Nepalese Seek Peace Between Rulers, Rebels POKHARA, Nepal - Caught between a rebel army fighting for power, and a government fighting to hold onto it, Surya Prashad Dahal knows all too well what it means to be trapped in the middle. "It doesn't matter to me at all who runs the country," says the young shopkeeper, who owns a tiny store that sells posters, mirrors and picture frames in this quiet, once-thriving tourist town at the foothills of the Himalayas. "We just need peace," he says, his anger barely contained. Dahal's livelihood depends indirectly on the tourists who have been scared away by the nine-year Maoist rebellion and the political turmoil it has spawned. "It doesn't matter if it's the politicians, or the Maoists or the king." It's an unfortunate reality in this beautiful but desperately poor kingdom, a country where the rebellion has spawned political turmoil and, most recently, royal absolutism. In Pokhara, people like Dahal are desperate. Saturday marked the end of a nationwide three-day strike called long ago by the Maoist insurgents. In Katmandu, the capital city where the king and his army now wield complete authority, the strike meant little: cars jammed the roads, shops were opened, and children went to school. But in Pokhara, a lakeside town just a 25-minute flight away, Maoist threats of retaliation shut down the city. Nearly all stores were closed here, and in the streets, the children playing cricket outnumbered the cars. It was the reaction the Maoists wanted, a public demonstration of their power over the people. Dahal opened his shop, but kept the metal shutters pulled down part way, in case trouble erupted. He needs the money too badly to worry about the beatings, firebombings and killings the Maoists use to enforce their orders. Business has been poor in Pokhara for the past few years, since the insurgents launched a series of attacks across the country that chased off Western tourists who once flocked here for the spectacular mountain treks, Himalayan wildlife and traditional village life. The tourist downturn has cut deeply into the finances of Dahal's dwindling numbers of customers, most of them Nepalese who depend, in some way, on the tourists. But he also had another reason to remain open: fear of army retaliation. Local shopkeepers say army soldiers sometimes punish those who go along with the Maoist strike demands by forcing them to remain closed even when the strike has ended, compounding their business losses. "We're afraid of both sides," says Ambika Barval, who kept her small restaurant open through the strike. Like many people, she has little sympathy for either side. "We just want to work, we just want to eat, we just want to survive," she says, as swallows fly around the dirty, cement-walled room. Survival is a serious issue for many Nepalese, who have found their lives increasingly tangled in the web of government crackdowns, insurgent attacks and poverty that has left per capita annual income at just $213. An estimated 40 percent of the country lives in poverty, with a vast majority making their livings from small farms. That poverty, along with a rigid caste system little changed for centuries, has fed the insurgency, drawing in poor farmers with promises of redistributed land and social equality. Many other militants are simply kidnapped as children and absorbed into the rebel army. The Maoists, who began their fight in 1996, now control huge tracts of rural Nepal, with government authority in many regions now limited to the largest towns. Some analysts believe the government firmly controls just 20-30 percent of the country. The militants fund themselves through a system of informal taxes - which amount to little more than extortion - levied on farmers, business owners and even tourists who pass through their territory. They have proven resistant to repeated government offensives, despite millions of dollars in U.S. military aid. Last week, the insurgency spilled directly into politics, when King Gyanendra took control of the country, dismissing the elected interim government that shared power with him and declaring a state of emergency. He put Nepal into virtual lock down: phone lines remain cut, strict censorship is being enforced and many civil liberties have been abandoned. Dozens of politicians, student leaders and activists have been detained. By shutting off communication and quickly deploying security forces, the government stopped nearly all public opposition in Katmandu. But in Pokhara, anger erupted in the streets, as university students poured from their campus chanting slogans within minutes of the king's announcement that the government had been sacked. When police couldn't restrain them with tear gas, they opened fire. At least one student was wounded - a 19-year-old woman sitting on her dormitory steps. Gyanendra, a largely unpopular monarch who ascended to power after his brother, King Birendra, died in a 2001 palace massacre, insists he had no choice but to seize power. He argues that Nepal's politicians - a notoriously unruly and corrupt group - accomplished little in the fight against the Maoists. But many here doubt the king will be able to do any better, and worry he will further divide the country. "If things keep happening the way they are now, life will only get worse," says Dahal. "I'm afraid that someday there won't even be a nation left called Nepal."