KATHMANDU, April 27: As Kathmandu Metropolitan City (KMC) bulldozers roll along the banks of rivers such as the Bagmati and Bishnumati, it is not only brick and cement walls that are collapsing—what is also crumbling is a community’s sense of belonging.
Beneath the rubble lie decades of history, the collective memory of thousands, and a living past. When television screens and social media show elderly people weeping as their lifelong earnings are destroyed before their eyes and young children clutching school bags, unsure which way to go home, a troubling question emerges: Can urban beautification come at the cost of human sensitivity? Is there no emotional dimension to this?
Findings from a study conducted eight years ago in the Khadipakha squatter settlement in KMC-3, as part of doctoral research in anthropology titled “Aspiration for the Positive Terms of Recognition,” remain strikingly relevant today. The study lays bare what is missing in the current eviction drive. At its core is the idea of place-making.
These settlements are not merely physical structures; they are layered histories of struggle and sacrifice. They were not built overnight. Khadipakha, located north of Tribhuvan University Teaching Hospital in Maharajgunj, reflects a 35- to 40-year process of transformation. Once uninhabitable—steep slopes and foul-smelling riverbanks—these areas were reshaped through labor. Residents leveled land, prevented landslides, and turned them into livable spaces. They built Tulsi shrines, planted flowers—and along with them, planted their dreams.
From an anthropological lens, a space becomes a place when people infuse it with meaning, emotion, and labor. Bulldozers can clear land, but destroying a place built over decades inflicts deep, often irreparable, damage to human dignity. For children who were born, raised, and played in those alleys, they are not just pathways but their entire world—the bedrock of future memories. For the elderly, a courtyard is not simply land but a witness to their youth and life.
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Equally significant is collective memory and the pain of displacement. Every settlement rests on the shared memories of its people. Residents of Khadipakha carry stories of political shifts since 1982, the People’s Movement of 1990, and struggles across decades. They helped build the city itself—carrying sand and bricks for its rising structures.
When bulldozers move in under the banner of urban beautification, these collective memories are not just erased—they are humiliated. The tears of elderly residents reveal that what has been lost is not only a house but an entire chapter of life. A settlement that has existed for four decades holds the memories of at least three generations. Children’s learning spaces, elders’ gathering spots, women’s shared water sources—all are forms of social capital. Yet the ongoing eviction drive has largely ignored this intricate “social fabric.”
What, then, is missing in the current eviction or relocation approach? Authorities have largely viewed these settlements through a narrow lens of legality versus illegality. In doing so, several critical dimensions are overlooked. First is the “right to the city.” As geographer David Harvey argues, this right is not just about accessing urban resources but about shaping the city and living in it with dignity. Squatters are not outsiders—they are essential service providers. The hands that clean hospitals, hotels, and streets often come from these very settlements. To evict them is to cut away a vital part of the city’s own system.
Another overlooked dimension is identity. Being labeled a squatter has become a social stigma. As the Khadipakha study notes, schoolchildren often hesitate to disclose their addresses, while adults avoid identifying with these settlements. When the state brands them as “encroachers” or illegal occupants, it strikes at their dignity as citizens. In the age of social media, some may celebrate such evictions, but this often ignores the deep psychological wounds inflicted—wounds that could, in time, feed future conflict.
This raises a pressing question: how can collective memory and a sense of place be preserved in any new arrangement? Even if relocation is unavoidable, the study offers direction. New settlements should not be reduced to “concrete boxes.” They must include commemorative spaces that reflect shared histories. Elements of old settlements—communal courtyards, gathering spots—should be symbolically recreated, allowing displaced communities to remain connected to their past.
Maintaining social relationships is equally critical. Rather than scattering residents across different locations, entire communities should be relocated together. This helps preserve the trust and mutual support built over the years. Informal safety nets—community fundraising during illness or death—must survive in new settings.
What's important is participation. Residents should be involved in designing and building their new homes. A genuine sense of belonging emerges only when people help shape their own spaces. Bulldozers cannot offer solutions; dialogue and fair policy can. Addressing the squatter issue requires structural reform. One key area is financial citizenship. As the study shows, these communities already sustain networks of cooperatives and savings groups. The state must recognize this and integrate them into formal banking and housing systems.
Compensation and dignity are also crucial. During the 2015 road expansion, some households in Khadipakha received compensation, suggesting partial state recognition of their presence. Evicting them now without alternatives or compensation runs counter to the principles of natural justice.
The safety of children and the elderly remains another urgent concern. Any eviction or relocation must prioritize children’s education and the health of senior citizens. Who accounts for the psychological trauma experienced by children watching their homes being demolished? Policies must incorporate such human security concerns.
Instead of branding squatters as “criminals” or “illegal,” they should be recognized as the urban poor—integral to the city’s functioning—and included in urban planning. Kathmandu’s beauty does not lie only in clean roads or widened riverbanks; it lies in its diverse communities. To suddenly render those who have served the city for decades as outsiders is not social justice. The issue demands serious reflection. Just as the displacement of street vendors once went largely unaddressed, the emotional scars left on today’s evicted communities may resurface more forcefully in the future.
The tears of children and the elderly today quietly indict the state’s actions. Bulldozers may demolish houses, but they cannot erase memory or identity. If Kathmandu truly aspires to be a modern and humane city, it must see squatter settlements not as obstacles but as partners in its journey. Any future policy must respect their collective memory, social bonds, and the long history of place-making. The truth remains simple: the city belongs to everyone.
