– Shabira Damarti, University of Edinburgh
“May we tend to both our grief and our hope as sacred allies” – @hopehealingarts
My first encounter with self-reflective writing came during my Master’s in Edinburgh. And no—it didn’t come easily to me. After four years of studying engineering and moving into a fast-paced role in development sector, the idea of slowing down to examine my inner world felt foreign. Emotion had never been a variable—neither in my education nor in my professional life. Fieldwork trips were a regular part of my job—some blurred into routines I checked off a to-do list, while others left lasting impressions. Yet, I rarely took the time and space to sit with those experiences, confronting my positionality, or simply questioning what they truly meant.
Early in our Nepal trip, we visited the ForestAction office and met with Dibya Devi Gurung. One point she raised that I found particularly compelling was the idea of “balancing intentions and investments.” In development work, our goals are often ambitious and idealistic, yet they don’t always align with the resources or capacities we have. Mrs Gurung urged us to keep asking critical questions about this imbalance.
Is it what the community needs?
Does the investment match the complexity of the issue?
Do we have the necessary resources and capacity to meaningfully address these issues?
Asking those questions embodies an ethic of reflection—one that now feels essential to meaningful development work. It’s not only about keeping our intentions from becoming superficial, but also about guarding against becoming unintentionally harmful. To be truly honest about what we are capable of investing is to challenge the comfort of dominant narratives. To remind ourselves that there is no singular path, no universal truth to what “development” should look like. In this light, self-reflection becomes more than a tool for personal growth—it is an act of responsibility, a critical learning process that shapes how we show up in the world and the choices we make within it.
On the winding and often uncomfortable path of self-reflection, emotions serve as the vital force that shapes it. And perhaps that’s why emotion is never just personal, it is always political. Wright (2012) reminds us that emotions are not purely personal feelings. They do not swell up independently from within our deepest psyches. Rather, emotions are relational—they are found between people, and between people and place. They carry the power to nurture both regressive and progressive actions.
“Emotions are imbricated in the production of exclusions and colonialisms, yet they can also empower resistance and progressive change grounded in care.” (p.1113)
So I try to make space for emotion throughout the trip, embracing each one, no matter how insignificant they seemed in the moment. One emotion flowed into the next, I began to see how these feelings allowed me to engage more authentically with the experiences unfolding around me.
In Nepal, curiosity stood out. I was genuinely drawn to everything our Nepali colleagues shared during each session. In class, we had explored the danger of a Single Story and the need to amplify voices from the Global South. But witnessing it in practice gave that idea a deeper meaning. Their insights didn’t just feel relevant—they resonated. As someone from the Global South myself, it was powerful to learn from a country navigating challenges so familiar to those I’ve seen back home in Indonesia. I was inspired to learn from organisations working alongside communities with a kind of passion and bravery I hope to always carry. Encouraged to see Western-educated researchers at SIAS returning home to contribute—something I aspire to do for Indonesia. And reassured to see the youth of Nepal with so much positive attitude and optimism for their country’s future, which I would love to embody.
Following that curiosity, all I can say is, we were not so different after all. We are all moved by love, for each other, and for the things we hold dear. Emotion, I realised, may at times draw a line between self and others, yet it also holds the power to dissolve that line—to bring us closer through shared frustrations, hopes, and care.
As that curiosity unfolded, it gave way to gratitude—for everyone we met, for those who worked tirelessly to make the trip exactly what it was, and for everyone who welcomed us with such warmth and kindness, even when we had little to offer in return. I carry gratitude for the chance to learn in a space that felt safe and expansive—a place where questions, feelings, and explorations were not only welcomed but encouraged.
Flying to Nepal taught me that even in unfamiliar places, when we lead with openness and care, we can find pieces of ourselves reflected back. I am thankful to have left Nepal with the humbling realisation that my personal reflection isn’t solely about me, it is rather the beginning of something larger—a first step towardtrying to give back, to push gently against dominant narratives, and to take part, doing anything within our reach, to reshape how we engage with development work. And perhaps, what moved me the most was seeing that same intention to give back mirrored in those around me—in my peers, our colleagues at SIAS, the people working within every organisation we visited, and the Nepali students we worked and became friends with.
And so, through those two packed weeks—traveling between three cities, visiting organisations, meeting new faces every day, enduring long bus rides, countless conversations, and feeling all the feelings—Nepal helped me feel hopeful again. Hopeful in the power of the collective, in the strength of love and connection, and in the possibility of what our imperfect world might become.
Dherai Dhanyabad, Nepal!
Also, some pictures reminded me of the warmth and care shared in Nepal.
“Views expressed here are personal and not associated with any affiliated organisations”
