Chiphen Rigphel Project Training

The Chiphen Rigphel Project workshop commenced on December 23, 2013, and will conclude on January 1, 2014. The ten-day workshop is currently being held at Gelephu Higher Secondary School. There are 22 participants from two dzongkhags—Zhemgang and Sarpang. According to the name list from the Ministry of Education, more than 28 participants were expected. However, many enlisted teachers did not turn up for the training. An apparent reason, supported by hearsay, is related to the benefits they are entitled to receive. "Teachers coming from faraway places like Bjokha are not provided with mileage, porter, pony, or other allowances. They ended up spending more here than what they earned," said a teacher who requested anonymity.

The participants are being taught basic computer skills, including how to use Microsoft Word, Excel, PowerPoint, and basic internet applications. The training aims to equip them for the ICT world.

One of the resource persons, Mr. Dawa Tshering, said that the project aims to teach everyday computing knowledge. "We have many senior participants who have never worked on computers before, but it is satisfying to see that they show interest and learn considerably," he said.

"Format Painter, Excel filtering, Google Drive, Wizards, and some other features are new to me. It's worth attending," said Mr. Ugyen Dorji, one of the participants. "We still have more days to go," he added with a smile.

Here are some photos:

A Group Pic

Dawa doing presentation

Another one

So Engrossed

And Engrossed

Movies Move Mind

A few weeks ago, I watched a Bhutanese movie called Acho Kelden in Darla Hall. The film deals with general family issues. A couple gets divorced and leaves their children behind in a village. One of the underlying reasons appears to be the lust for money—something Bhutanese people are often accused of. The story narrates how an infant survives with the help of animals. Overall, the plot is quite unique compared to most other Bhutanese movies. However, the sad thing about Acho Kelden was the number of audience members who turned up. I looked around and counted only sixteen people sitting on the ramshackle benches. The hall resembled a ruined house—a ghastly one. There were a few broken benches, dusty and grimy; everything was in horrible condition. Some viewers sat on the cement floor in the chilling cold weather.

After watching Acho Kelden and witnessing the condition of the hall, scores of questions came to my mind. Why do most Bhutanese movies run at a loss? Why has Bhutan not succeeded with our films? Why are Bhutanese people not skilled at producing better movies? What is lacking in our entertainment industry?

Bhutan has a rich, diverse, and varied history. We have so many untold stories. Our people are rich in experience; each one of us has many things to share. Every stone, every tree, every valley, every hill, every mountain, and every village has a story to tell. There is a Galem and Singye in every hamlet. There is an Amrish Puri or a Phurba Thinley in every hamlet. There are unsung heroes everywhere. We are not short of stories. But we are short of an audience.

I believe we are not devoid of a market or an audience—people do want to watch—but we lack good places for screening. Back in my village in Pemagatshel, the villagers are hungry for Bhutanese movies. I am confident that Acho Kelden, even at the same price of Nu. 50, would draw more than a hundred viewers there.

It is often said that our culture and traditions are slowly weakened by media—entertainment mediums like television, live shows, films, and talk programs. These media have a great impact on our society, not only changing the way people think but also altering lifestyles. Therefore, we must be careful about which movies are allowed to be watched. For that reason, BIMCA censors movies. On the other hand, entertainment mediums can also be preservers and custodians of a nation's culture, traditions, and customs. Movies and documentaries are great sources of knowledge. Not only do some of us imitate the best performers, but we also sometimes come to believe what we see. Therefore, in order to bring Bhutanese movies to our hungry audience, we need good distribution systems and good entertainment venues—especially halls or theaters. We need good buildings with proper stages, quality sound systems, and other facilities. Such halls would also serve as meeting places for local communities. Ideally, good halls should be built in every gewog, or if possible, in every chiwog.

In this way, we could promote our own films and Drukpawood, and promote our own shows, thereby educating people through our own traditions. Not only that, we would create many job opportunities in this industry and generate significant revenue. We would likely see fewer drug users and less crime overall, because such venues engage people and give them a second thought.

Our neighbor India has a very strong and prosperous film industry because almost every small town has very good cinema halls.

