This digital storytelling project explores the multifaceted histories and lived experiences of four Tamang clans in Nepal, foregrounding their historical erasure and systemic exploitation. Filmed across the ancestral lands of Sindhupalchowk, Kavre, Dhading, and Nuwakot, the project situates its narrative within sacred burial sites of former Tamang kings — spaces that hold deep cultural and spiritual significance. As a member of the Tamang community, the researcher adopts a decolonial storytelling methodology, centering the voices and oral narratives of community elders as primary sources of knowledge and resistance.
Framed through postcolonial theory, Indigenous studies, and cultural trauma, the project documents how state-led “unification” processes functioned as forms of internal colonialism, shaping Tamang histories and identities. It highlights intergenerational trauma and systemic marginalization, particularly through references to legal instruments such as the Muluki Ain, which institutionalized social hierarchies and exploitation. Personal narratives — including the account of a ward president — illustrate the enduring impacts of these structures across generations.
By recording Indigenous epistemologies and lived experiences, this project challenges dominant historical narratives and reclaims erased histories. It underscores storytelling as a critical tool for cultural preservation, resistance, and self-representation. Ultimately, the work contributes to broader discussions on Global South Indigenous literature, contemporary Indigenous identity, and the role of film (videos) as a medium of social critique, affirming the transformative power of storytelling in reclaiming space and voice.
My journey began in Sindhupalchok, a place I was visiting for the first time. The experience was both uncertain and exciting — I had little knowledge of the terrain, the routes, or even what exactly I would be able to document. What guided me forward was a deep curiosity about Simebhume Puja, a water–land worship ritual practiced by our Tamang ancestors since time immemorial.
Despite its cultural significance, this ritual is gradually fading from the awareness of younger Tamang generations, particularly those growing up in urban environments. This realization added urgency and purpose to my journey.
To reach the site, I connected with a cab driver (Phurba samdhi) in Kathmandu who belonged to the local community. His support became invaluable — not only did he help me navigate the unfamiliar route, but he also facilitated my access to the ritual space. Together, we hiked toward a hilltop after reaching Lisankhupakhar, a sacred landscape belonging to the Moktan clan of the Tamang community.
Locally, this place is known by its original Tamang name, Andarbung. However, I observed that this Indigenous name has been replaced in official usage by the Nepali (Khas-Arya) name Attarpur, as displayed on a nearby health post signboard. This subtle shift in naming reflects a broader pattern of cultural erasure that Indigenous communities continue to navigate.
One of the most striking aspects of life in this region is its deep connection to the land. Agriculture — especially potato farming — serves as a primary source of livelihood. The potatoes grown here are highly valued and in strong demand in Kathmandu for their exceptional quality. In the evening, around 5 p.m., I attempted to purchase some potatoes. However, my request was gently declined. The locals explained that the following day was Simebhume Puja, a sacred occasion during which digging the soil is strictly prohibited. Harvesting or selling potatoes on this day would violate the ritual's principles. This moment revealed something profound: a living ethic of environmental respect embedded within cultural practice. The land is not merely a resource — it is sacred, relational, and deserving of reverence.
My next journey took me to Timal in Kavre, a historically and culturally significant region for the Tamang community. I was accompanied by my brother-in-law (Karna bhena), who belongs to this locality. Having grown up there, he became not only my guide but also a vital narrative voice — bridging my perspective as a researcher with the lived knowledge of the land.
Timal is not a single destination but a vast hill region composed of multiple scattered settlements. Reaching these sites required careful planning. While local buses operate up to a certain point, the remaining journey must be completed on foot. To navigate the distance efficiently, we chose to travel by scooter, which proved to be the most practical option despite the challenging conditions.
The terrain was difficult — steep, slippery, and coated in red mud, especially after recent weather. The remoteness of the area was palpable, reinforcing how geographically and infrastructurally distant these Indigenous spaces remain. The majority of the inhabitants in this region belong to the Dong clan of the Tamang community, whose presence continues to shape the cultural landscape of Timal.
One of the key sites we visited was Kottimal, where a statue of the last Tamang ghley (local king), King Rinjin Dorje, stands alongside his queen. The monument serves not only as a historical marker but also as a site of cultural memory, preserving the legacy of Tamang leadership in the region.
Through my brother-in-law's connections, I was introduced to a local Tamang elder. What followed was not just an interview, but an immersive storytelling experience. The elder narrated the history of the place, recounting the life and legacy of King Rinjin Dorje. More significantly, he performed these stories through Tamang Selo, accompanied by the rhythmic beats of the damfu.
This form of storytelling — where history, music, and memory converge — offered a powerful reminder that Indigenous knowledge is not only spoken but also sung, performed, and felt. It exists beyond written archives, carried forward through embodied cultural practices.
Reaching Golfu Namsapuran in Dupcheshwar-4, Nuwakot, was one of the most challenging journeys in my fieldwork. My first attempt ended in uncertainty. I had traveled as far as Samundratar, but as dusk approached, I was forced to turn back. Even local residents in the Dupcheshwar area were unfamiliar with this site, known as the ancestral land of the last Ghalan ghley (king). With no clear directions and no assurance of lodging, continuing further felt unsafe.
Determined to return, I began searching for local connections. After a few days, I was able to contact a ward president (Gyan Bahadur Glan) from the area who was temporarily based in Kathmandu. His family lived in Gokarna for the children's education, and he regularly traveled to Kathmandu on weekends. Through this connection, my second journey became not only possible but more grounded in local support.
This time, I traveled with clarity and purpose. We set out early in the morning and continued until late evening. As we approached Samundratar — the point where I had previously turned back — I felt a sense of return, as if resuming an unfinished path. Beyond Samundratar, a narrow bridge marked the threshold into a more remote and less accessible terrain.
