Thakur S Powdyel is one of the most prominent and highly respected Lhotshamppa forerunners in the development of the kingdom of Bhutan.
He served as an educationist for over 31 years, based mainly in the Serubtse College in Kanlung, Bhutan, many times as a subordinate of his own students who were promoted higher than to his position on the ground of their chauvinism and racial discrimination practices. Powdyel could take the lift to the highest position as a minister for Education in 2008 after the written constitution was promulgated and democratic election was held for the first time in Bhutan. Here under is a reproduction from his facebook, as a tribute to the Bhutanese women, he recalled from his earlier career.
By: Thakur S Powdyel
The Procession Forever September 2, 1983. We were on our way to Gongthung that bears eternal witness to the famous Tashigang Dzong beyond. The truck broke down as it whined and whistled on the rugged farm road snaking towards the bottom-end of Yangnyer.
Our university education and sky-high ideals were sorely tested as the eleven of us – freshly graduated National Service Students - roasted in the afternoon sun hitting the Yangnyer-flank of Dangmechhu.
Two villagers who had boarded our truck were our precious instruments of deliverance. They advised that the Gup should be requested to send some porters to lift our provisions and beddings to where our home would be for the next six months. And so it was done.
Her Royal Highness Ashi Kesang Wangmo Wangchuck had visited Gongthung the previous year and seen the village destitute of drinking water. We were, therefore, on a special assignment to bring drinking water from a distant source beyond Chongshing Goenpa. Our SOS request took effect with a level of efficiency that was absolutely amazing.
In the far distance appeared a procession of humans heading towards us. As they came nearer, we saw that most of them were women and a few others were young boys – twenty-six in all.
This human chain has lived with me ever since, ever vivid. I can see the simple clothes with a network of stitches and patches. Their bare feet with crevices running deep into their heels still appear vividly before my eyes. I can see them milling around our heaps of luggage. They are not old, but already age sits unnaturally on them. Their unfailing companion, the cotton rope, is unfastened from the waist. Each takes over a load. They all head towards Gongthung. It is a sight at once chastening, at once humbling. I had never seen women carrying strange men’s beddings before... That was almost two and a half decades ago.
Even as we left Gongthung, tapped drinking water had already come to the village. The first ever batch of ten Gongthung children, initiated into learning at our camp, were admitted to Tashigang Middle School. Some are now serving in the government, others in the private sector. Much water has flowed down Mangdechhu since. The procession continues forever.
Whether it is in frontier Paro or backward Dorokha, the procession of women continues – to the field to dig and plant, to the forest to collect fuel-wood and fallen leaves, to the manure heap by the cow-shed, to the distant market depots with farm produce and orchard products. It leads to far-away village wells and precious mountain springs. Around the world, the forever procession leads to factories and workshops, to construction-sites and roadside labour-camps, to baby-sitting chores and domestic-help roles. It leads to homes of ill-repute and to bars and clubs. The procession continues to schools and offices, to colleges and universities, to institutions and industries, to businesses and enterprises. It continues to the battlefields and nunneries, to sports-fields and movie-screens. The forever procession leads to the skies and the seas and far beyond.
The unending procession of our mothers and wives, of our sisters and daughters, of our grandmothers and aunts, of our nieces and cousins, of our in-laws and nannies sustains our life and our well-being. A certain face. A certain name. A certain human condition. There they are.
In smoke-filled kitchens preparing the family meal, at the first crow of the rooster grinding maize, in the cold of winter tending the master’s herds, in the heat of summer working others’ fields. There they are. At work - all the time. Often, ever so often, what they do does not count for work. They are not at an office or nor do they receive a salary. They must have stamina to work for hours without end. They must carry the burden of the world, but still be content to play the second fiddle. Often called the weaker sex, women have to be strong all the time. Far in the field, the mid-day sun burns their beauty, and the frost chaps their skin. They age before their time and show toil-marks as proof of their plight. So many beauty queens are lost in the struggle for existence.
Women often suffer violence in the place where they should be the safest, otherwise – their home. And there are the predators lurking around. Women have so much to worry about – so often for reasons that stem from other human beings. We have declarations and conventions, legislations and institutions conceived and adopted in the name of women. Often, reality beats them all. Too often, perhaps!
Women, particularly mothers, partake of the elemental and universal in nature. Janani and Janmabhumi – mother and motherland, in Sanskrit, – are eternal as the earth. Janani janma bhumishcha/Swarga daapi gaari yaasi mean that mother and motherland are greater than heaven.
We are familiar with the letter written by Nagarjuna or Goenpo Ludrup to Gyap Doeched Zangpo some 2500 years ago in which he advises the king about the way women should be treated:
If you meet an elderly woman, treat her as your mother.
If you meet a woman older than you, treat her as your elder sister.
If you meet a woman younger than you, treat her as your younger sister.
In some cultures, the way women are treated is a critical indicator of the development of that society. For all the pious sentiments, and with all the progress the world has made in the condition of women, in many societies, women and children are still man’s third world.
So long as men and women are unequal, so long the procession will continue – into our conscience, into our soul.
Thakur S Powdyel
Rinpung, Paro Bhutan.
