By Nepali Times
This article by Hari Prasad Sacré and Chandra Kala Clemente-Martinez was originally published in Nepali Times, and a shortened and edited version has been republished on Global Voices as part of a content-sharing agreement.
Between the 1980s and 2000s, over 5,000 Nepali children were adopted abroad, primarily to the United States, France, and Spain. While international adoption was intended to provide vulnerable children with better opportunities, child trafficking, and irregular practices prompted Nepal to restrict adoptions in 2007 and overhaul its policies.
By 2010, stricter regulations aligned with the Hague Adoption Convention drastically reduced adoption numbers. Today, many of these children, now adults, are returning to Nepal in search of their roots, only to encounter a society that no longer recognizes them, legally or socially.
Behind the statistics lies the deeply personal and emotional journey of adoptees returning to reconnect with their past, find their birth family, and rediscover a sense of belonging. These stories reflect a broader struggle for identity and the complexities of bridging two worlds.
Maya
Adopted at age nine by a family in Barcelona, Spain, Maya carried fragmented memories of her early life in Nepal, including the painful recollection of the day her mother and sister vanished, leaving her and her younger siblings behind. She has faint recollections of her mother, elder sister, and the village where she once lived.
In June 2017, Maya came to Nepal accompanied by Chandra Kala and two friends, Jay and Vikram. With only a few photographs of her mother Tulsi, her elder sister Pargati, and her brother-in-law Kamal, along with a street name, Maya arrived in Birendranagar in Western Nepal after a 20-hour bus ride from Kathmandu.
She shared her anxiety with Chandra Kala: “I’m nervous. I don’t know if I’ll recognize them or if they’ll recognize me. I don’t know how they’ll react or what they’ll say. And then there’s him [Kamal]. I have such bad memories of him. I don’t know if I can handle this.”
Maya and her companions asked around the town with little success until a shopkeeper recognized Kamal and directed them to a nearby village. Jay went to confirm and returned excitedly, shouting, “It’s her! It’s your sister!”
Maya froze, paralyzed by fear and anticipation, but she pushed ahead. At the village, Maya’s sister Pargati initially struggled to recognize her. Jay introduced Maya: “Do you recognize her? This is your younger sister. She’s come all the way from Spain to find you.”
Slowly, the realization dawned, and the two women embraced, bridging the decades of separation with tears and disbelief. The next day, Maya met her mother, Tulsi, in an emotionally overwhelming reunion. Tulsi rushed into the room and embraced Maya tightly, sobbing uncontrollably: “Mero chhora-chhori, gaye, gaye…” (my children they went, they went …).
Once the tears subsided, Tulsi and Pargati began recounting the heartbreaking circumstances of their separation. After the death of her husband, Tulsi faced relentless judgment in their village when Kamal stayed with the family before his marriage to Pargati. The villagers accused Tulsi of impropriety, calling her पापी (sinful), and demanded that the family leave.
“We didn’t want to leave, but the village didn’t want us here,” explained Pargati. “We left intending to bring you and your siblings later. But when we returned, you were gone.”
Tulsi recalled how she had entrusted Maya and her siblings to relatives, hoping they would be cared for temporarily. However, when she returned, the children had been sent away without her knowledge.
The reunion brought healing and answers, but it also exposed the societal pressures that had fractured Maya’s family. Despite the challenges, Maya spent the rest of her visit bonding with her sister, nieces, and younger half-sister, Sunita, slowly bridging the gaps created by time and distance.
Maya’s journey was a testament to the courage required to confront the past, the pain of uncovering difficult truths, and the hope of rebuilding connections once lost. Her story highlights the enduring emotional complexity faced by adoptees navigating their history and identity.
Ashmita
Unlike some adoptees whose main focus is reuniting with their biological family, 26-year-old Ashmita’s priority was to uncover the institutional details surrounding her adoption. She wanted to understand what the orphanage and the government knew about her background and why so much information seemed concealed.
“I just want to know where I come from,” she said. “Even if I never find my biological family, having a better sense of the places and people connected to my story would mean so much.”
For many adoptees, returning to Nepal is not just about reconnecting emotionally, it is about seeking formal recognition as members of the Nepali community. However, the legal framework in Nepal often fails to acknowledge their unique status.
In Nepali law, adoptees are left in limbo: their birth parents are not considered legal parents, and their ties to the country are effectively erased upon adoption. This lack of recognition creates significant hurdles, particularly in two key areas: accessing pre-adoption records and obtaining Non-Resident Nepali (NRN) status.
