What Bhutan Won’t Say and What We Cannot Forget

Ramesh Gautam and Khem Gautam
Norway

More than thirty years have passed since one of Bhutan’s most sensitive episodes: the mass exodus of over 80,000 Lhotshampa, mostly Nepali-speaking Bhutanese, in the early 1990s. Amnesty International once called it “one of the largest ethnic expulsions in modern history.”

Like many who were uprooted, we[1] have spent decades imagining how the country has changed in our absence—wondering whether the Bhutan we hold in memory, softened by childhood and distance, resembles the Bhutan that exists today.

Our curiosity sharpened unexpectedly in 2022 when the first author published a poetry analogy. One of our relatives in Bhutan asked for a digital copy. We offered to send him as many physical copies as he wished, which he could distribute locally. His response stunned us: “Do you wish to strip me of my job?”

The fear in his message—fear of association, fear of political consequences—revealed more about contemporary Bhutanese life than any official account. The idea that, in today’s democratic Bhutan, even receiving a completely non-political document such as a poetry book could jeopardize someone’s job might seem almost beyond imagination. Yet that fear is real. It aligns closely with what Line Kikkenborg Christensen documents in her research on how silence surrounds the 1990s conflict.

Christensen’s work is unusual in the Bhutanese context. She conducted seven months of anthropological fieldwork in Bhutan—a rare achievement. As a scholar from Aalborg University in Denmark, she lived among university students, attended classes, spoke with individuals and groups, and observed daily life. This access allowed her to study not only what young Bhutanese say about the conflict, but what they cannot say, hesitate to say, or have never been told.

What she finds is not a simple absence of discussion, but a silence powerful enough to shape how younger generations understand their country, its past, and one another. Publicly, the conflict almost does not exist. It is absent from school curricula, national museums, and the mainstream media. It survives instead in whispers and half-told stories shared privately between generations.

This stands in stark contrast to many nations that, despite painful histories, have chosen to document, archive, and publicly confront their pasts. From the chronicled brutality of Viking raids in Scandinavia to the extensive memorialization of Nazi atrocities across Europe, to the evolving narratives of racial injustice in the United States, societies often reshape their histories, but they do not erase them. Their pasts are present, debated, displayed, and taught. In Bhutan, however, the 1990s remain largely absent from the national record, creating a silence unlike that found in most modern states.

Silence is not Emptiness—It is a Force that Shapes Narratives

Christensen’s interviews with students, most born after the conflict, show how young Bhutanese piece together fragmented stories from family memories, hints, and rumors. These fragments form four central interpretations.

The Narrative of Oblivion: Some students had never heard of the conflict at all. Their silence was not defensive but the result of growing up in a society where the conflict has been edited out of public life. With no alternative story available, Bhutan’s past appears peaceful by default

The “Ngolop” Narrative: Others believe those who rebelled were ngolops—anti-nationals or illegal immigrants who threatened Bhutan’s unity. This view frames the unrest as a security threat and the state’s reaction as necessary. Two features stand out in this retelling. First, it minimizes the involvement of “real” Bhutanese by suggesting that many of those who joined the protests were coerced, misled, or swept along unwillingly.
In this way, the narrative preserves the moral clarity of a nation responding to outsiders rather than to its own dissatisfied citizens. Second, it treats the conflict as closed: the so-called anti-nationals left, and with their departure, the issue disappeared. What falls outside this frame—citizenship categories, refugee camps, statelessness, long-term exclusion—rarely enters the conversation.

The Discrimination Narrative: Many Lhotshampa youths view the events as a response to cultural pressure and discriminatory policies in the 1980s and 1990s. For them, the conflict persists through statelessness, lost opportunities, and unequal treatment. One student expressed the frustration of being born in Bhutan yet denied citizenship, asking simply: “What is happening? What’s up? We are supposed to have some response if it is democracy.”

