On September 29, 2025, Nepalese authorities launched a bold enforcement action in the far-western Kanchanpur district, demolishing some 150 “menstrual huts” in two municipalities. This crackdown targeted the enduring, illegal practice of chhaupadi—the custom of banishing women and girls during menstruation to isolated huts or sheds. The operation saw 23 huts dismantled in Bedkot and 127 in Krishnapur, reportedly prompted by the death of a 32-year-old woman, Kamala Aauji, who succumbed to a snakebite while confined to one such hut in June. Local officials have warned that fines and legal action will follow for anyone defying the crackdown. Meanwhile, awareness campaigns are slated to roll out post-festival season in schools, women’s groups, and civil society circles. The demolition drive underscores both the symbolic and practical challenges Nepal faces in dismantling chhaupadi, a deeply rooted socio-cultural taboo. Under Nepal’s criminal code, anyone forcing another into chhaupadi can face up to three months in jail or a fine of NPR 3,000, a law on the books since 2017, albeit poorly enforced in many rural regions. Despite the ban and earlier legal pronouncements—Nepal’s Supreme Court declared the practice illegal back in 2005—chhaupadi remains resilient in remote areas. To understand why the state feels compelled to destroy huts, we must examine what chhaupadi is and why it persists. In the districts of western Nepal—especially in the Mid- and Far-West—menstruating women are considered impure or “polluted.” As part of this tradition, women may be prohibited from entering their homes, kitchens, temples, or even touching family members for the duration of their period. Instead, they are forced to live separately in rudimentary structures—“menstrual huts” or chhau goths—constructed from wood, stone, mud, thatch, or whatever materials are available. These huts are often cramped, poorly ventilated, lacking in sanitation, and utterly exposed to the elements. Women may have to light fires inside them for warmth, risking soot inhalation or carbon monoxide poisoning. Snakebites, attacks by other animals, hypothermia, illness, dehydration, and even sexual assault have all tragically been documented. In 2023, for example, a 16-year-old girl named Anita Chand died after being bitten by a snake inside a period hut. Over the years, numerous fatalities have been traced back to chhaupadi huts—from fire and suffocation to scorpion or snake envenomation. Beyond the manifestations of danger and violence, chhaupadi exacts a heavy toll on dignity, mental health, and social inclusion. Women and girls are isolated, stigmatised, and excluded from community life during their menstrual periods. Many are denied education, food, or medical care. While laws have sought to challenge the practice, their effectiveness has been limited. Interventions like awareness campaigns, community sensitisation, school education, and social mobilization have sometimes brought temporary change—but deep traditions, power dynamics, lack of infrastructure, and fear of social ostracism blunt long-term progress. One of the recurring obstacles is the internalisation of the taboo: many women themselves believe the impurity narrative, and resist abandoning chhaupadi lest their families or communities incur divine wrath. Traditional healers and male elders often oppose change, while poverty and lack of alternative infrastructure (e.g. extra rooms in small houses) leave few viable choices. Moreover, legal deterrents are rarely enforced; reporting abuse or noncompliance is hindered by social pressures, shame, and weak institutional responsiveness. The demolition of 150 huts in Kanchanpur is thus a dramatic act—not merely a physical purge of structures, but a statement of intent. Yet for such crackdowns to achieve lasting impact, they must be paired with a long game: rebuilding trust, expanding basic facilities (safe rooms, proper sanitation), persistent education campaigns, community dialogue, and empowerment of women as change agents. Only when the taboo is rejected from within, rather than imposed from above, can chhaupadi truly begin to disappear from Nepal’s social landscape.
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Huts Gone, Misogyny Still Standing
Ah, the humble menstrual hut—Nepal’s rustic contribution to the global museum of misogyny. Picture it: a dark, airless shack where a woman must “atone” for the crime of bleeding. No plumbing, no bed, no dignity—just superstition wrapped in mud walls. And every time one of these huts collapses or burns or shelters a snake that ends up killing a woman, we are reminded that patriarchy doesn’t always wear a suit and tie; sometimes, it hides behind the sacred cow of “tradition.” When I read that over 150 of these so-called “chhaupadi” huts were demolished in Kanchanpur, I felt a flicker of hope. Finally, the bulldozers were doing what decades of polite awareness workshops could not—tearing down ignorance brick by brick. But let’s be honest: smashing a few huts is the easy part. The harder job is smashing the mindset that built them. Menstrual isolation is not just a “Nepal problem.” It’s a regional sickness that seeps through many parts of South and Southeast Asia—sometimes with different names, always with the same stink of shame. From temples in India that bar women from entering during their periods, to whispers in rural Indonesia where menstruation is said to “anger spirits,” to teenage girls in conservative households hiding pads like contraband—this obsession with female purity runs deep and wide. What makes it truly grotesque is how many women enforce it upon themselves. Generations of internalized guilt have convinced them that bleeding is dirty, that touching rice or entering the kitchen will curse the family. So they police each other, perpetuating the same oppression that once broke them. That’s how patriarchy survives—outsourced to its victims. The State can outlaw huts, but can it outlaw superstition? It can fine a family 3,000 rupees, but can it fine a god? Laws matter, but transformation takes courage—especially in societies where “respect” for elders and customs often trumps common sense. So here’s my prescription: demolish huts, yes—but also build classrooms, safe toilets, and conversations. Teach boys that periods are biology, not blasphemy. Celebrate menstruation as life, not pollution. And if anyone still insists that a woman must sleep outside when she bleeds, maybe it’s time the men try a little exile themselves. I hear snakebites are very educational.