PANCHTHAR, Nepal — On a remote stretch of road in far-eastern Nepal, three figures stepped in front of a minibus. Two were young men, the third a police officer with a rifle against his hip. The driver cut the engine. The two young men approached the window and peered in at the 15 passengers pressed knee to knee in the bowels of the vehicle. “Why are you traveling?” one man asked sharply. “It’s a banda. Nobody is allowed to use this road today.” The passengers were silent, nervous. After a tense discussion with some passengers explaining they were traveling to the hospital, the second man photographed the van’s registration number and let them through. “I am letting you pass because you have sick people on board who need medical treatment,” he said eventually. “But this is your first and last warning. I don’t want to see you on these roads again.” He gestured to the second man, who showed the driver the photographs he’d taken. “We have your details now. If we see you driving again, we’ll burn your vehicle.” Four days before this scene took place, in the early hours of May 13, 2024, the sound of chainsaws roiled over the hills in Nepal’s Taplejung district. Under the guard of armed police officers, contract laborers were cutting thousands of trees in the forest surrounding one of eastern Nepal’s most revered sacred sites, known as Mukkumlung to the Indigenous Yakthung (or Limbu) community. Less than 48 hours later, Indigenous organizers…This article was originally published on Mongabay
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