Beyond the ‘Crushed’ Identity of ‘Dalit’

It began with a simple question over morning coffee in 1976. We were in Varanasi then, living under the heavy, quiet shadow of political exile. My father, a high-profile democrat, was a marked man—his name was on the King’s list of targets back in Nepal. Because he believed in the power of the people, we were treated like criminals. In those days, being a democrat meant becoming a victim of a system that feared the ballot box more than the bullet.

I was 22, and my mind was consumed by biology and anatomy. I was determined to become a doctor. I had the merit, but I did not have the “political clearance.” I was denied a scholarship under the Colombo Plan simply because I was a “Democrat’s daughter.” That was my first real lesson in how systems crush people—not for who they are, but for what they represent. My dream died because of a state-sponsored “organized crime” against my future.

Every morning, the Varanasi newspapers carried the names of men shaking the foundations of India: the legendary Jayaprakash Narayan (JP) and the meteoric Ram Vilas Paswan. Because Paswan was a Dalit, conversations about the community were everywhere. I remember asking my father, “Who are the Dalits, and why is this word always used like a stigma? If Paswan is so powerful, how can he still be defined by a word that literally means ‘crushed’?”

Knowing that I wanted to become a doctor, my father chose the only language that could satisfy my scientific mind. Being “Dalit,” he explained, was not a soul-deep identity—it was a condition. Like a state of health, one could become sick, and one could recover. Fifty years later, as the state finally apologizes for its crimes, I realize he was a visionary: he understood the difference between the pathology and the patient.

Tearing the Janai: Power Over Ritual

In those years, the air in Patna and Varanasi was electric. JP was calling for a “Total Revolution.” Under his banner, radical socialists like Jagdeo Prasad and Ramswaroop Verma did the unthinkable: they stood before massive crowds and publicly tore off their janai (sacred threads).

Holding up those threads, they called them what they were: “just cotton.” They told the Dalits, “Don’t think that by wearing this you will become equal. Even if a Brahmin tears his janai, he is still a Brahmin.” Their message was a sledgehammer: “Das ka shashan nabbe par, nahin chalega, nahin chalega!” (The rule of the ten percent over the ninety percent will not last!)

It was a brutal reality check. Status is determined by power, land, and education—not by a piece of string. A Dalit’s “crushed” position does not change through ritual imitation; it changes when one gains the social and economic status that makes the label irrelevant. Tearing the thread was the first step toward becoming a Survivor.

A State of Health, Not a State of Soul

Imagine a Dalit as a cancer patient. During the illness, one is incredibly vulnerable. One needs the “ICU” of society—quotas, state protection, and special laws. At that stage, one is a patient. But what happens when the cancer is defeated?

One becomes a Survivor. The scars may remain—the memory of pain, the burden of what one’s parents endured—but one is no longer a patient. One is discharged. Crucially, neither the survivor nor their children are born as cancer patients. They may remain vigilant because of family history, but they do not grow up in a hospital.

In Nepal and India, however, we have done the opposite. We have taken a treatable condition and transformed it into a hereditary disease. We are forcing healthy children to live in a “Dalit ward” because their grandparents were once crushed. It is illogical, and it is a crime against the next generation.

The Business of Being ‘Sick’

Why are we still doing this? The answer is simple: no one likes to lose control. In 2026, we have a massive “identity economy” run by “Professional Dalits.” These are individuals with high-profile careers and luxury homes who cling to the “Dalit” label as an “Elite Pass” for political positions and funding.

Years ago, when I suggested moving beyond this term to leaders in the Nepali Congress, the backlash was intense. Honesty is painful, and surrendering an advantage feels like a loss. These leaders want people to remain “sick” because they are the ones billing the state for the “treatment.” Their power depends on people never “graduating.”

The Million-Dollar Question for Gen Z

To the Gen Z and Gen Alpha of Nepal—the architects of the 2025 uprising: you call yourselves the “Logic Generation.” So answer this: will you cling to an outdated mindset, or will you accept your reality and move forward?

Many of you feel a deep discomfort because you are successful, yet you still carry a label that means “crushed.” It creates an inner contradiction. I understand that feeling. I was the girl with the grades who was told “No” by the Colombo Plan because of a label I did not choose. I know what it feels like when the world ignores your intellect and focuses only on your category.

Today, the “Old Guard” is trying to do the same to you. But I am telling you this: true honor lies in proving that your parents’ struggle succeeded. If they fought for your empowerment, the greatest respect you can show them is to graduate from that “condition.”

So, how do you live in a world where the state is finally apologizing?

Reclaim Your Pride: If you are successful, be proud of being a Survivor. A survivor has agency; a victim only has needs.

Monitor for ‘Recurrence’: Prejudice is a virus. Stay aware of your roots, but do not let them define your existence. A scar does not mean you are still bleeding.

Demand Results: Ask your leaders, “Now that the state has apologized, how many people have you helped ‘graduate’ into being Survivors this year?”

To My Critics: The Defense of the Survivor

I know the gatekeepers of the identity economy will target me. Let me save them the effort.

“She’s privileged.”

My privilege is living proof that my father’s medicine worked. If you resent my success, you resent the very goal of the revolution.

“She’s dividing the movement.”

No, I am refining it. An industry that keeps people trapped in the waiting room of victimhood is a scam. By insisting that the healthy leave the hospital, I make space for the truly oppressed to finally receive the bed and medicine they have long been denied by the elite.

“Professional Dalits.”

You cannot hold a laptop in one hand and a “crushed” label in the other without the world noticing the contradiction. So I ask: “If the weight has been lifted, why continue acting as though you are still trapped beneath it?” It is time to choose. You cannot have both. Representation should liberate people, not become a permanent profession.

Conclusion: Sign Your Own Discharge Papers

Fifty years ago in Varanasi, a father who was targeted by the King understood a hard truth: the purpose of every political struggle is to create survivors, not a museum of victims. He watched Paswan and JP, and he knew a moment would come when the “crushed” would have to choose between their label and their liberty.

The apologies from Rabi and Balen mean that the state is finally acknowledging the crimes of the past. But acknowledgement is not restoration. The state can admit guilt, but it cannot make you whole. Only you can do that. Yours is the generation that can finally shut down the “Caste Hospital.”

To the Gen Z of 2026: it is time to sign your own discharge papers. Stop allowing others to turn your identity into an ATM. You are not “Dalit.” You are Survivors. The revolution begins when you stop calling yourselves “crushed” and start acting as though you have already won.

Always remember: you are survivors. You are the generation that can say, “My family survived the crushing, and now I am whole.” You are now respected citizens of this nation. Period.

I have been waiting fifty years to say this. Now, it is up to you to act on it—and please, do not waste the opportunity.