The Sunuwar Kõits and Their Ancestral Identity

For the Sunuwar Koits, history is not inscribed on parchment or pressed between the pages of books but carried in the breath of elders, held in the echoes of ritual chants, and guarded by shamans who traverse the liminal space between the physical and the unseen. Their myths of origin, their reckonings of lineage, and the cadence of their past flow not through ink but through the living memory of their people. The written word has only ever grazed the surface of this deeper reservoir of knowledge—most notably in People of Nepal (1967), where Dor Bahadur Bista speaks of twelve clans, the Bara Thars, mapping the Sunuwar presence along the watersheds of Likhu Khola and Khimti Khola, within the vast embrace of the Sun Koshi basin.

Yet for the Kõits, identity is neither a matter of cartography nor mere taxonomy. It is embedded in language, in the subtle architecture of words that shape meaning and purpose. Their name, Kõits, is no passive label but a declaration of being, drawn from the verb kõincha (kõitsā), meaning “to guide” or “to show.” It is a title that speaks of responsibility, of leadership not as dominion but as wisdom in motion—an ethos where the bearer is not simply one who commands but one who illuminates the path. Unlike the exonym “Sunuwar,” which outsiders have tethered to the western banks of the Sunkoshi, Kõits rises from within, a self-uttered invocation of identity. In this name, there is no imposed geography, no borrowed frame of reference—only the enduring voice of a people who have always known who they are.

The Kõits identity, however, has long been overshadowed by colonial constructs, with terms like “Sunuwar” and “Mukhiya” reducing a vibrant heritage to geographic or administrative labels. These exonyms, born of Indo-Aryan linguistic frameworks, strip the Kõits of their nuanced self-definition, framing them within external perceptions of land and power rather than their rich, self-constructed ethos. Yet, the endonym Kõits endures as a linguistic and cultural anchor, defying the erasure of their heritage. It reminds the community—and the world—of their deep historical ties to leadership, their indigenous lexicon’s capacity to preserve meaning, and the resilience of their identity against the tides of colonization. In reclaiming the term ‘Kõits’, the community reasserts a sovereignty of meaning, celebrating their role not merely as people of a place but as custodians of ancestral wisdom.

The Kõits stand as inheritors of an ancient Kirati lineage, their lives bound to ancestral devotion, shamanic vision, and an abiding kinship with the land. For them, existence is not a divide between the sacred and the material but a seamless interplay, where every custom, every rite, every rhythm of daily life mirrors a profound attunement to both the natural world and the unseen forces that animate it. Their clans, the Bara Thars, are more than genealogical markers; they are echoes of memory, each name a cipher of origin and purpose. Binicha, Bigyacha, Bujicha, Bramlicha, Darkhacha—these are not mere appellations but storied remnants of an older wisdom, linking families to lost professions, forgotten geographies, and elemental truths. Some, like Phaticha, meaning “to filter,” speak to the ancient crafts of purification and separation, while Gongrocha— “to open noisily”—evokes the sharp report of thresholds crossed, of doors flung wide to new horizons. Embedded in their language, these names do more than recall the past; they embody it, ensuring that identity is not just remembered but continuously lived.

The following are some of the Kõits clan names of Thars

Their language, casually termed Sunuwari, is actually called Kõits Lo. It is a branch of the Tibeto-Burman family, and is more than a means of communication—it is a vessel of memory, a defiant marker of identity in a world that presses upon it. Though the tide of Nepali influence and the weight of neighboring Hindu traditions have reshaped the cultural landscape, the Sunuwar remain steadfast, their language a thread binding them to the past, to the voices of their ancestors, and to the land they call home. This deep connection to the land is not just philosophical; it is the foundation of their way of life. Agriculture dictates the rhythm of existence, with terraced fields carved into the hillsides yielding millet, maize, and rice—the sustenance of generations. Ingenious irrigation techniques have long been employed to coax abundance from the earth, yet the land itself is finite, its scarcity an ever-present challenge. Animal husbandry plays a lesser role, a quiet supplement to an economy that has, for centuries, been rooted in the cultivation of grain. In the fields and in the echoes of their language, the Sunuwar inscribe their history, ensuring that neither the soil nor the stories are ever lost.

Socially, the Sunuwar Kõits are organized into patrilineal clans that dictate familial lineage and social roles. Each clan has specific rituals that are performed to honor their ancestors, with a clear distinction between those who carry on the ancestral line and those who perform the rituals. Marriage within the Kõits society follows exogamous rules, ensuring that individuals marry outside their clan, which further reinforces their social cohesion and the interconnectedness of their clans. An interesting aspect of Kõits identity is their understanding of gender roles. In Sunuwar belief, ruysh (bones) are associated with male identity and patrilineal descent, while shey (flesh) represents the maternal lineage and female identity. This dualistic view of gender extends beyond social roles to their material and spiritual lives. For example, men inherit ancestral lands, which are seen as symbols of permanence, while women’s roles, though indispensable, are seen as transient in comparison.

Shamanism among the Kõits is more than a spiritual practice—it is the axis upon which their world turns, a sacred lineage of healers, seers, and intermediaries who walk the threshold between the living and the dead. To be a shaman is to wield Thung, an inherited power that grants the ability to heal, divine, and channel the voices of spirits. Rituals unfold in the flickering light of tradition, where bamboo—alive with its own force—serves as the bridge between realms. No mere material, it is a vessel of communion, a conduit through which ancestral whispers flow, carrying blessings from the unseen world into the present.

Sunuwar spiritual life is a delicate balance, a dual system upheld by the Naso, the priest who offers prayers and sacrifices, and the Puimbo or Ngiami, the shaman who traverses the spectral veil. Their rites are not passive observances but immersive acts—ecstatic trances in which spirits speak, gods descend, and afflictions are torn from the afflicted. The banjhakri, the enigmatic jungle spirit, selects and initiates these figures, dragging them into the unknown, where the true apprenticeship begins. Through trials of endurance and revelations of power, the shaman emerges, armed with sacred mantras, divination rites, and the steady pulse of the dhyangro drum—a sound not just of ceremony, but of transformation, marking the threshold between the human and the divine.

In Sunuwar culture, gender symbolism takes on even more significance within the realm of shamanism. Sunuwar shamans, whether Puimbo (male) or Ngiami (female), transcend traditional gender roles and adopt an androgynous identity. This spiritual flexibility is crucial to their role as intermediaries between the living and the ancestral spirits. Shamans are believed to possess the power to enter trance states and communicate with the divine and the deceased, bridging the gap between the human and spiritual realms. This transcendent ability is facilitated by their unique gender identities, allowing them to embody the balance between masculine and feminine forces, a theme that is also evident in the Sunuwar’s material culture.

The forces of modernity—migration, urban expansion, the pull of mainstream education—have eroded the foundations of Kõits tradition, chipping away at rituals once central to identity, weakening the ties that bind generations. Yet culture is not so easily erased. In villages and diaspora communities alike, a quiet resistance takes shape. Grassroots movements emerge, language revitalization efforts take root, and ancestral knowledge passes from elders to youth, not as relics of the past but as vital currents shaping the present. Festivals become more than celebrations; they are acts of defiance, reaffirmations of a way of life that refuses to fade. Though the tides of change press in, the Sunuwar Kõits continue to hold fast, ensuring that their heritage is not just remembered but lived. Now, it falls upon the younger generation to bear this weight, to carry forward what remains, as a privilege, and also as a birthright.