ABSTRACT
On a blustery spring afternoon in a village in central Ilam district, 40 men and women and many schoolchildren sat on a grassy hilltop. To the south, the plains were faintly visible beyond the hills, and on the northern horizon, a tiny piece of the snowcapped Kanchenjunga peeked through the clouds. The crowd intently listened to Kiran Akten sing this song:
Wake up Mongols, this country is ours, The mountains, hills and plains are all ours. We shouldn’t wander this way and then that way. Let’s learn to live by our own heart beat. Let’s live taking care of our own villages and huts. Let’s recognize our relatives and all live in harmony.
