Collegiate Times

When growing up in my home country, Nepal, I was called by the nickname of “Hitler’s granddaughter” by my uncle.

Unlike any other regular nicknames he could have called me by, he chose this bizarre nickname because I grew up as the only child for the first seven years of my childhood, and still acted like one long after my younger brother was born. I was spoiled to a point where I would not listen to anyone and was “authoritative in personality like Hitler,” my uncle would say.

As a fourth-grader, I had no prior knowledge of Adolf Hitler or his standing as a leader, but the one thing I knew was that the authoritative personality was the key to leadership success — as my uncle always mentioned when discussing politics with his friends.

Thinking this quality to be a good one, I took the nickname as a compliment for years, up until I was in ninth grade — when I moved to the United States with my family. It came as a shock when my English teacher taught us about the Holocaust.

I felt like I had just been tossed off a cliff, hundreds of feet to the ground on this particular day in my English class, when my teacher mentioned the tally of Jews killed during the Holocaust under Hitler’s leadership.

Knowing Hitler’s true identity shocked me less than not having basic knowledge of such a significant incident in human history. Millions were slaughtered on one side of the world and I learned of it only after coming to the other side.

The education I had received for 15 years meant nothing. I was ashamed of myself for days.

I asked my cousins and friends back in Nepal if they knew what the Holocaust was. To my disappointment, they didn’t have the slightest idea of what it was.

Then it struck me.

I got a glimpse of the meaning of “Third World country” through this encounter. I then started to recall my time in Nepal.

I used to have a room that was about the size of my parents’ current house in the United States. Located on the fourth floor of my old house — the houses are comparatively taller in Nepal. My room had big windows with brilliant views of the Shivapuri Mountain Range, Swayambhu temple — one of the world heritage sites listed by UNESCO — and the heart of Kathmandu valley. I used to come home to spend peaceful time in this sanctuary after a busy day in school.

I attended the top school in Nepal, well known in nearby countries.

I used to have a circle of friends, which consisted of daughters of businessmen, nieces of politicians and granddaughters of industrialists.

We grew up with the attitude that we would be continuing our studies abroad. However, I moved before finishing high school.

I never had a chance to stop and look beyond my horizon. Of course, the life I lived wasn’t really as extravagant as it looked.

Our parents owned cars but had to drive them on narrow, rough roads. We wore new clothes, but as soon as we stepped foot on the street and walked a few blocks, the new clothes looked as old as the dust piled on them. Our parents bought gallons of mineral water not because they were too rich to be drinking from the tap, but because the sewage system was so bad there was a possibility of the sewage getting mixed with the tap water.

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A version of this article appeared in the Sep 2 issue of the Collegiate Times.