The No-Blaming Narrative: A fourth group avoids assigning fault. They believe the Lhotshampa arrived legally and contributed to Bhutan yet still see the king’s actions as necessary for national interest. This narrative softens responsibility and implicitly reinforces silence.

These narratives differ sharply, but none are illegitimate. They reflect what people have access to: partial information, inherited memories, and a public environment that discourages open conversation. Bhutan’s case is distinctive not because conflict occurred, but because silence itself has become the dominant national narrative.

Two Rifts that Silence Deepens

Christensen argues that official silence deepens two subtle but significant divides in Bhutanese society; echoes of which we recognized in our relative’s fearful message.

A rift between citizens and the state: When people know something significant happened but cannot access information, trust erodes. Students described uncertainty about removed library materials, absent courses, and topics that feel unsafe to mention. Even those who believe the state acted correctly sense that they cannot openly explore the issue. Silence breeds caution, and caution becomes self-censorship.

A rift among citizens themselves: Without a shared national conversation, Bhutanese understand the present differently. Some believe the conflict is long resolved. Others experience its effects in citizenship or belonging. Still others are unaware that it happened. Silence does not reconcile these differences—it allows them to harden.

A Perspective from Exile

From where we stand, outside the country we once called home, Christensen’s findings feel unsurprising. They help explain the fear of accepting a relative’s book, the unresolved nature of the past, even among those who never lived it, and why Bhutan’s internal silence feels heavier than physical distance.

But neutrality matters. Bhutan’s silence is not necessarily born of malice. Many democracies struggle to narrate difficult histories. Bhutan’s political transition is young; the desire for harmony and national unity is real. Yet silence cannot accomplish what reconciliation requires.

Christensen’s research does not argue for a political outcome, nor do we. But it is fair to suggest that acknowledgement enables understanding. Understanding enables trust. Trust enables lasting peace.

The question is not who was right or wrong in the 1990s. It is whether Bhutan, as a democracy, can allow its citizens, including the younger generation, to access their history and speak about it without fear.

Many resettled Bhutanese may never reclaim what they lost. But young Bhutanese, whether inside the country or resettled abroad, deserve the clarity that only openness can offer. They deserve to inherit a history that can be discussed, examined, and learned from—not one that must be navigated in whispers.

Bhutan has long been assuming that it is teaching the world that happiness comes from balance. Perhaps the next balance to be struck is between national harmony and historical honesty, unity and dialogue, pride and reflection.

Where Do We Exiles Stand?

And where do we exiles position ourselves in this landscape of narratives? We have written books and articles over the years, often blaming authorities for what happened in the 1990s. But have we fully engaged with alternative narratives circulating within Bhutan? Have our children, born long after the tragedy, been able to test different versions of the past in their own laboratory of sense-making? How do these narratives shape us, and how do they guide our ongoing work of identity-building in exile?

In many cases, resettlement has diluted our own processes of understanding, drawing us into a quietness that, in its own way, mirrors Bhutan’s internal silence. And at times, we are claiming what we are not.

Christensen’s work shows that silence has shaped Bhutan long enough. What comes next—conversation, acknowledgement, or continued silence—will define Bhutan’s future far more than its past. And it will shape our identity-making as well.

We often wonder what story is taking shape in our own community. In the camps, we held our story close. We told it through books, dramas, and simple plays on makeshift stages. Those memories once united us. Today, they feel like echoes. If we ever had a common narrative, it has now broken into personal memories, old hurts, and the basic need to move on and build a life in new places.

Identity in Exile and Illusion of Belonging

However much we try to ignore it, the question of identity remains. Even as we rush to build new lives in new countries, many of us are still trying to understand who we are. This is why some people have formed the Non‑Resident Bhutanese movement. Others try to join the Non‑Resident Nepali networks to feel a sense of belonging to their ethnic roots. Some create Nepali‑origin groups to find common ground. These labels help us fit in, at least for a moment.

