An emblem of Nepal’s next test of peace sits here, a short hike from the banks of the Bheri River, in this forested patch of midwestern hill where a war between the government and Maoist rebels has cut a wide swath of suffering for 10 years.
This is where the rebels are building one of the 22 camps where they have promised, under United Nations supervision, to sequester their troops, lock up their guns and dump their homemade bombs. Their cantonment, on a large campus of open fields and small squat buildings, was once a government-run agricultural research center.
Now a young woman in an Eminem T-shirt digs a trench for a sentry post. A team clears brush to set up a running track. A dozen cadres loll under the warm winter sun. A small army of tailors stitch new uniforms — almost exact replicas, they say proudly, of what Nepalese soldiers wear.
The legacy of conflict, which left a death toll of more than 13,000, is still raw in these parts. Getting to the camp means crossing the river in a dugout canoe, jostling for space with goats or a load of blankets for the rebels. There used to be a footbridge, but the Maoists destroyed it two years ago, hacking it apart piece by piece with a saw.
How Nepal manages to wean away its insurgents from destroying bridges to earning a living is a daunting challenge. Few countries are as poor as this one. Besides, rebel leaders want jobs for their fighters in a new national army, a prospect rife with political and logistical difficulties.
For now the Maoists are keeping their options open and the keys to their guns in hand.
Under a novel agreement with the government and the United Nations, they are to deposit their weapons in padlocked containers at each of the cantonments like this one. They will hold the keys, but their gun closets will be closely watched. Floodlights will shine each night. Surveillance cameras and burglar alarms will be installed.
For the sake of at least symbolic reciprocity, the Nepalese Army has promised to keep an equal number of its soldiers in their barracks.
An initial team of 35 United Nations monitors is expected to trickle in by the end of the year to oversee the Maoist and the army barracks alike, followed by an assessment team to determine the final size of the United Nations mission.
The sooner the monitors come, from the vantage point of Home Minister Krishna Prasad Sitaula, the better. “Otherwise it will be a problem for us, for the peace process,” he warned. “There will be doubts. New questions will arise, and suspicion.”
His apprehension is a measure of the still delicate efforts to end the civil war. An accord signed in mid-November allows the Maoists to join the interim government, followed by elections for a special assembly to rewrite the Constitution.
The assembly’s most charged task will be to decide whether the monarchy is to survive in this erstwhile Hindu kingdom. The rebels have made its abolition their chief goal, but they have promised to abide by the election results.
How many fighters the rebels actually have is a matter of contention. They claim 35,000; the government says the number is closer to 12,000. The army has 90,000 troops, and the Maoists want it shrunk by half.
Doubts persist on both sides.
Under the arms deal, only those who were part of the fighting forces before May are allowed to stay in these camps and become eligible for any disarmament package. But the Maoists are accused of drumming up new recruits to inflate their numbers and gain leverage in the negotiations.
Rebel leaders deny the accusation. The commander in charge of the Dashrathpur camp, a friendly man in a gray tracksuit who gave his name as Deepak and who could be mistaken for a suburban soccer dad, called such reports propaganda.
Dashrathpur one recent afternoon was chock-full of young rebel cadres, who were playing board games in the streets, marching in long columns with ancient rifles slung on their shoulders or hauling their new blankets up from the river’s edge.
During roll call it seemed plain that a great many were novices at revolution. They could hardly march in time, which explains why the drill sergeant repeatedly tried to banish a journalist from watching.
Now a young woman in an Eminem T-shirt digs a trench for a sentry post. A team clears brush to set up a running track. A dozen cadres loll under the warm winter sun. A small army of tailors stitch new uniforms — almost exact replicas, they say proudly, of what Nepalese soldiers wear.
The legacy of conflict, which left a death toll of more than 13,000, is still raw in these parts. Getting to the camp means crossing the river in a dugout canoe, jostling for space with goats or a load of blankets for the rebels. There used to be a footbridge, but the Maoists destroyed it two years ago, hacking it apart piece by piece with a saw.
How Nepal manages to wean away its insurgents from destroying bridges to earning a living is a daunting challenge. Few countries are as poor as this one. Besides, rebel leaders want jobs for their fighters in a new national army, a prospect rife with political and logistical difficulties.
For now the Maoists are keeping their options open and the keys to their guns in hand.
Under a novel agreement with the government and the United Nations, they are to deposit their weapons in padlocked containers at each of the cantonments like this one. They will hold the keys, but their gun closets will be closely watched. Floodlights will shine each night. Surveillance cameras and burglar alarms will be installed.
For the sake of at least symbolic reciprocity, the Nepalese Army has promised to keep an equal number of its soldiers in their barracks.
An initial team of 35 United Nations monitors is expected to trickle in by the end of the year to oversee the Maoist and the army barracks alike, followed by an assessment team to determine the final size of the United Nations mission.
The sooner the monitors come, from the vantage point of Home Minister Krishna Prasad Sitaula, the better. “Otherwise it will be a problem for us, for the peace process,” he warned. “There will be doubts. New questions will arise, and suspicion.”
His apprehension is a measure of the still delicate efforts to end the civil war. An accord signed in mid-November allows the Maoists to join the interim government, followed by elections for a special assembly to rewrite the Constitution.
The assembly’s most charged task will be to decide whether the monarchy is to survive in this erstwhile Hindu kingdom. The rebels have made its abolition their chief goal, but they have promised to abide by the election results.
How many fighters the rebels actually have is a matter of contention. They claim 35,000; the government says the number is closer to 12,000. The army has 90,000 troops, and the Maoists want it shrunk by half.
Doubts persist on both sides.
Under the arms deal, only those who were part of the fighting forces before May are allowed to stay in these camps and become eligible for any disarmament package. But the Maoists are accused of drumming up new recruits to inflate their numbers and gain leverage in the negotiations.
Rebel leaders deny the accusation. The commander in charge of the Dashrathpur camp, a friendly man in a gray tracksuit who gave his name as Deepak and who could be mistaken for a suburban soccer dad, called such reports propaganda.
Dashrathpur one recent afternoon was chock-full of young rebel cadres, who were playing board games in the streets, marching in long columns with ancient rifles slung on their shoulders or hauling their new blankets up from the river’s edge.
During roll call it seemed plain that a great many were novices at revolution. They could hardly march in time, which explains why the drill sergeant repeatedly tried to banish a journalist from watching.
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