I Don't Want to be Friend with Non-Dalits

Life is Mine, My Right Too

Life is mine, and so is my right. I have the right to live without fear, violence, and discrimination. However, from the moment I became aware that I am a Dalit, I have faced discrimination.

When a non-Dalit classmate says, "I don’t dance with Damini in school programs," when I am excluded from distributing offerings during Saraswati Puja, when my non-Dalit friend’s mother drops the prasad in front of me instead of handing it to me, or when I am not allowed to cook during a school picnic—I feel the weight of caste-based discrimination.

Because I am a Dalit, my non-Dalit friend’s mother assumed that I must be weak in academics. Yet, when a non-Dalit friend passed the SLC in the second division, I passed in the first division. Her mother did not speak to me for a year simply because I outperformed her child. These are just a few examples.

The most painful incident, however, was when my best non-Dalit friend got married while we were still in Plus Two. I was invited to the wedding, and although I feared my friend might be upset if I didn’t attend, I hesitated. Still, I went. It was November—cold and windy. The wedding was inside the house, but I, being a Dalit, was not allowed to enter. I had to call my friend outside, hand over my gift, and say I would leave.

Yet, I decided to stay. But I was alone outside, watching the wedding from the door. Then, the wind blew, and it started to rain. Half of my body was soaked. Even in that freezing cold, no one invited me inside. I did not dare return home alone at night.

At that moment, I was furious with myself. Why was I born into a Dalit family? If I had been born into a non-Dalit family, I would have been inside that house. The rain stopped, but the cold intensified. As I shivered, I found some warmth near a fire lit by the wedding guests. That night changed my perspective forever. After that incident, I became afraid to befriend non-Dalits. I promised myself that I would never make non-Dalit friends again.

A few years ago, while searching for a rented room, I met a professor and his wife, a doctor. Initially, they agreed to rent us the room. But later, when the professor's wife discovered we were Dalits, she sent a message saying, "My relatives are coming, so we can’t rent the room to you." We waited, assuming her relatives would come, but the room remained vacant for three months. Eventually, another non-Dalit tenant moved in instead. This incident showed how even educated people—professors and doctors—uphold caste-based discrimination.

Similarly, a few months ago, I attended a discussion on the situation of Dalit women. When I introduced myself as Sunita Pariyar, a non-Dalit man sitting next to me asked in disbelief, "Are you a Pariyar (Dalit)?" His tone and expression suggested that he had never imagined a Dalit could look like me. Listening to him, I felt pity—not for myself, but for him—because his mindset revealed how deeply rooted anti-Dalit prejudice remains.

Even today, non-Dalit youth’s attitudes toward Dalits have not changed. A non-Dalit friend once told me, "Only three Dalits will be selected in this year’s public service exams. So don’t bother applying—your name won’t be there." This shows the cruel assumption that Dalits can only succeed through quotas, not through merit.

Centuries-old caste-based discrimination continues to shape social attitudes, even among the younger generation.

The incidents I have shared are not fictional. They are my lived experiences as a Dalit. And these are just a few—there are many more. Other Dalits have likely suffered even worse discrimination and injustice. Some may have even avoided non-Dalit friendships entirely due to such experiences.

Throughout my life, I have endured emotional pain and mental stress. But who is responsible for this suffering? Is it Nepal’s caste system? The Manu Smriti? The social structure? Or simply people’s behavior? Shouldn’t society evolve with time and embrace change?

I have merely given words to my experiences. This issue is neither simple nor easy. In Nepal, where Hindu society dominates, the caste system leaves a lasting impact on Dalit minds from childhood. And no matter how much my non-Dalit friends say "Sorry," that wound does not heal.

Physical wounds may heal, but the wounds of humiliation and insult never do. The inferiority complex I carry makes me feel like a second-class citizen. However, I hope the new generation will not have to endure the same discrimination that I did.

Nepal’s constitution guarantees every individual the right to equality, freedom, and dignity. It criminalizes caste-based discrimination and untouchability. It promises an egalitarian society. But in reality, society still acts in the opposite manner. Here, not only is dignity denied, but even marrying someone you love can lead to death.

Policies, laws, and constitutional rights should not remain limited to paper. They must be implemented in practice. A "Dalit Bill" should be enforced to protect victims and punish perpetrators. Only then can a truly equal society be built.

Dalits have endured systemic oppression for generations. But the moment a Dalit begins to resist discrimination—mentally and physically—they transform from an "untouchable" into a fighter. That is the essence of Dalit identity—a struggle for dignity and justice.

Despite constitutional provisions, laws, policies, and the Dalit rights movement, individuals like Angira Pasi, Nawaraj BK, and Ajit Mijar have lost their lives due to caste-based violence. If we remain silent now, we will be complicit in this injustice. Change is in our hands—not just for us but for future generations.

I have explained why I hesitate to make non-Dalit friends. But if non-Dalits genuinely reject the caste system and treat me as an equal, then they can play a crucial role in changing my perspective.

- Sunita Pariyar