Learning Helplessness

When I speak with my host family in Sindhupalchok about what they’re going to do for food, water, and shelter, or what I can do to help them, they invariably respond with a noncommittal, heartbreaking “Ke garne?” “What to do?” It is a classic Nepali phrase that frustrated me daily in Nepal, where it is often used as an excuse to shirk responsibility or do nothing.

But sometimes nothing is all you can do.

It's been 40 days since the earthquake in Nepal. During Days 1 through 3, I lived with a group of trainees and volunteers in the US Embassy, about which I have previously written. On Day 4, we were moved to a hotel in Kathmandu, where the trainees were informed of the decision to suspend their training and remove them from Nepal. The following day, we were told that we, too, would be placed on “administrative hold” and returning home indefinitely. We were given three reasons: with the busyness of the hospitals and airport, emergency care or evacuation for urgent medical issues could not be guaranteed; volunteer housing in affected areas would need to be assessed; and local staff would need time to deal with the impact of the earthquake on their families and homes. Until these criteria were met, we would remain in the US. The duration—a month, two, three—was unknown.

On Day 6, we set out for our villages to pack our things and wrap up unfinished business. On the morning of Day 7, I arrived at my house and broke the news to my host family. For the next three days, I traveled around my community, trying to connect with everyone I could before Day 10, when I would have to leave.

My village in Dang, a couple hundred miles from Kathmandu, had not experienced the previous week’s events as I had. They’d felt the first tremor and a few aftershocks, and as a precaution had slept outside for a few days, but no houses had collapsed, no one had died, and normal life had resumed. Those who hadn’t watched the news couldn’t conceive of what was going on in their nation’s capital and the surrounding area. With each new interaction, I’d have to explain the devastation, painting with broad strokes the backdrop for my big news, my temporary and imminent departure from Nepal. Things are bad. It isn’t safe for us to be here right now. I don’t know when I’ll be back, or if, I told everyone. But as soon as I can come, I’ll be back. People tended to react as I did—if I got upset, they did too; if I was hopeful, so were they. The lack of personality in their reception was confounding.

On the morning of Day 10, many of my neighbors arrived to see me off. As I waited for the bus, we took pictures in the garden in front of my home. My host brother gave me pictures of the family to remember them by. My host mother gave me tikaa as a blessing for my journey. With more belongings than I felt belonged with me, I boarded the bus and waved goodbye. The following afternoon, I arrived in Kathmandu.

Throughout this time, I’d been calling my host family in Sindhupalchok, where I’d lived for three months during training, three times a day. I was traveling by bus to visit them when the earthquake hit, destroying their home, killing their livestock, and effectively wiping out their livelihood. My calls went through only on the first two days after the earthquake—after that, I got only a message recording that their phones were switched off. On Day 11, after nine days without any contact, the phone rang and I heard my host father’s voice on the line. I practically started crying, in the middle of Kathmandu. We’re fine, they said, don’t worry. Don’t be sad. Just come when you can. But there is nothing you can do right now.

That evening, all 50 Peace Corps Nepal Volunteers convened in the hotel for a briefing. For almost two hours, our country director explained the situation and answered questions. We were (and still are) offered the option to complete our service, with no penalty and full benefits. When prompted, our director estimated that we could be back by Day 36, better known as May 30. We spent the following day occupied with meetings and administrative tasks, before being flown to Thailand on Day 13 for a transition conference.

I have little to say about Thailand, because for most of the time I was in a daze. The weather was sultry, the hotel extravagant, the food divine, the nightlife raucous. At 3:15 AM on Day 16, most of us returning home gathered in the hotel lobby to depart for the airport. After an absurd series of connections (Thailand to Tokyo, Tokyo to Minneapolis, Minneapolis to Atlanta, Atlanta to Westchester, New York) I arrived in the arms of my parents at 11PM, or 10AM Thai time (for a total travel time of 31 hours).

Since then, Peace Corps has been providing us with updates every few days. Nepal was hit by another major earthquake on May 12, seventeen days after the first. On May 15 (Day 21), we received word that our return date would likely be delayed. On May 22 (Day 28), our director informed us that the Washington office had requested that all volunteer housing be inspected, and that our return date would be delayed to June 20. As many of half of us will need to move into more structurally sound housing. On May 29 (Day 35), we were told that our travel would be severely limited during the coming months, due to increased likelihood of landslides. In the tentative schedule proposed, we would depart for our villages on June 27, 63 days after the day nothing stood still.

In the meantime, we linger in limbo, earning a small stipend to sustain us during our unwanted hiatus. I’ve enjoyed many aspects of my time home—spending time with family, seeing friends, playing the piano, drinking good beer, catching up on TV—but this is not where I feel most comfortable, not where I want to be at present.

There are few here (even you, dear reader) who really understand what the past forty days have been like. For Peace Corps Volunteers in Nepal, our worlds have been shaken up and our surroundings have yet to settle. Decisions and emotions seem sporadic and impermanent, liable to change at any moment of any day. Each unsolicited restriction that has been placed upon our residence and movement shapes our future time in Nepal. Early on, numbed by the shock of the aftershocks, I indifferently accepted each new roadblock, pothole, hairpin, and detour. But now I find myself questioning the rules of the road, its makeup, and whether it’s worth traveling.

Two things draw me back to Nepal—my work and my people. With respect to the former, I have four main projects that I hope to accomplish before completing my service in November: construct four plastic greenhouses for off-season vegetable production; plant a half-acre pomegranate orchard; roll out a cookstove training and construction project with a Dalit women’s group; and implement a first-of-its-kind five-day boy’s leadership camp with six other volunteers. The first three of these are contingent on my housing location—that I be consistently nearby to conduct these projects. The last depends on coordination within a large group, which would require occasional travel.

My family in Sindhupalchok, has been on my mind every day. They are now homeless, living in tents with limited food and resources. Together with a group of current and returned Peace Corps Volunteers, I’ve been raising funds to rebuild that community. This family fed, housed, and cared for me while I lived there; now I feel bound to do the same for them. To be able to spend some time together and deliver some aid would be such a relief to both them and me. Personally, it is practically essential to me. With the increased likelihood of landslides, travel in these next few months will be more perilous than normal, but I would risk it for the opportunity to see them.

My third pull is my new host family. I’ve not yet written about it (I’m saving it for a later, very lengthy post when my service is over), but I had changed host families not long before the earthquake, and was absolutely elated with my new family. To leave them now, having spent so little time together and with so little time remaining, would be a huge blow. The house, which had been approved by Peace Corps just one month prior, was unscathed after the earthquake—that I might need to make such a drastic move was hard for me to imagine. Without my projects and families, I don’t know what reason I’d have to return to Nepal.

This morning, I received an email: due to the structural composition of my house, I would have to change host families.

It’s not something I’m much used to, dealing with a slew of unanticipated situations entirely beyond my power. Maybe Nepal’s fatalism evolved as a survival tactic or coping mechanism for such frequent experience of times like these. When nothing goes your way and you have no say, you have to relinquish your desire to control the game and just play the hand you’re dealt.

Ke garne? What to do?

I want to return to Nepal, helplessly hope for the best, and make it happen. Can those three things be reconciled?