Spread the love

By Dr Janardan Subedi


Recently, in Kathmandu, I witnessed two news events unfold almost back-to-back. One announced the release of Ravi Lamichhane from prison. The other celebrated KP Sharma Oli’s return for a third term as party president, alongside his loyal coterie of officials. Outside party offices and along familiar streets, supporters chanted Jai Jai, danced without irony, sang loudly, and washed it all down with generous doses of masubhat and ailaa. It was festive. It was loud. It was absurdly confident.

And it made me think.

Not because it was shocking, but because it was exactly as expected. Nepal has perfected the art of mistaking repetition for renewal. Motion masquerades as progress. The same story is told by different anchors, and we convince ourselves something has changed. Change in Nepal is a performance; a political dance; a carnival where the steps are always the same, and the music never stops.

Lamichhane’s release, constitutionally, reopens political possibilities. He can contest elections. If the court reinstates Parliament, he can return as a Member of Parliament. For Nepal’s permanent political class—Oli, Deuba, Dahal, and their extended networks—this is merely inconvenient. Not because Lamichhane will solve anything, but because he interrupts their comfort.

Yet the celebrations avoid the only real question: what is actually changing?

If elections proceed under the current constitution, the ritual will be flawless. Ballots printed, fingers inked, observers satisfied. The Rastriya Swatantra Party will campaign with moral fervor. Citizens will vote with hope. Even if RSP performs spectacularly, even if it doubles or triples its strength, it will not achieve a two-thirds majority. Without that, constitutional change is mathematically impossible. The constitution is designed to prevent disruption by newcomers. It rewards coalition politics, not rupture. It protects continuity, not surprise.

Elections alone cannot “fix” Nepal. They produce governments, not reckonings. Corrupt politicians return through alliances. Institutional failures preach stability. Perpetrators of violence campaign on peace. Elections do not erase memory; they exploit it—selectively.

Then there is the court’s intervention: parliamentary reinstatement. Law intervenes. Procedure is respected. The constitution is defended.

But defended for whom?

Reinstatement restores a Parliament that has already proven incapable of moral leadership. The same faces, bargaining, and survival instincts return—now with judicial protection. Law becomes a shield for political exhaustion. When courts repeatedly rescue politics, politics learns only one lesson: wait it out.

Nepal is offered a choice between elections that cleanse nothing and reinstatement that redeems no one. Meanwhile, the parents of dead young protesters are absent from every celebration. Their children believed in change. They believed the state would listen. They paid with their lives. The state responded with silence—carefully maintained, institutionally enforced, morally bankrupt silence. No accountability. No justice. No acknowledgment that something irreversible was taken. This silence is not accidental. States that depend on impunity cannot afford memory.

Which brings us back to Oli and his latest victory. Some express surprise. I do not. A party riddled with corruption does not suddenly reform; it consolidates. Decades of draining the system create networks, loyalties, dependencies. Such structures do not collapse from embarrassment. They persist through normalization. Oli’s victory is not a moral accident; it is a structural outcome. When corruption is systemic, survival requires prioritizing internal interest over public good. And the system rewards precisely that behavior.

Supporters chant, dance, eat, drink, and celebrate continuity—because continuity preserves access, privilege, and immunity. Nepal’s problem is not external enemies. It never has been. Nepal has survived empires, blockades, and geopolitical pressure. What it struggles to survive is internal colonization—political, economic, and cultural elites hollowing out the state while preserving its symbols. This is not statelessness. It is worse: a state without moral gravity. Where institutions function but do not care. Where laws apply selectively. Where sincerity is treated as political immaturity.

In such a system, corruption is competence. Violence is miscalculation. Justice is indefinitely postponed. Lamichhane’s return unsettles this not because he is perfect, but because he is unpredictable. Systems built on control fear uncertainty more than opposition. Confusing disruption with salvation is the easiest illusion to sell.

No individual can repair a moral vacuum. At best, individuals expose it. Nepal’s constitution is not failing due to lack of clauses. It is failing due to lack of courage. A constitution cannot enforce accountability when those sworn to uphold it treat responsibility as optional.

Let elections happen. Let Parliament be reinstated. But do not pretend either resolves the deeper crisis. The crisis is simple and brutal: a state that refuses to account for its actions eventually loses the right to demand loyalty. Loyalty does not return through ballots or verdicts. It returns only through truth.

Truth in Nepal is a delayed currency. Its cost has been measured in blood. Yet celebrations continue—oblivious, unrepentant, irredeemably festive. Every chant, every dance, every sip of ailaa is a reminder that political survival depends on normalization, not justice. Nepali democracy has become a theater of the perpetual same—new actors, same scripts, identical compromises.

We pretend disruption is a solution when it is merely spectacle. We elevate unpredictability to salvation while ignoring the structural rot that ensures predictability thrives. And the ultimate danger? When a state refuses to account for its actions, loyalty decays. Citizen trust, once eroded, is not easily restored. Every election, verdict, and celebration is merely affirmation of what should shame us.

Where does hope lie?

Hope lies in awareness and participation. It lies in citizens refusing to celebrate spectacles without substance. It lies in civil society, youth movements, and independent media insisting that accountability is not optional. Generation-Z has already shown courage and impatience—but these must be paired with historical literacy, strategic thinking, and sustained engagement. Disruption without comprehension is noise; informed disruption can transform institutions.

Institutions themselves must learn to respect truth over convenience. Courts, parliamentarians, and administrators must recognize that legitimacy is earned, not assumed. Laws must apply uniformly, moral courage must accompany procedure, and leadership must accept that silence in the face of injustice is complicity.

Nepal’s carnival of continuity will continue until citizens and institutions jointly demand meaningful change. Celebrations, chants, and dances are not inherently corrupt—but they must not mask moral indifference. The festive performance can coexist with accountability, but only if the state, and its people, refuse to treat repetition as renewal.

Strength in Nepal lies in its resilience—the capacity of systems to endure despite political chaos, economic hardship, and social unrest. Weakness lies in its moral vacuity—the normalization of corruption, impunity, and indifference. True transformation requires aligning procedural resilience with ethical responsibility. Otherwise, the carnival will go on, and the moral deficit will deepen.

Elections will come. Verdicts will be delivered. Parliament will be reinstated. But unless truth is seized, unless accountability is demanded, unless citizens refuse to accept spectacle as reform, Nepal’s survival as a sovereign, ethical, and functioning democracy will remain at risk.

Change is possible. But it will not arrive through ceremonies or celebration alone. It will arrive through courage, comprehension, and insistence that the state—and its citizens—remember, reflect, and act. Only then will Nepal transform from a carnival of continuity into a nation capable of genuine renewal.