Nepal: Not A Tourist Attraction (cont.)

The image of an inmate burning herself to death—alone in a foul latrine, probably incarcerated for a crime like stealing food—is more than I can bear, and we hasten back to the main courtyard to sit under the shade of a tree where I  gather my wits.  We are offered tea and biscuits and talk to the jail supervisor about any immediate needs that Setu might address.  A toothless elderly woman comes by and shows us the abscess on her leg.

“She is dying,” says Prema.  “She refuses to have the leg amputated.  We cannot afford the treatment or the surgery.”

Out of the corner of my eye I notice a curious sight.  Among all these Nepali women dressed in rags, a tall white woman stands in a doorway of a nearby building with a look of wonder on her face, her hair done up in a towel; she is gaunt, wearing a worn but fashionable black dress.  This is the prison madwoman, I think.

As we sit, chat and sip our chai, this strange apparition approaches timidly like a wild deer, finally squatting nervously in the dirt a few feet away, keeping her eyes tightly focused on mine. 

Prema looks at her watch; we have overstayed our time and perhaps our welcome as well.  It is time to take our leave; so we stand up.  I smile at this strange creature sitting at my feet, she with high cheekbones and full lips bears a resemblance to Angelina Jolie sans make up.  She slowly rises to her feet and approaches me.

“Please sir,” she says in heavily accented English, “Can you help me?” 

Prema looks at her watch again.  Her role at Setunepal is to help Nepali women make the transition from prison to a halfway house where they can be trained to re-enter society as productive citizens.  She cannot help women who are not being released or foreigners who have been incarcerated for visa violations or drugs.  Prema coughs and turns to thank the prison supervisor, and I look at this strange foreign woman wondering what she could possibly have done to find herself in such a nightmarish situation.

“Please, my name is Irina,” she says with a lurch of her chest and sob.  “I do not know what I am doing here.  Please, can you help me in any way?” 

Choking back tears Irina explains that she has been arrested and charged but not convicted. She describes herself as a Russian tourist, a devout woman of deep faith who had been making pilgrimages to various religious sites around the world including Jerusalem, Mecca, Lhasa and now Nepal, studying at religious centers.  Her story is that she had been in seclusion in a monastery 300 miles from Kathmandu when the cleaning lady had been killed at her apartment in Kathmandu.  Seeking retribution, the family of the murdered woman had charged Irina with accessory to murder, resulting in her immediate arrest at the monastery.

“I gave my life savings to a lawyer,” she sobbed, “and he has disappeared.  He says he went to the Russian embassy, but they would do nothing.  All that is required is a statement from the monks at the monastery saying I was nowhere near the crime. I gave my lawyer the address, but he went to the wrong monastery.  That was 18 months ago.”

The jail supervisor stands up indicating it is time for us to leave. Irina touches my sleeve.

“Please, I have been locked up here ever since, and I don’t know what is happening to me.  I haven't even been sentenced; I don’t know if they will ever let me out—no one speaks any English here.  I have only the clothes I was wearing when I was arrested.  I spend all my day reading the Bible.  Oh my God, why is he doing this to me?” 

“Perhaps God is doing this to make you strong,” I offer feebly as we turn to leave.

Prema and I walk slowly back to the front entrance, and as we duck under the half-gate in front of the doorway, I turn to survey courtyard a final time, and I see that Irina has crumpled to the ground and lies sobbing in the dirt.  The Nepali women stand and look at this strange creature, but no one makes a offers any help.  I make my way down a tunnel to the entrance where the heavy metal chain is unhooked for me, and I walk out the front door, a free man able to wander the world at will. I am greeted by a dazzling blast of hot air and the glare of the harsh noonday sun, and I steady myself by leaning against a wall, breathing deeply, tears running down my face while I try to slow the furious beating of my heart. 

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