The road ahead was difficult. The trail climbed steep hillsides, often disrupted by landslides and unstable paths. The physical landscape itself seemed to resist easy access, reflecting how these culturally significant sites remain geographically and symbolically distant from mainstream visibility. Despite these challenges, we eventually reached the ward president's home, where we rested for the night.
The following morning, we continued onward to the ancestral land of the Ghalan clan of the Tamang community. Standing there, I was reminded that such places are not merely geographic locations but living archives — spaces where history, identity, and memory are deeply rooted in the land.
Interestingly, Bolgau was not part of my original travel plan. However, during my earlier field visit to Golfu Namsapuran, several local residents strongly encouraged me to include it in my journey. They spoke of its cultural significance and its potential for research, even while acknowledging that it remains one of the most remote and least explored areas in the region. Taking their advice seriously, I decided to make the journey.
Reaching Bolgau was physically demanding. The route required a continuous uphill walk of nearly four hours through steep and rugged terrain. The monsoon season made the trail even more difficult — wet, slippery paths and frequent leech bites added to the exhaustion. After days of continuous travel and walking, my body began to give in. At one point during the climb, I briefly fainted, overwhelmed by fatigue and physical strain. Yet, this difficult journey also revealed something deeply meaningful.
Upon reaching Bolgau, I encountered a community that seemed to exist in a different temporal rhythm — less touched by rapid cultural change. The elders, in particular, wore locally made garments that closely resembled traditional Tamang attire from earlier generations. Their clothing was not simply aesthetic; it was a living expression of continuity, identity, and cultural resilience.
Despite its inaccessibility, or perhaps because of it, Bolgau holds immense potential for research. It stands as a reminder that some of the most significant Indigenous knowledge systems and cultural practices persist in places that are hardest to reach — geographically distant, yet culturally profound.
I chose to conclude my fieldwork in Shemjong, Dhading — a place remembered as the settlement of the last Waiba ghley (king Tagur). Compared to the other Tamang villages I had visited, Shemjong appeared relatively more prosperous. This contrast immediately raised questions for me: what historical or social factors had shaped this difference?
The answer unfolded through a conversation with the local ward president (Suresh Gurung in citizenship but he is actually Suresh Tamang), who shared a deeply revealing story about the community's past. He explained that his father's generation — and eventually the entire village — had made a collective decision to change their surname from Tamang to Gurung. This was not a matter of cultural preference, but a strategic response to systemic discrimination.
To understand this decision, it is necessary to recall the historical context of the Muluki Ain, the legal code promulgated under Jung Bahadur Rana. Within this framework, Tamang communities were categorized as Masinya Matwali — a classification that carried severe social and institutional restrictions. They were denied access to formal education and excluded from paid employment opportunities, including recruitment into the Indian Army, which was a major source of livelihood and social mobility.
Faced with these structural barriers, the community in Shemjong adopted a different surname to navigate and survive within an oppressive system. This shift, while pragmatic, came at the cost of concealing their Indigenous identity.
What is remarkable, however, is what is happening now.
The current generation has begun a collective process of reclaiming their original identity. Families who once adopted alternative surnames are now consciously returning to Tamang, asserting their heritage with renewed pride. This act of reclamation is not merely symbolic — it is a powerful form of resistance against historical erasure and a step toward restoring cultural dignity.
Ending my fieldwork in Shemjong felt significant. It brought together many of the themes I had encountered throughout my journey — land, memory, identity, and resilience — while also pointing toward a future where Indigenous communities actively reclaim and redefine their place in history.
This digital storytelling journey began as a search — for places, for histories, and for fragments of a cultural world that often remains unseen. What unfolded across Sindhupalchok, Timal, Dupcheshwar, Bolgau, and Shemjong was not simply a series of visits, but an encounter with living archives — landscapes where memory is embedded in ritual, song, naming, and everyday practice.
Across these sites, a common thread emerged: the deep relational bond between the Tamang people and their land. Whether through Simebhume Puja, where soil and water are treated as sacred, or through the preservation of ancestral sites connected to ghley lineages, the land is not an object of ownership but a source of identity, responsibility, and continuity. These practices challenge dominant ways of seeing land as merely economic or territorial — they instead foreground a worldview rooted in respect, reciprocity, and coexistence.
At the same time, this journey revealed the ongoing realities of erasure and marginalization. The renaming of Indigenous places, the fading awareness of rituals among younger generations, and the historical weight of discriminatory systems like the Muluki Ain all point to the layered pressures that have shaped Tamang identity over time. Yet, these are not stories of loss alone.
What stands out most powerfully is resilience.
In Bolgau, cultural practices persist in relative isolation. In Timal, histories are still sung through Tamang Selo. In Shemjong, a community is actively reclaiming its name and identity after generations of concealment. These are not passive survivals — they are active, conscious acts of cultural continuity and resurgence.
This project, therefore, is not only about documentation. It is about witnessing and participating in a broader movement of Indigenous resurgence. By recording these narratives through film, text, and lived experience, I aim to contribute — however modestly — to the preservation and revitalization of Tamang knowledge systems.
For me, this journey is also deeply personal. As someone from the Tamang community, this work is not distant research — it is a process of reconnecting, relearning, and re-situating myself within a lineage that continues to endure despite historical and ongoing challenges.
Ultimately, this digital storytelling project invites viewers and readers to see these places not as remote or marginal, but as central to understanding alternative ways of being in the world. It calls for a recognition of Indigenous knowledge not as something of the past, but as vital, dynamic, and necessary for imagining more just and sustainable futures.