Tag Archives: democracy

The Rich Men’s Club That Nepal Never Had

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Dr. Rajendra K Panthee

Picture from Balen Shah’s Facebook!

Sometimes I wonder whether some of our newest political heroes in Nepal simply chose the wrong career.

Perhaps they should never have entered government at all.

Instead, they should have established a national institution called the Rich Men’s Club for Nepal’s Development.

Membership would be simple. You must already have enough money that politics cannot tempt you. You must sincerely love Nepal. And you must be fully convinced that everyone who governed before you was either corrupt, incompetent, or both.

Confidence has never been in short supply.

The Club would have obvious advantages. Its members could build schools without first declaring every existing school a failure. They could finance hospitals without turning administrative reshuffling into public spectacle. They could support universities without discovering halfway through that institutions cannot function when leadership is abruptly removed without due process.

They could fund scholarships instead of exposing how fragile national systems can be when handled without care. They could experiment freely and revise quietly.

Most importantly, they could spend their own money while testing their own ideas.

Citizens would applaud. Nobody would object. Everyone likes philanthropy.

What people fear is something else. They fear becoming unwilling participants in political experiments.

The problem begins when success in media, business, or public visibility starts to look like qualification for constitutional leadership.

Business rewards speed. Democracy rewards restraint.

Business celebrates disruption. Democracy survives because institutions are deliberately difficult to disrupt.

In a company, yesterday’s strategy can be abandoned overnight. In a constitutional system, institutions exist because they were built through long struggle and painful compromise.

That difference matters.

Yet recent political practice suggests a different understanding of governance. It resembles a simple pattern. Announce boldly. Receive applause. Encounter legal difficulty. Clarify. Revise. Then explain that revision shows maturity.

Repeat as necessary.

Citizens have already adapted. They no longer react to the first announcement. They wait for the correction.

The rise of the Rastriya Swatantra Party was built on real public frustration. That frustration was justified. Established parties have failed repeatedly on governance, accountability, and delivery. Rabi Lamichhane’s appeal came from positioning himself outside that failure.

That appeal translated into political power. It did not automatically translate into constitutional competence.

Rabi Lamichhane’s political brand helped create the belief that a new kind of leadership could rescue Nepal from old habits. But governing a republic is not the same as exposing a scandal on television or winning public applause for speaking hard truths. It requires respect for law, procedure, and the limits of authority.

Gyanendra Shahi has been among the clearest voices exposing that contradiction. He has criticized RSP for rising on public anger and then behaving as if it stands above the same political rules it used to condemn. That criticism matters because it comes from inside the wider opposition space and shows that the complaint is no longer only external. It is now part of the political conversation itself.

The same problem appears in the rise of Balen Shah. He came from outside the old political class. He had money, talent, visibility, and a public image built around independence. Many people trusted him because they believed he was not part of the corrupt machinery that had disappointed them for years.

That trust was understandable. It was also dangerous if it became blind faith.

If a person enters public office with wealth and good intentions, that is not a sin. The problem begins when he starts treating state institutions as if they were private projects that can be redesigned by instinct. Government is not a startup. It is not a foundation. It is not a club. It is the formal arrangement through which a diverse and often quarrelsome society manages power without destroying itself.

That is why constitutional norms exist.

This is where the richer satire lies. If these leaders already had money, and if they genuinely wanted to serve the country, then the honest path would have been to serve first through private or civic institutions. They could have built schools, hospitals, scholarship funds, local development trusts, research centers, and civic programs. They could have shown public spirit without touching the machinery of the state.

That route would have done two things.

It would have protected constitutional government from being treated as a laboratory.

And it would have given them the very thing they lack now, practical experience in handling complexity.

A country is not run by outrage alone. It is run through compromise, restraint, process, and an acceptance that every decision has consequences beyond the headline. A mayor, minister, or prime minister cannot simply act on impulse and then expect legality to catch up later.

That is why some of the actions associated with the current RSP leadership have created unease. Strong declarations often arrive before the legal foundation is secure. Public relations moves sometimes appear to matter more than institutional durability. Even the cabinet can look more like a showcase of youthful enthusiasm than a serious instrument of statecraft.

The home minister, the education minister, and others may all carry the burden of this same style. They are expected to perform change quickly, visibly, and dramatically. But performance is not the same as governance. And novelty is not the same as competence.

The problem becomes even clearer when this same instinct is applied to the poor.

A government can claim to be modern and disciplined, but if it shows little compassion toward sukumbasi, informal workers, and people living on the edge of survival, then it is not reforming the state. It is hardening it.