Tributes to the women of Yangnyer and to all our grandmothers, mothers, sisters, wives, daughters, aunts, in-laws, nieces, cousins of the world on International Women’s Day, March 8, 2014. Thank you for the love, for grace, and for endurance. Above all, thank you for always being there!
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| TS Powdyel |
By: Thakur S Powdyel
The Procession Forever September 2, 1983. We were on our way to Gongthung that bears eternal witness to the famous Tashigang Dzong beyond. The truck broke down as it whined and whistled on the rugged farm road snaking towards the bottom-end of Yangnyer.
Our university education and sky-high ideals were sorely tested as the eleven of us – freshly graduated National Service Students - roasted in the afternoon sun hitting the Yangnyer-flank of Dangmechhu.
Two villagers who had boarded our truck were our precious instruments of deliverance. They advised that the Gup should be requested to send some porters to lift our provisions and beddings to where our home would be for the next six months. And so it was done.
Her Royal Highness Ashi Kesang Wangmo Wangchuck had visited Gongthung the previous year and seen the village destitute of drinking water. We were, therefore, on a special assignment to bring drinking water from a distant source beyond Chongshing Goenpa. Our SOS request took effect with a level of efficiency that was absolutely amazing.
In the far distance appeared a procession of humans heading towards us. As they came nearer, we saw that most of them were women and a few others were young boys – twenty-six in all.
This human chain has lived with me ever since, ever vivid. I can see the simple clothes with a network of stitches and patches. Their bare feet with crevices running deep into their heels still appear vividly before my eyes. I can see them milling around our heaps of luggage. They are not old, but already age sits unnaturally on them. Their unfailing companion, the cotton rope, is unfastened from the waist. Each takes over a load. They all head towards Gongthung. It is a sight at once chastening, at once humbling. I had never seen women carrying strange men’s beddings before... That was almost two and a half decades ago.
Even as we left Gongthung, tapped drinking water had already come to the village. The first ever batch of ten Gongthung children, initiated into learning at our camp, were admitted to Tashigang Middle School. Some are now serving in the government, others in the private sector. Much water has flowed down Mangdechhu since. The procession continues forever.
Whether it is in frontier Paro or backward Dorokha, the procession of women continues – to the field to dig and plant, to the forest to collect fuel-wood and fallen leaves, to the manure heap by the cow-shed, to the distant market depots with farm produce and orchard products. It leads to far-away village wells and precious mountain springs. Around the world, the forever procession leads to factories and workshops, to construction-sites and roadside labour-camps, to baby-sitting chores and domestic-help roles. It leads to homes of ill-repute and to bars and clubs. The procession continues to schools and offices, to colleges and universities, to institutions and industries, to businesses and enterprises. It continues to the battlefields and nunneries, to sports-fields and movie-screens. The forever procession leads to the skies and the seas and far beyond.
The unending procession of our mothers and wives, of our sisters and daughters, of our grandmothers and aunts, of our nieces and cousins, of our in-laws and nannies sustains our life and our well-being. A certain face. A certain name. A certain human condition. There they are.
In smoke-filled kitchens preparing the family meal, at the first crow of the rooster grinding maize, in the cold of winter tending the master’s herds, in the heat of summer working others’ fields. There they are. At work - all the time. Often, ever so often, what they do does not count for work. They are not at an office or nor do they receive a salary. They must have stamina to work for hours without end. They must carry the burden of the world, but still be content to play the second fiddle. Often called the weaker sex, women have to be strong all the time. Far in the field, the mid-day sun burns their beauty, and the frost chaps their skin. They age before their time and show toil-marks as proof of their plight. So many beauty queens are lost in the struggle for existence.
Women often suffer violence in the place where they should be the safest, otherwise – their home. And there are the predators lurking around. Women have so much to worry about – so often for reasons that stem from other human beings. We have declarations and conventions, legislations and institutions conceived and adopted in the name of women. Often, reality beats them all. Too often, perhaps!
Women, particularly mothers, partake of the elemental and universal in nature. Janani and Janmabhumi – mother and motherland, in Sanskrit, – are eternal as the earth. Janani janma bhumishcha/Swarga daapi gaari yaasi mean that mother and motherland are greater than heaven.
We are familiar with the letter written by Nagarjuna or Goenpo Ludrup to Gyap Doeched Zangpo some 2500 years ago in which he advises the king about the way women should be treated:
If you meet an elderly woman, treat her as your mother.
If you meet a woman older than you, treat her as your elder sister.
If you meet a woman younger than you, treat her as your younger sister.
In some cultures, the way women are treated is a critical indicator of the development of that society. For all the pious sentiments, and with all the progress the world has made in the condition of women, in many societies, women and children are still man’s third world.
So long as men and women are unequal, so long the procession will continue – into our conscience, into our soul.
Thakur S Powdyel
Rinpung, Paro Bhutan.
Tributes to the women of Yangnyer and to all our grandmothers, mothers, sisters, wives, daughters, aunts, in-laws, nieces, cousins of the world on International Women’s Day, March 8, 2014. Thank you for the love, for grace, and for endurance. Above all, thank you for always being there!
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