On our way back to Kathmandu from Humla, our kind foreign friends from the trip offered me a lift to the Tribhuvan International Airport gate from the domestic terminal, as our directions would part from there. Thinking it would be easy to get off from the HiAce sent for them, I took a seat near the door, and Hein, my new 60-year-old Dutch friend, was sitting behind me.
Kathmandu was in full bloom with blue jacarandas, as it is every spring, and excitedly, I told Hein, “See, Hein, those blue flowers are our native version of cherry blossoms. Each year, they turn Kathmandu purple. It becomes beautiful.” Hein tried to get a close-up view of the flowers on a nearby tree from his window and then noted, “I didn’t see many open spaces or parks in Kathmandu, though!”
For me, the words “open space” immediately remind me of Tundikhel and Khula Manch; a sentiment I bet all Kathmanduites share. But why is the list so short, especially for the largest metropolis housing hundreds of thousands?
As per a study conducted by the Kathmandu Valley Development Authority (KVDA), at present, public open spaces in Kathmandu Valley account for just 0.51% of the total land area, which, needless to say, is extremely low.
In Nepal, earthquakes strike every 70–80 years and floods devastate major cities and the southern plains annually; yet we have a history of moving on each year with no tangible action plan.
Generally, at least 5% public open space is recommended for cities, whereas for earthquake-prone areas like Kathmandu, experts recommend at least 10–15% public open space. Beyond UN Park, Balaju, and a few others, the remaining spaces are so minuscule that they barely register against our skyrocketing population density.
This lack of green cover is likely a major contributor to why Kathmandu frequently ranks among the world’s top five most polluted cities, with our Air Quality Index (AQI) often soaring above 200. It dismays me that even in full spring, like now, I can no longer clearly see the mountains and Himalayan range from my backyard — a view I grew up admiring and taking pride in, now veiled by a thick layer of urban haze.
Of all the things that left me awestruck during my Erasmus Mundus studies in Europe, one of the first was the supreme value assigned to public open spaces. Whether in Berlin, Poznan, or Glasgow, it was amazing to see acres upon acres of land in the middle of bustling cities and towns allocated for parks and open spaces.
They were green, wide, and beautiful, seamlessly blended with the city’s infrastructure. In Berlin alone, 44% of the urban area consists of green spaces and waterways. They are not treated as a side dish by urban planners or governments, but as a first priority.
I remember a master’s session where our German professor had us present case studies to the class. My case study was on “Madrid Río Park” in Spain. It blew my mind to learn that the Spanish had sent an entire highway (M-30) underground in the early 2000s just to create an urban park spanning hectares upon hectares.
Public open spaces are like the lungs of cities, especially green parks. They are not only aesthetic; they are functional, with multiple benefits that add to the quality of life. They purify the air (through an increase in the number of trees), contribute to carbon sequestration, and provide spaces for social connection and the mental well-being of residents.
Especially for earthquake-vulnerable areas like Kathmandu, it is very important to have open spaces between neighborhoods and communities where people can run for safety during an earthquake and build temporary shelters in the aftermath.
Green and open spaces also help increase and preserve urban biodiversity, while reducing imperviousness in towns, which can be impactful in managing stormwater runoff. There is even direct monetary value assigned to urban greenery.
A case study conducted in Finland in 2017 concluded that, depending on the degree of imperviousness, one hectare (0.01 km²) of urban green space is worth €27,000–90,000 per year in terms of urban runoff management alone — and this is without calculating other health and social benefits.
After the massive 2012 Beijing flood, which caused the deaths of 79 people and an estimated $1.7 billion in damage, China pivoted entirely to the “Sponge City Concept” for its flood-prone cities to ensure such catastrophes are not repeated. It feels both amazing and frustrating to see how governments, leaders, and experts across the world learn from one disaster and remain alert to ensure it is never repeated, or at the very least, that the damage is minimized.
In Nepal, earthquakes strike every 70–80 years and floods devastate major cities and the southern plains annually; yet we have a history of moving on each year with no tangible action plan.
I once shared this frustration with one of my friends, and he said, “Other countries make infrastructure resilient; we make ‘the people’ resilient.” I think it’s time we demanded both. We deserve a city that doesn’t just rely on our ability to survive it, but one that actively helps us live a quality life.
I am aware that the grassroots reality of Kathmandu, with its complex land ownership patterns and haphazard growth, makes the journey toward urban greening an uphill battle. But if we continue prioritizing short-term development over long-term livability, we are effectively designing our own disaster.
(The author is an architect and a graduate of the Erasmus Mundus Joint Masters Degree in Urban Climate and Sustainability).
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