But the truth is harder. In the camps, we were never accepted as Nepalis (We never needed to be, if you ask us). Many of us still remember derogatory words thrown at us to remind us that we did not belong in Nepal. Those memories stay with us. No matter how much we try to convince ourselves, we may never be seen as plain Nepalis. And deep down, we know it.

When we visit Nepal today, we are treated differently. Even well‑known celebrities and politicians seem willing to stand with us. Our relatives and old neighbours, who once saw us as low-class refugees, now greet us with respect. But we should not fool ourselves. Just because we have momentum today does not mean we suddenly belong. That truth still sits quietly inside us.

Unspoken and Contested Memories

Some people want to forget the past and move on. We do not believe in forgetting. Our history must be faced, but people who choose silence or forgetting should not be dismissed. Their reasons and pain are real, and their exhaustion is absolute.

Within our community, there are stories people rarely speak about in public. One of them is the belief that some of our own actions, including what happened in Garganda, added to the fear and confusion during the mass exodus. These stories are uncomfortable; they are disputed; they are risky to talk about, but they exist. They live in private conversations, in the memories of older people, and in the long pauses when specific names come up. Ignoring them does not make them go away. It only leaves younger people confused about what really happened.

This is why our community must face these tensions rather than run from them. Not to weaken our struggle. Not to deny the injustice we faced. But to understand ourselves with honesty. A community that cannot face its own cracks cannot build a strong identity. And without a clear identity, our stories, whether of pain, strength, or survival, will always feel unfinished.

Memory as Political Power

There is another reason this exploration matters. Bhutan’s recent acceptance of a deportation ‘request’ from the Trump administration shows that, under pressure, Bhutan can bend. A son of Ugandan Indian refugees, a community expelled in a mass exodus, is now the mayor of New York City. If a child of expelled Ugandan Indians can rise to that level of influence, then a former Bhutanese refugee in Wisconsin, or anywhere else, could one day do the same (We really believe this). And influence like that can unfreeze conflicts that have been stuck for decades.

Such conflicts are evident elsewhere as well. In Armenia, the struggle to have the genocide recognized has lasted for more than a century, yet change has come because Armenians and their allies refused to let the story die. In Australia, public acknowledgment of injustices against Indigenous peoples only became possible after generations of survivors and advocates kept speaking, protesting, and remembering. These shifts did not happen just because time passed. They happened because people would not forget. But that possibility means nothing if our own story remains blurred. Our community needs a clear, honest account of what happened so future generations know exactly who they are and what they stand for.

Perhaps that is how some resolution to the Bhutanese refugee question will finally emerge — not through direct confrontation, but through the slow rise of Bhutanese diaspora voices into places of visibility and power. The Bhutanese diaspora cannot control when power will shift in Bhutan or elsewhere. But it can control whether, when that moment comes, they have a clear and honest story to place on the table.

What can We Do as a Community?

For that future to be real, we have to keep hope alive and refuse to let our story fade. We need to make room for those who keep going: the people who engage in activism, interview our elders, examine uncomfortable memories, do the research, and write our history down.

For these people to exist, we also need something more: trust, respect, and some investment in their work. Our own history tells us this will not come easily. In the camps, many learned to fear being “sold” — their stories used for someone else’s benefit, in the name of projects, donations, or brief fame. The memory of Garganda and old fundraising chanda campaigns still lingers.

But as our community businesses grow and more of us are no longer hungry, we have a new kind of responsibility. Those who care about identity, history, and truth now have a little more time and a little more money. We can choose to support this work — not by tightly controlling it, but by creating space for it. We should not gatekeep who is allowed to ask questions or write. We may not agree with every version that emerges, but we can still defend the right of our own people to speak, to document, and to remember. An honest, inclusive space, without fear and without gatekeeping, is the least we owe each other.

If we want a future where our voices can change policy and heal old wounds, we must protect, defend, and, if possible, fund the work of remembering. And we must begin now.

[1] Italicized we, us, our refer to the authors.