Where trees remember: The sacred forest of Namchella

Yangyel Lhaden

In the forest of Namchella chiwog in Dagapela, nature has reclaimed what time and tragedy left behind. Once a thriving village, its traces have been softened by moss and memory.

Today, towering trees filter sunlight through a dense green canopy onto the forest floor, where silence is broken only by the rustle of leaves. Beneath it all lies a village, now surrendered to the wild.

At first glance, it seems just a forest—untamed, vibrant, alive. But if you look closely, you’ll find clues to a forgotten past: low stone stacks—the last remains of homes—now half-swallowed by roots. Rice terraces still contour the land, though trees have replaced the paddy fields.

The people are gone. The forest has claimed their absence, growing back stronger, taller—sacred. Locals believe their Devi, a protective goddess, now lives here—a spirit reborn in every tree, watching over the land that once held her people.

There is no written history of the place, but oral tradition recalls a haunting tale. Around two centuries ago, a mysterious illness swept through the village. People fell ill, one by one, and began dying without explanation. Panic spread. Families fled. In the end, only two siblings remained—until they, too, abandoned the place and resettled in what is now present-day Namchella.

Later, Lhotshampa settlers made their home here. But during the conflicts of the 1990s, they too fled, leaving behind ruins and stories. Today, villagers believe that the Devi’s abode begins at the remnants of the siblings’ home—marked by a few weathered stone stacks, just off the narrow footpath leading to the only water source for the four chiwogs of Tashiding gewog, including Namchella.

According to local belief, the sacred and the secular could not coexist. The villagers may have defiled the Devi’s space, bringing misfortune upon themselves. Today, the settlement lies at a respectful distance from her forest. The villagers dare not build near her. They walk lightly here.

The forest is now a community forest. But it is not used freely. People take only what they need, never what they want. Every act is preceded by a prayer. Before cutting a tree, they ask for the Devi’s permission.

Dan Maya Gurung, a resident of Namchella, recalls a chilling tale:

“A man who had resettled here from Mongar once cut down a tree without offering prayer. Soon after, he fell ill. He told us the Devi came to him in a dream, standing with her children, showing him the harm he had done. He tried to return and apologise, but it was too late. He passed away not long after.”

Today, Namchella is home to people from all corners of Bhutan, including resettlers from as far as Mongar. It is a diverse yet close-knit community, bound by a shared reverence for the forest and the spirit they believe protects it.

From the point where the Devi’s abode begins, the forest is treated as sacred. No one is allowed to defecate or pollute the area, and villagers ensure it remains clean. Every year, they hold a puja, a ritual to honour the goddess, praying for health, water, and peace. During this time, even plucking a leaf is forbidden—such an act is believed to invite misfortune.

Here, the forest is more than a resource. It is a presence, a memory, a guardian. People do not just collect firewood—they speak to the trees, pray to them, and protect them. Every offering is a remembrance. Every silence, a tribute.

Among the old stones and quiet trees, life continues—not as it once was, but in a way that honours what came before. The forest remembers. And so do the people.