Bhutan does not have many good theaters. We have some in Thimphu, Phuntsholing, Samdrup Jongkhar, and Gelephu. But these are not really theaters—they are simple halls. All of them lack good sound systems and technical quality. The size and cleanliness of these halls could easily put them in Grade G.

I have also been thinking about our live shows and singing contests like Druk Superstar, Bhutan Star, Talent Hunt, and similar programs. These reality shows remain simple, but they lack quality compared to similar shows elsewhere. The low quality of filming, poor sound, weak presentation by participants, and drab backgrounds make these shows not very presentable for national television.

I hope our government will look into this matter and establish good theaters across the country. I am ready to contribute a small amount to help build good theaters in Bhutan.

I also hope that live shows will improve their broadcasting quality. Furthermore, I hope the entertainment industry introduces different types of shows—such as dramas, skits, and comedy programs. Singing contests like Druk Star and Talent Hunt may be good ways of making money, but often the money feels unethically earned when the quality of presentations and participants remains so low.

A Voice For Change

What is freedom of speech? Do we really have the right to freedom of expression? The Bhutanese Civil Service Rules (BCSR) seem to rule out freedom of expression. We are not as free as we think. We are pressed into a silent, dark world of tight rein. Controlled freedom is no freedom at all. A society devoid of freedom of expression is a society of camouflage, confidentiality, corruption, and hatred. If we do not have the freedom to speak rightly against wrongdoers, where is development? Where is the space for growth? What is there to fight for your rights? Why does bigotry persist in our closed society?

We do not have absolute freedom, and it is not necessary for any country to provide it. However, I have some excerpts from the BCSR 2012:

3.2.7 A civil servant shall maintain the confidentiality of official information and decisions.

3.2.7.1 A civil servant SHALL:
i. Uphold the duty of confidentiality at all times.
ii. Be as open as required with immediate official colleagues about decisions and actions.
iii. Restrict certain information to protect wider interests.
iv. Maintain confidentiality of information discovered in the course of duty, both while in service and after separation.

3.2.7.2 A civil servant SHALL NOT:
i. Disclose information to an inappropriate person or system.
ii. Share information with anyone, including family, until it has been made public by the concerned authority or an authorized person.
iii. Use information for personal gain.

3.2.8

3.2.18.2 A civil servant SHALL NOT:
i. Criticize or undermine the policies, programmes, and actions of the Royal Government in public or in the media.

I personally feel that if we maintain confidentiality regarding wrongs committed by some officials or people, we are living in a camouflaged and masked society. What could be the consequence of living in such a disguised society? For example, if a person is bullied in various ways by a head of an office, and if that mistreatment goes unreported, and if the victim is then blamed for doing the right thing, where is the fairness? Criticism and feedback are sources of rectification and development, yet there is no provision for them in these rules. I also believe that to permit the continued building of our politics and culture, and to ensure self-fulfillment for each individual, people must be guaranteed the right to express any thought, free from government censorship. Therefore, I feel there is a need to change and amend certain policies of the BCSR to create a better working environment and to encourage quality input. These policies offer no scope for progress. We are reined in. If something is good for the people, society, and country, we must learn to accept it constructively.

Let me refer to Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. It states: "Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive, and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers."

Freedom of speech has always remained controversial. The freedom of information is also explicitly protected. We know this. There are clauses that allow governments to impose reasonable time, place, or manner restrictions on speech for general protections—such as against child pornography, speech that incites violence, the use of untruths to harm others or slander, religious offence, racial offence, sedition, hatred, and the regulation of commercial speech like advertising. Other limitations, such as rights for authors and inventors over their works and discoveries (copyrights and patents), may also be restricted.

Freedom of information is an extension of freedom of speech, where the medium of expression is the internet. It may also refer to the right to privacy in the context of the internet and information technology. Sites like Twitter, Facebook, and blogs are platforms of expression, and they are accessible without censorship or restriction of web content.

As a human being, as a thinking person, as a lawful and rightful individual, one must understand that freedom of speech does not in any way include the right to incite actions that would harm others, to speak obscene words, or to bring a threat to one's own society. We must be mindful of what we do and say.

