By Dr. Janardan Subedi

In contemporary Nepal, corruption is not an anomaly—it is the operating system. The shamelessness of political leaders like Home Minister Ramesh Lekhak is not a personal trait alone; it is the byproduct of a republic born in blood, brokered through fear, and sustained by lies. The question, therefore, is no longer whether this system is failing—it is. The more urgent question is how it came to be, why it persists, and what moral and civic courage is needed to dismantle it.

The present republic of Nepal was not created from a national consensus or a moral vision rooted in justice and democratic values. It was born out of a bloody insurgency that claimed over 17,000 Nepali lives, displaced tens of thousands, and brutalized rural communities. The very foundation of this republic is soaked in a kind of existential fear—fear of state violence, fear of Maoist retaliation, fear of exile, fear of being labeled regressive or reactionary. That fear was then harnessed and transformed into a political tool by a small elite, many of whom were supported, if not orchestrated, by external powers—India, Western donor agencies, and ideological NGOs—whose interest in Nepal was strategic rather than ethical.

Fear, in other words, was not incidental to the making of this republic; it was foundational. And this origin in fear has shaped its structure. Where democratic systems thrive on trust, accountability, and reason, the Nepali republic has thrived on blackmail, coercion, and impunity. The violence that birthed it was never addressed through justice. The truth was never allowed to be told. And the institutions that were meant to protect the people became instruments to protect the elite from the people.

This helps us understand why figures like Home Minister Ramesh Lekhak feel no shame, no accountability, and no urgency to uphold constitutional morality. Mr. Lekhak is not a writer of policy, nor a protector of constitutional law; he is a promissory note, a token servant of Sher Bahadur Deuba and Arzu Rana—two of the most enduring faces of dynastic politics in Nepal. His role is not to represent the people but to shield the corrupt apparatus from exposure. His loyalty lies not with the Constitution of Nepal but with a political mafia that governs without fear of consequence.

This mafia—spanning across the Nepali Congress, the Maoist Centre, and the UML—is not a metaphor. It is a reality. These are not political parties in the true sense; they are patronage machines designed to extract resources, silence dissent, and distribute power vertically within their cadres. Over the past two decades, they have privatized the state, commercialized ideology, and institutionalized corruption. In this system, the home minister is less of a policymaker and more of a bodyguard for political criminals, a gatekeeper of impunity.

So why don’t they fear the people? Why are they not ashamed when their complicity in scandals—such as the visa racket, the fake Bhutanese refugee scam, or the looting of state contracts—is exposed daily?

Because the institutions that should prosecute them have already been captured. The Commission for the Investigation of Abuse of Authority (CIAA) acts selectively. The Supreme Court has become a revolving door of politically appointed justices. The police force receives orders, not warrants. And the media, with some honorable exceptions, have become glorified press offices for power brokers.

Here, sociological theory becomes indispensable. As Émile Durkheim noted, when the “collective conscience” of a society weakens, individuals no longer feel bound by shared moral norms. What remains is either anomie (lawlessness) or cynicism. In Nepal, the ruling class experiences neither guilt nor fear because they exist in a closed feedback loop. Their actions are reinforced, normalized, and even rewarded within their own political ecosystems.

Michael Johnston’s theory of “syndromic corruption” is useful here. Johnston describes how, in certain transitional democracies, political and economic power becomes so closely intertwined that public institutions become tools of private gain. Corruption in these systems is not episodic but systemic. It is not punished because it is the means by which power is secured, maintained, and transferred. Nepal has become a textbook example of this condition.

This brings us to the next moral and strategic dilemma: Can a republic built on violence and sustained by lies be reformed through quiet protest? Can the voices of the poor break through the institutional wall of corruption?

History—and reason—suggest otherwise.

Every major democratic rupture, whether in Eastern Europe, Latin America, or even post-apartheid South Africa, required more than candlelight vigils and civic appeals. It required moral disobedience, mass mobilization, and at times, the confrontation of fear with fear. When fear is the foundation of a corrupt regime, only a stronger, more just form of moral resistance can dismantle it. This does not mean violence. It means the disciplined force of truth, the public spectacle of accountability, and the reclaiming of civic institutions by the people.

Today’s political protests in Nepal, while earnest and brave, often remain symbolic rather than structural. They demand change without exposing the architecture of the system. They target individuals but not the networks. They call for reform but within the very institutions that are designed to resist it.

This is where philosophical insight becomes crucial. As Hannah Arendt famously observed, totalitarian systems rely not just on repression but on the destruction of truth. When people no longer distinguish between fact and fiction, between justice and performance, they become easier to govern through lies. Nepal today faces this precise crisis of epistemology. It is not merely a question of "who rules" but “how is reality defined?” In this fog, public outrage dissipates quickly, scandals become normalized, and citizens retreat into silence or exile.

To break this cycle, a new political imagination is necessary—one that begins with a simple but radical act: telling the truth, again and again, without compromise. Truth must not be moderated for convenience or party gain. It must be institutionalized. That means reforming education, protecting investigative journalism, and creating civic spaces where truth-telling is not a crime but a duty.

We must also name the system for what it is. Nepal is not a functional republic. It is a captured state managed by colluding mafias. Until we acknowledge this, our political vocabulary will remain inadequate. Words like “governance,” “accountability,” and “democracy” will mean nothing. As Antonio Gramsci wrote, “The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born.” We are living in that interregnum, where monsters—like institutional corruption—are born and thrive.

Mr. Lekhak will not change. Nor will his patrons. They will continue to lie. They will continue to protect each other. And they will continue to ignore the cries of ordinary Nepalis. The challenge is no longer to reform them. The challenge is to make them irrelevant—to build institutions and movements so powerful, so ethical, and so democratic that these figures become historical footnotes rather than present-day rulers.

Yes, at times, might is right—not the might of arms, but the might of moral clarity, civic courage, and collective will. That might must now be directed not just at resisting corruption, but at dismantling the very system that produces it.

The wall is tall. But the truth, when spoken clearly and fearlessly, is the one force that always breaks walls. Nepal’s future depends on how soon we begin that work—and how much we are willing to risk for it.