending on their color. It’s the same for the plastic. Price depends on its quality,” says Dilip Khand, the former mayor of Waling Municipality, who currently manages the solid waste management site.

Annually, the municipality profits around Rs 2.5m to Rs 3m by selling recyclable waste. Multi Layered Plastic (MLP/plastic that’s found on wrappers) doesn’t get sold. But they have found a solution to manage this type of plastic as well. It gets shredded and is used as one of the components for asphalt.

As for the bio-degradable waste, it’s utilized to make vermicompost (biodegradable waste converted into organic manure with the help of earthworms). Waling Product Holding Multipurpose Cooperative is responsible for making and selling vermicompost. Some farming households make their own vermicompost, thus limiting their waste.

Fecal waste from households doesn’t get dumped in the river either. Each household is mandated to have a septic tank. The municipality is responsible for cleaning the tanks, for which each household pays Rs 5,000 per cleaning session. The fecal waste doesn’t go to waste either. It gets separated into solid and liquid forms. While the solid waste is turned into vermicompost, the liquid is turned into drinkable water.

A visitor to Waling will notice how clean the town is, from its neighborhoods to street to river.
“It is the willingness of the locals to keep their surroundings neat that makes Waling so clean,” says Khand.
But this enthusiasm and wisdom didn’t come overnight. At first, some town residents were opposed to the idea of separating their household waste, says Yogmaya Pangeni, coordinator at the Social Development Committee of Waling.
“They fell into line only after the town mayor announced that he would personally visit their homes to pick up and segregate their waste.”  

Besides Waling, the other place that’s doing a great job with waste management is Tilottama Municipality in Rupandehi, Lumbini Province. Like Waling, waste materials are segregated at their source, at the household level. Two garbage trucks are deployed twice a week, once to collect degradable waste and the other to collect non-degradable waste. But the waste is currently collected from only 11 wards (Ward No. 7 to 17) out of the total 17.

While the responsibility of solid waste management in Waling is taken by the municipality, the responsibility of managing waste in Tilottama is undertaken by WASH Cooperative. The non-degradable waste is separated, compressed, and packed for selling the materials to the highest bidder, while the degradable waste is turned into vermicompost.

These models of managing solid waste were initiated by the United Nations Development Program (UNDP) as Promoting Green Recovery Project (PGRP/the project has already come to an end) in five different municipalities, among which two of them are Waling and Tilottama. Both the municipalities agree that this couldn’t have been possible without the UNDP’s assistance.

Before initiating the project in Tilottama, Aarju Karki, program officer for PGRP, says that the dumping site was merely a pile of garbage and nothing more. “With the combined effort of WASH Cooperative, Tilottama Municipality, and UNDP, we were able to make this dumping site systematic with added machinery and expertise on waste segregation,” she adds.

The pile of garbage that was dumped before the initiative started is also being segregated separately. “Some contractors take the responsibility of segregating certain areas from the dump and take what they need, while paying a certain amount to the cooperative,” she says. More than half of the waste from the pile has already been managed.

Besides, Tilottama Municipality is actively working on making sure that every household takes the responsibility of segregating their waste. Waste material from a household isn’t collected if not segregated. Also, the locals are encouraged to make their own manure. The municipality has distributed compost bins in every household. Dustbins have also been placed at different stops. The municipality employs two individuals in each ward to make sure no one litters the area.

“The officers are there to make sure that anyone who litter is fined (Rs 500). They also dispose of any non-degradable waste found in the area,” says Shanta Bashyal Bhattarai, one of the consumers in Tilottama.

One of the major forces driving these municipalities into managing and selling waste materials, besides keeping their environment clean, is its financial benefit.

“Solid waste management has become one of our important sources of income,” says Krishna Khand, mayor of Waling Municipality.

Even for Tilottama, their recent monthly revenue was Rs 365,880 from selling scraps. They haven’t yet started making profits, but with the ratio they’re working on, Khem Prasad Gautam, president of WASH Cooperative, says they will be making good profits in the coming years. 

The same initiative could be taken in the Kathmandu Metropolitan City. “The best way to move forward is to have solid waste management sites in each ward, since the waste produced in Kathmandu is more than what we see in Waling,” says Khand, former mayor of Waling Municipality.

It’s an investment that guarantees future returns. “One could do so much with waste materials that’s generated in the Kathmandu Valley,” says Khand. “When I travel around Kathmandu and see the garbage piles, I can’t help but think that it’s money that’s being littered, not waste.”