There is A Day

There is a day for everyone.
The sun will shine for me someday, like it has shone for you.
Happiness will come to me someday, like it came to you.
Success will come to me someday, like you have won.
Success will bear fruit for me someday, like it bore fruit in you.

Everything will be different—
flowers will bloom, and clouds will disperse.
Everything will be different,
because you never saw the same things as I see.
You were different.
Don't be different.

There is a day for everyone.
There is a day
when you will cry for me, like I cried for you.
There is a day
when you will miss me, like I missed you.
There is a day
when you will need me, like I needed you.
There is a day
when you will love me, like I loved you.

Everything will be different—
love will affect, pains will hint, and hearts will melt.
Everything will be different,
because you never saw the same things as I see.
You were different.
Please, don't be different.

I tell you this:
every time I was there around you,
doing everything for your affection,
the same is so rare from you.
A heart is meant for one
but greeted with rejection.

I thought of us together,
but now I have given up.
I cried my tears; no one has won.
Aches fade, pains do too.
But of all, I cannot think of losing you.
All I see is you and me forever.
I will hold on, and still, I will try.

Teacher is not a Cheater

I have been a teacher. And I love to be one. (But as of now, I have been doing other works more than teaching. Shh. Don't tell anyone.) I have been learning to teach. I have been showing the world—whether the world asked for it or not. I have been creating stories, poems, and minds. Some of these minds are sharper than others. Some are still in the "sharpening" phase. I have been acting to be ethical, innovative, and usable. Usable, like a good Swiss knife. Not pretty, but gets the job done. I have been listening, reading, writing, and speaking. Sometimes all at once. That's called multitasking. Other people call it a breakdown. I have been making rules for the class, games, co-curricular activities, and I have been a part of them—unwillingly, but present. I have been a father. I have been a mother. I have been a servant. And for all of these, I have sometimes become a scapegoat. The kind that gets blamed for everything and then sacrificed at the altar of the annual report.

Teaching is good. I mean it. The act of teaching—when a child's eyes light up with understanding—is beautiful. But our system? Our system is no good at all. Not even a little. We don't have support as such. That's the technical term: as such. There is no support from parents, the government, our management, or society. Everyone wants educated children. Nobody wants to help educate them. Last time, after my studies, the Ministry of Education and Human Resource Officers brutally separated my family and me and placed me in a different place. "Brutally" is not an exaggeration. I heard similar stories from others too. Apparently, the Ministry has a secret award for the farthest placement from one's spouse. I think I won silver. I don't know what good there is to motivate teachers. A medal? A certificate? A "thank you" that doesn't come with a salary hike? I'm still waiting.

I laughed when other office agencies tell me they are busy. I saw them. Busying the whole day on Facebooking, chatting, gaming, and making josh (whatever that means). I cannot kill the time if I were one of them. I would die of boredom before lunch. But no. That's why teachers like me are overburdened with responsibilities. We are multi-tasked. We should be a housemaster, warden, matron, sports instructor, organizer, dancer, singer, kicker, baller, and occasional therapist. We look after co-curricular activities besides teaching. We have no time for cheating. We barely have time to pee. But guess what? We are paid very low. And we are only paid for teaching. Not for dancing. Not for parenting other people's children. Not for fixing the broken chair. Just teaching. Meanwhile, there is an indicated expectation—oh yes, indicated—of improving the quality of teaching and education. What else could we expect from overworked, burned-out teachers with minimal wages and no proper working space? Miracles? On the other hand, we have been bogged down with obligations like a donkey carrying a mountain. The Ministry of Education must initiate some careful interventions before it's too late to retain our teachers. Because we are not donkeys. We are just tired. .  Teachers live in pathetic conditions. I'm not being dramatic. I'm being accurate. They don't have quarters like other departments. Teachers where I am working live in huts. Yes, huts. If you look at the working rooms, tables, chairs, etc., they are more miserable than those of many low-grade servants. At least servants get a roof that doesn't leak. Teachers don't have computers in front of them to make notes. Some of us use chalk. Some use hope. Some use both and cry a little. Teachers are deprived of many facilities that office workers enjoy a great deal—like sitting, air conditioning, and not having to break up fights during recess. .