Reports of holding centers being emptied with demands for Rs 25,000, the public anger after flooding forced some of those centers to be shifted, and the outrage over how vulnerable families were handled all point to the same failure. Rules are necessary. But rules without study, without context, and without humanity are not governance. They are punishment dressed as order.

A state that cannot understand the difference between discipline and cruelty will eventually lose its moral authority.

Yubaraj Dulal has also spoken forcefully against the same double standard. He has treated RSP’s approach to the provincial question and its wider conduct as dishonest toward the people rather than as some innocent administrative adjustment. That matters because it shows the criticism is not just about style. It is about the party’s willingness to say one thing and do another when it suits power. The provincial question especially reveals the problem, because a federal structure built through sacrifice cannot simply be brushed aside by political impatience. The decision is not neutral. It is a political message about what kind of state the party thinks Nepal should become.

The same concern appears in the use of fines and enforcement. It is one thing to insist on order. It is another to impose penalties without asking who will suffer most. When poor people are punished harshly for violations that the wealthy can absorb with ease, the law stops looking neutral. It starts looking class based.

The death of Ganesh Nepali brought that cruelty into sharp focus. According to reporting and parliamentary debate, a poor ride-hailing driver was fined and then later died after a self-immolation attempt, turning a routine enforcement action into a moral scandal. Whatever one thinks of rules, no civilized government can dismiss such a case as ordinary administration. It should have forced a deeper reflection on how the state treats the poor, the desperate, and the powerless.

That is why public criticism of harsher fines matters. People are not rejecting rules. They are rejecting a system that appears eager to punish the weak while speaking gently to the powerful.

Nepal’s democratic institutions were not handed down by benevolent rulers. They were built through resistance against Rana rule, through the struggle against Panchayat, through democratic movements, and through the sacrifices of people who believed that the country should be governed by rules, not personalities.

Those sacrifices created a system that is imperfect but precious.

To break its norms in the name of change is not courage. It is carelessness.

To appoint near and dear ones to key posts while speaking the language of merit is not reform. It is old patronage in new clothing. To talk about efficiency while treating the poor as administrative inconvenience is not compassion. It is class arrogance.

This is why the idea of a Rich Men’s Club is more than satire. It is a warning. If people have wealth, sincerity, and public trust, let them prove themselves outside the state first. Let them learn how difficult public life is before taking control of it. Let them discover that running a country is not the same as funding a project or speaking in slogans.

If they do that, they may one day become better leaders. They may come to understand that institutions are not obstacles to be defeated but safeguards to be respected. They may also understand that justice without empathy is only a cleaner form of cruelty.

And citizens, having watched them serve without power, would trust them more when they finally do enter government.

That is the real irony.

If these men had chosen the private route first, they might have earned the authority they now assume.

Instead, they entered the state too early and began learning at the public’s expense.

That is an expensive education.

And in every democracy, it is the people who pay the tuition.

Ranstriya Swontantra Party’s First 100 Days: What It Was Meant to Be and What It Has Become

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Dr. Rajendra K Panthee

The first 100 days of the Ranstriya Swontantra Party (RSP) led government in Nepal were never going to be a routine political checkpoint. For a party that entered public life speaking the language of clean governance, efficiency, accountability, and a new political culture, the hundred day mark became a test of character. It was meant to show whether a movement that rose by criticizing the failures of old parties could actually do politics differently once it reached power. So far, the answer is mixed. The government has moved faster than many of its predecessors in some administrative areas, but it has not yet delivered the depth of change it promised.

That gap matters because the RSP did not rise simply as another electoral force. It came in as a political mood, almost as a correction to the old order. Its appeal rested on frustration with corruption, slow bureaucracy, elite capture, and the sense that the state had become detached from ordinary people. It also drew strength from a national anxiety that young Nepalis were leaving in large numbers because the country no longer seemed able to offer them a future. In that sense, the party presented itself not just as a governing alternative, but as a moral alternative. It said, in effect, that politics could be made cleaner, more efficient, and more responsive if the right people were in charge.

That promise created a high standard. The RSP was not judged against a weak baseline. It was judged against its own rhetoric. It told the country that it would reduce waste, cut bloated structures, choose qualified people, and put public interest above party networks. It suggested that reform would be visible, not merely theoretical. It spoke as if the old habits of favoritism, symbolic appointments, and empty performance could finally be broken. That is why the first 100 days matter so much. They are the first real chance to see whether the party meant what it said.