Despite international norms like the Convention on the Rights of the Child, which guarantees the right to know one’s origins, institutions often refuse to cooperate. Orphanages and non-profits in Nepal, which hold critical pre-adoption records such as birth certificates and citizenship documents, frequently withhold this information, reflecting the systemic reluctance to provide transparency.
In numerous cases, records that should include family names, addresses, or relinquishment agreements were either incomplete or falsified. These practices not only prevent adoptees from reclaiming their histories but also perpetuate their disconnection from their heritage.
Ashmita’s initial requests for information from her adoption agency were met with delays and incomplete responses. When she turned to the orphanage where she spent her early years, she encountered even greater resistance. At one point, the director of the orphanage issued veiled threats.
Nevertheless, Ashmita persisted and managed to find the name of the individual who had brought her to the orphanage. However, the person had disappeared, leaving yet another gap in her story.
A breakthrough came when Ashmita accessed a police report that suggested she might have been born in a different municipality than the one in her adoption records, prompting her to seek help from local authorities. The police took an interest in her case and began investigating possible connections to her birth family. While progress was slow, they meticulously followed leads to help her trace her origins.
“It’s not easy,” Ashmita said of the process. “But every small step feels like I’m piecing something back together.”
She also noted that societal perceptions could add to the difficulty. At times, she felt questioned about her identity and her right to seek answers. “People have asked me why I care so much or even suggested that I’m not Nepali anymore because I was adopted abroad,” she reflected.
Ashmita’s story is a complex account of persistence in the face of institutional and personal challenges. While her search has not yet provided all the answers she seeks, it continues to offer her insights into her early life and the systems that shaped her adoption journey.
“These records are sealed for a reason. They are not meant to be reopened,” said a government official. Even an NGO representative said: “It’s better for everyone if the past remains in the past.” An orphanage director asked: “Why are you asking these questions? This is not your place anymore.”
Hari Prasad Sacré
The Non-Resident Nepali (NRN) card is a lifeline for Nepali diaspora members, granting them residency and property rights in Nepal. Yet, adoptees are notably excluded from this framework. While the law stipulates eligibility for individuals whose parents or grandparents were Nepali citizens, it makes no provision for adoptees whose legal ties to their Nepali parents were severed by adoption.
When Hari Prasad Sacré, a Nepali adoptee, sought to obtain an NRN card at the Nepal Embassy in Belgium, he encountered officials unfamiliar with processing an NRN request from an adoptee. His case was the first of its kind, setting a precedent but also highlighting the systemic barriers adoptees face.
“You are not eligible; your surname is Sacré, it is not a Nepali name,” said a staff member at the embassy.
Sacré’s situation was legally ambiguous. Although his biological parents, including his father, Khul Prasad Adhikari, are alive and he maintains contact with them, he no longer has “legal” ties to Nepal due to the adoption process.
Carrying a Belgian surname, the embassy staff was initially convinced the adoptee couldn’t claim Nepali origin. Nepali law, which does not recognize biological parents as legal guardians once a child is adopted, created complications for the NRN application.
To navigate this complexity, Sacré relied on a testimony from his father. Issued by a local government body in Kaski of Gandaki Province, the testimony affirmed that Hari had been put up for adoption and was of Nepali origin. While this enabled the embassy to approve his NRN card, the process was unnecessarily protracted and emotionally charged, highlighting the inadequacy of current policies to accommodate the unique situations of adoptees.
Sacré’s case represents a rare instance where biological parents were alive, involved, and willing to provide testimony, but many adoptees are not as fortunate.
Most adoptees are declared “orphans” during the adoption process, even when their parents are alive. This severs their legal ties to Nepal, stripping them of documentation that could later prove their origin. For others, the absence of living biological relatives or access to their original adoption records creates insurmountable barriers.
Without clear documentation or a family member to vouch for their Nepali heritage, adoptees are excluded from the NRN framework. This denies them property rights, legal recognition, and a formal connection to their homeland.
Sacré’s case serves as both a precedent and a call to action. It exemplifies the challenges and triumphs of adoptees navigating complex bureaucracies and advocates for a more inclusive and equitable approach to reconnecting adoptees with their homeland.
Hari Prasad Sacré, PhD, is a postdoctoral researcher at Ghent University in Belgium, specializing in cultural translation, multilingualism, and identity in education.
Chandra Kala Clemente-Martínez, PhD, is a postdoctoral researcher at the AFIN Research Group, Autonomous University of Barcelona, with a PhD in Social Anthropology.
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Previously Published on globalvoices.org with Creative Commons License
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Photo Credit: Ashmita in Lalitpur, where she started to search for information. Image by L.C. via Nepali Times. Used with permission.
The post Adopted Nepali Nationals: Searching for a Homeland Away from Home appeared first on The Good Men Project.