I was six years old when my father was killed. It was on October 28, 1997 during the armed conflict in Nepal. A group of Maoist combatants came to our home in Rolpa and shot him. He was unarmed. He had returned home on holiday to see his family. He served as a Police Head Constable.
My father was targeted not because of a personal dispute, but because of his duty. At the time, he was assigned as a guard to a State Minister. On one occasion, he had fired a bullet into the air to prevent the kidnapping of a local village leader, "Mukhiya." He was performing his responsibility as a security officer. I share this because I do not want his memory to be misunderstood. He was doing his job.
My earliest memory of that night is blurred. I remember being half asleep, passed from one adult to another, while my mother and elder sister cried. I heard someone shout, “Aaiya Aama.” I did not understand what was happening.
Early the next morning, we were taken back to our house. My 28-year-old mother walked ahead of us. My elder sister was nine, my younger sister four, and my brother just one year old. I remember seeing my father’s body lying near the kitchen stove. In my confusion, I cried and asked my mother to throw away “the ghost” inside the house. That “ghost” was my father.
The next day, many police officers gathered at our home. As a child, I was happy to see so many people. I did not understand death. I did not know that my father would never return.
Years later, I began to understand the full story. My mother would recount how my father had been followed from Liwang. She told us how our house was surrounded, how we were locked inside a neighbor’s (the Mukhiya, whom my father saved) empty home, how guns and bombs were used, and how she and my sister begged for his life. We never sat together and formally discussed that night. But we heard everything. Children always do.
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As I grew older, guilt quietly grew inside me. I regretted not waking up. I regretted not standing beside my mother and sister to beg for my father’s life. I regretted calling him a ghost. I even regretted feeling happy when I saw many people at our house. Though I was only six years old, the burden of that night followed me.
For years, I could not speak about my father’s death without my heart pounding and my eyes filling with tears. It was only in 2019, in a safe sharing space, that I finally spoke about my guilt. I said out loud what I had carried silently for decades. I knew, logically, that a six-year-old child could not have changed anything. But I needed others to say it too. That day, I felt lighter. Each time I shared my story afterward, the weight lessened.
My journey toward reconciliation did not happen overnight. From 2011 to 2015, I volunteered as a Youth Peace Volunteer with Nagarik Aawaz. I joined through a displaced youth volunteer programme. Conflict-affected youth and women came together to cook meals for street people and anyone who wished to join. Serving others became part of my healing.
In 2016, I joined as a staff member. Through my work, I met people affected by all sides of the conflict: displaced families, widows and children of the deceased, the injured and physically disabled, families of the disappeared, and survivors of sexual violence. Listening to their stories expanded my understanding. My empathy deepened—not just for those who suffered like my family, but for all who carried pain.
My work later took me back to districts like Rukum East, Rolpa, Dang, Kailali, and Kanchanpur. I met survivors of conflict-related sexual violence who had waited nearly two decades just to be officially recognised as conflict-affected. Their struggle for recognition and reparation continues. Their patience is painful to witness.
During one visit to Rolpa, I encountered—twice—the man who had led the group that killed my father. We did not speak. He was simply present in the same space. I have often wondered what I would say if I ever sat down with him. I might cry. I might struggle to find words. But I know I want that conversation—not for revenge, but for understanding.
Another relative, involved in a land dispute that contributed to my father’s death, once asked forgiveness from my uncles. He lives with regret. I once planned to meet him. My mother gently told me that if I did, I should not reopen the past, for the sake of family harmony. I was shocked. The man connected to her husband’s killing was someone she could still think about with compassion.
That is when I truly understood my mother’s strength. Her heart carried not only grief, but also forgiveness. Her quiet resilience reflects something deeply Nepali—the ability to endure, to coexist, and to prioritise relationships even after unimaginable loss.
When I reflect on the armed conflict, I see it as a dark chapter in our national history. It brought rapid political changes, but at a terrible human cost. I do not believe in “an eye for an eye.” Revenge would not bring my father back. It would not heal my six-year-old self.
What helped me was space—space to speak, to be heard, and to be validated. Civil society organisations have long created such spaces. But government-led spaces for acknowledgement and apology would carry even greater weight. Recognition matters. A sincere apology matters. Listening matters.
Reconciliation does not mean forgetting. It does not mean justifying violence. It means choosing not to let pain define the future. It means allowing victims to speak without fear. It means acknowledging wrongdoing and committing to justice.
Writing this piece is also part of my reconciliation. Allowing my story to be read by others feels like opening a window that was closed for many years. While this has been a reconciliation journey for me, my family members and other conflict-affected people might have journeys different from mine. I wish that everyone gets to live their reconciliation journey in their own way, and to live it peacefully.
If even one person who carries silent pain feels a little less alone after reading this, then this writing has served its purpose.
I was once a child who mistook her father’s body for a ghost. Today, I am a woman who believes that peace requires courage—the courage to confront the past, to speak the truth, and to choose reconciliation over revenge. Reconciliation begins when we dare to listen.
After 10 years of extreme conflict, the country has once again received completely new leadership. As the parties that signed the peace agreement and the political leadership that witnessed it come to power, let them take the initiative to finalise transitional justice. May there be an atmosphere of peace in the hearts of those who are living their lives with physical as well as mental problems.
The author is Senior Project Coordinator, Nagarik Aawaj.