Less innovative and less creative heads of the school judge gurujis on the level of outbound activities—like their lip services, kitchen gardening, and how many plants they can grow in recycled buckets. Not teaching as such. Teaching is secondary. What matters is whether you can smile while planting cabbages. There are loud-mouth non-performers who get the highest grade. They talk well. They promise well. They deliver... well, nothing. And yet, they rise. Meanwhile, the good, born, and earnest teachers get demotivated. At least. Often, they get much less than that—like respect, recognition, or a simple "good job." So here I am. Still teaching. Still loving it. Still wondering why.

A Beauty that Costs Her Life

Did you see an ugly beautiful? Did you see a beautiful ugly? A beautiful face with the ugliest character. There is something in this: those who are ugly have a beautiful heart and are virtuous, and those who have beautyhave substandard character. Did you notice that? I have seen it in this nothing-to-do place—a very tiny, tipsy kind of place in Yebilaptsa. I have heard people saying so often that there is something missing in Khengpas, and this is really true because I have seen it. People usually work less here, and they eat more here; in fact, they drink more. They think only about now and forget completely about the future's prospects. They are living and dying at the same time. They don't have life as such. They don't understand life, they don't understand love, they don't understand feelings, they don't understand silences, they don't understand stances. They live a jaunty, perky kind of life.

You cannot have a beautiful woman—a woman who is virtuous, intelligent, and makes an ideal partner in life. If you have one, you have an angel.

And most girls and women in this place are truly disgusting. They don't have anything—let me be frank—women don't have anything as such in them. They don't have "woman" in them. They don't have the brains to compete. They don't have the energy to move forward. They don't have anything inside them because their character is loose. So loose that it may ruin them. They don't have integrity. Nothing. I would like to shout at them, especially at that red girl. They only have faces—physicalities. That too is truly fabricated beauty. They paint their faces like objects, and when they do, they objectify themselves. And this is what the women of Khengpas are: they have nothing, but they act as if they have everything.

In my life, I didn't believe any ears. I am a good listener but a very bad keeper. So I have never thought that I have my own. I didn't own anything as such. Only did I realize that I own someone when I got married. I have my precious wife and son now. I do believe in them. Anyway, this is another side of the story.

Now let me tell you about that Khengpa girl who has a beautiful face, one that anyone would fall for at first sight, but truly, she does have repulsive character—I should say. This is a small place, but many fishy things go on almost daily. There would be a boy asking for a girl's cell number in a bar shop. There would be cat-and-rat chases. There would be a boy showing off all the loftiness of his life. This is his valiance. Now, what is her valiance? She doesn't deserve this page or even a word if I were to describe her character. She stinks on my page. But if I were to describe her beauty, the pages would flower and smell. What is this beauty? John Keats says, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." But there is nothing true in her beauty. She has worn a red V-neck sweater. She has a plump, smiley, attractive, mesmerizing face. But this red girl acts like a bitch—a hungry bitch. She drinks peg after peg of Special Quarial and throws ruses at her new boyfriend. Gross. She holds onto someone's shoulder, and she literally embraces all. What a pity. She cries like a wounded bitch without any reason. She follows the boys and goes in search of her new boyfriend. She dares to shout her boyfriend's name in the night. She dares to run plag-plag-plag like a highwayman in the night.

One night, she fought with her boyfriend. It was just outside my living room. They quarreled for some time and threw some punches. I pressed my face against the window glass, and all that I saw was a red-shirted girl lying on the ground, throwing her feet and arms angrily toward the sky as she shouted, "FUCK YOU." And I felt she had fucked her own life herself. She is mannerless, characterless, and good for nothing. She can only live by selling her beauty—a beauty that costs so much pain to be borne by herself. A beauty that blemishes her life.

It’s the Blood Not Poem

Note: We are human and we make mistakes, but sometimes we nibble at the tiny ones and ignore the big things that surround us. These smallest faults can cost us everything—quarrels, divorces, suicides. This poem speaks of suffering between a husband and wife who misunderstand each other. The misunderstanding is born from not knowing who they truly are. Sharing and trust matter if we are to avoid a broken heart. This poem reflects what I feel and what I have seen over the fences.



