‘Woman Rebel’: Bittersweet Moment

“I come from a poor family,” says Silu. Her parents have spent their lives farming for a landlord in the Nepalese mountains, raising their children in a one-room hutch. They’ve done what their parents did before them, and theirs before them. Disappointed that the monarchy has not fulfilled promises to end centuries of gender and class inequality, Silu imagines another life for herself. “The current government is only for the wealthy,” she says, “but most Nepalese are poor.”

Silu isn’t her real name. As she explains early in Woman Rebel, it’s her code name, designed to protect her, as she’s a brigade commander in Maoist People’s Liberation Army of Nepal. Founded in 2001, the PLA is, during the course of the documentary, engaged in battle against Nepal’s Royal Army (joining what would be a 10-year war, ending in 2006). Silu’s dedication is heartfelt (“When I wore the uniform for the first time,” she remembers, “I was happy. I felt I had achieved something”) and deeply motivated. She recalls that when she was only eight or nine, her older sister was forced into an arranged marriage at age 12, then terribly abused by her husband and his family. The tragic outcome of her sister’s despair, Silu says now, “was the saddest moment of my childhood.” And so she determined to fight back, for all women, to ensure that future generations would never have to suffer discrimination and violence.

The film, premiering 18 August on HBO2, reveals that Silu’s decision, however valiantly taken, affects her family in multiple ways. Not only does she challenge Nepalese tradition (“They used to say,” she observes, “When the rooster crowed, the hen could only listen”), but she also stakes a political claim. She’s not just soldiering. She has a cause. The film cuts between an interview with Silu asserting, “I felt sure this was the right decision,” to another with her mother, asked if she’s upset that her daughter joined the Maoists. “I was angry,” her mother nods. “She could have been killed.”

This typical fear is complicated by the fact that Silu’s older brother is a 17-year veteran in the Royal Army. Here the documentary cuts from her brother, interviewed in the family’s home by firelight (shadows gently dancing over his seemingly serene face, the video grain blurring his image), pondering the past: “It seemed that we were enemies,” he says of Silu. “I felt uneasy n the battlefield fighting against [the Maoists].” If he confronted her in person, he says, “It would be terrible.”

At a PLA training camp, Silu answers similar queries. But she’s more visibly discomfited by the idea of fighting her sibling, asking her interviewer to stop and start again. “If I saw my brother near me in battle,” she says carefully, “Even though we share blood and emotions, because of our beliefs…” She pauses, then asks, “Once more?” Her interviewer admits it is a “sentimental question,” difficult to answer. Silu gathers herself, then offers a correct response. She wouldn’t shoot him, she declares: “We don’t shoot we can’t use those kinds of words. If the Army comes near, we arrest them… What I mean to say is, I have to do what my party says.”

It’s a remarkable display of discipline and thought process, as Silu must sort out competing ideals, at once intimate and collective, personal and political. Woman Rebel — which was shortlisted for last year’s Short Documentary Oscar — underscores this struggle as it persists through the nation’s shifts, indicated in a series of brief TV reports: rebel leader Prachanda loses popularity owing to the ongoing violence, King Gyanendra dissolves parliament, the Maoists and dismissed parliament members join forces to convince the monarchy to restructure government, even hold constitutional elections in 2008.

Woman Rebel interweaves the saga of Nepal’s democracy movement with Silu’s story, it makes recent history both vivid and poignant. Elected as a Constituent Assembly Member, she reveals her name at film’s end: Uma Bhujel. As Silu recalls her soldiering, the film shows hectic footage from the field, explosions and gunshots punctuating her narration: “In those situations, you are only focused on your mission: throw the grenade, fire your weapon. You either kill or get killed.”

After her election, Bhujel dons her new uniform (a suit), and heads to work on a new battlefield: in parliament, among her constituents. Speaking before an audience, she asserts, “The bittersweet moment of war is past.” Now the fight goes on, to insure political equality and an end to poverty. When she returns home to visit her family, she and her brother stand next to one another, heads down as they smile. Her mother suggests she’s still waiting for grandchildren, the camera panning from one smiling face to another. Bhujel’s father speaks quietly, his eyes bright: “My daughter,” he notes, “used to say ‘We need a revolution.’ My son used to say, ‘Stop the war.’ But it seems my daughter was right.”