My tears roll onto this page
because I have no choice.
A sorrow overflows unceasingly—
so painful to bear.
My life is thwarted,
lacerated,
torn apart.

I am living only to die.
I cannot change.
Only you can.
The dark lines will remain—
this faded excitement,
this dimmed view,
this dullness.
I cannot see.
Why can't I?
What have I done?
Was I so unlike myself?

Can you not cry
seeing me fall?
Have I wronged you?
My many wrongs
have been shattered by your one wrong.
You separated me.
This one is brutal—
it has destroyed me.

Now I drink my own tears,
drinking to make them stop,
but they keep flowing,
carving rivers down my face.
I am fickle, lost, nervous,
lifeless, oblivious,
making enemies of my own feelings.
I blame this. I curse it.
Is this my destiny?
Why am I here?
Why did I come?
I don't know anymore.
I am pointless now,
wandering a bewildered street,
drifting toward dreary, empty places.

Without your love,
I wander like a ghost,
kicking bricks,
punching crumbling walls.
I don't feel the pain.
I tear my skin red.
I run back and forth,
screaming inside—
what place is this?

People pass by.
I drift through the crowds.
No one glances at me.
No one notices what is next to them.
I am alone in the masses.
I feel this because you made me alone.

My feet carry on,
and the aches carry on.
Days scratch me raw.
I try to focus, but it's useless.
This world of charms and joys—
it belongs to others, not to me.
I am far from the magic of living,
stuck in a corner of misery.

Depression hovers over me like fog,
thick with reasons why
we should never have been separated.
What will happen to our children?
What will happen to the trust of our relatives?
To you and me—
our meetings, our memories,
our attachments, our affections—
every detail will slowly be killed.

Now those relationships crush me.
I was so attached.
I call out, howling,
throwing myself on the floor.
Love is killing me.
My skull is breaking.
Why is life cracking like this?
Why was life made this way?
I didn't create this situation.
No one planned this.
It is a movie,
and it has reached its cruel climax—
to lay myself down,
buried,
dying like a wounded cat,
freeing myself from everyone's care and burden.

Because I have always been a poor man.
I was never meant to be well-off.
I was never suited to be a husband or a father.
I was never made to love.

Let me lie down now.
A broken man has no heart left to give.
Let no one disturb this ruined corpse.
What sin did I commit?
The offense of loving?
The sin of giving care that was never returned?
The fault of fathering children?
The failure of keeping silent?

Everything happens in life—
but not in love!

I am dead from my sins.
These sins drive me mad.
Let me be punished if I have wronged you.
But don't you see—these are our sins?
Don't you understand—this is our life?

I listen to how others live.
They speak of interference, obstacles, rebukes—
all parts of life.
Each person has limited love,
further bound by their children.
Yet they stay together.
They know each other.

You said, and I said, that we have
sharing, understanding—that we can grow again.
But slowly, you must know me,
and I must know you.
Who am I?
Who are you?
Where did we go wrong?

I never truly knew you or myself.
That is where we failed.
A person must be sensible, no matter what.
Sense is a matter of reality.
We cannot live a poetic life—
all people are pulled down to the grave.

Now I have a mind again,
and I feel I cannot go on.
It is unbearable to live without you.
The distance I keep now—
is it the distance of a million years?
The gap between us,
the gap between our children—
is it just a shadow's width?
No. The gap is a mountain of shadow.

As you wished,
as you wanted me to leave—
this distance, this gap,
these spaces and mountains between us—
they are unbearable.

When you spoke those wavering words,
when your father told me to get a divorce,
I did what you wanted.
I asked for what I needed,
but you could not give it.
For the love of you,
I gave everything.

I am a nag. Yes, I nag.
But now, here I am—crying.
I cry.
The songs I hear turn into tears.
The room I live in drowns me.
I am being crushed
between two walls.
I am bleeding.
My blood is nothing but tears.

Our children are crying too.
You may be crying as well.
Our children might be longing for sweets.
What made you cry?

Here I am, sleepless night after night,
tossing and turning,
glimpsing at the memories—
the incidents we created together,
now buried underground.
They rise up vividly on the walls.

You may say, "I am different from others."
We are different.
But we are bound by one thing—
an unbreakable love.