There have been some real signs of movement. The government has shown that it can act quickly in certain administrative matters. It has pushed digital governance, tried to streamline services, and projected an image of energetic reform. In a country where delay is often normalized and inefficiency is treated as a permanent condition, that speed has symbolic value. Citizens do notice when a file moves faster or when an office becomes less obstructive. Reform begins there, not only in speeches but in the small experiences of public life.

Yet symbolism is not enough. A government that claims to be transformative must be measured by whether it changes conditions for those who have the least power. That is where the early record looks much weaker. The poor, the unemployed, the landless, and the young people still leaving the country have not yet seen a level of change that matches the party’s promises. The state may sound more active, but that is not the same thing as being more just. In the end, people do not live inside policy language. They live inside jobs, rent, food prices, public services, and dignity.

The treatment of sukumbasi communities is one of the most painful examples of this contradiction. A party that presents itself as modern and humane cannot afford to handle landless and informal settlers as if they are merely a nuisance to be moved aside. Eviction without sufficient resettlement planning creates not just hardship but humiliation. It tells vulnerable people that they are still the ones who absorb the cost of state action. That is not reform. That is displacement with better branding. For a government that promised fairness, this issue has become morally and politically damaging.

The same contradiction appears in the question of migration. One of the RSP’s most attractive promises was that Nepalis would no longer have to leave the country in desperation. Its leaders spoke as if opportunity could be rebuilt at home and as if the state could become a place where young people might stay, work, and dream. But the reality has not changed in any meaningful way. People continue to leave because they still do not see enough hope inside the country. That is not a failure of messaging. It is a failure of results. A government may talk about bringing people back, but it will be judged by whether it can make staying worthwhile.

Swornim Wagle’s role also reveals something important about the character of this government. He has often been presented as a serious and technocratic figure, someone who can give the party an image of competence and discipline. But technocratic language has limits. It can explain what should happen, but it cannot substitute for what people actually experience. If health insurance remains weak for the poor, if welfare commitments are uncertain, and if economic relief does not reach the vulnerable, then the question is not whether the analysis sounds sophisticated. The question is whether the poor are protected. A polished argument in parliament does not mean much if the social reality outside remains unchanged.

There is also a deeper political issue here. The RSP built its reputation by attacking the culture of patronage. It said that public office should go to qualified people, not loyalists or relatives of the powerful. That was one of the reasons it attracted public trust. But once in power, any sign that appointments are being influenced by friendship, faction, or informal access weakens the party’s central claim. A new government can survive criticism of policy. It cannot easily survive the accusation that it is reproducing the same old network of influence it once condemned. That is why questions around appointments matter so much. They are not a side issue. They go to the heart of the party’s identity.

Taken together, the first 100 days suggest a government that is energetic but not yet transformative, vocal but not yet deeply credible, visible but not yet fully effective. It has shown that it can generate attention and move quickly in some areas. It has also shown that governing is far harder than opposition politics. In opposition, it was easy to identify what was broken. In power, every decision runs into institutions, budgets, legal limits, and public expectation. The party is now discovering that rhetoric is easy to distribute, but outcomes are much harder to deliver.

So the question is not whether the RSP has failed or succeeded in some absolute sense. The better question is whether it is becoming the kind of party it claimed to be. At present, the answer is uncertain. It still carries the hope of change, but that hope is no longer unchallenged. It has begun to look like a government caught between its moral image and the practical habits of Nepali politics. That is a dangerous place to be, because the public is willing to forgive early difficulty, but not the quiet return of old behavior under a new flag.

The real test will come in the next phase. If the RSP can move beyond appearances and produce real improvements in employment, welfare, service delivery, and public trust, then the first 100 days may later be seen as the rough beginning of something meaningful. If not, they will be remembered as the point when a promising movement started to resemble the politics it had once set out to replace. That is the core issue. The RSP did not come to power merely to govern. It came to prove that Nepali politics could be cleaner, fairer, and more responsive. After 100 days, that promise is still alive, but it is clearly weaker than it was before.

Money Cannot Buy Integrity

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Dr. Rajendra Panthee

Recently, while listening to CBC Radio’s Ideas program on The Age of Billionaires, I found myself thinking about a question that has become increasingly relevant in Nepal.

Can wealth eliminate corruption?

This question became especially important after the formation of Nepal’s new government. When ministers declared their assets, many people were surprised by the amount of wealth some of them possessed. Supporters argued that these were successful people who had already earned enough money and therefore had no reason to engage in corruption. According to this argument, wealthy individuals enter politics to serve the country rather than enrich themselves.

It is an attractive argument. Unfortunately, history and global experience suggest that things are not so simple.

Wealth does not automatically produce integrity. Financial success is not a certificate of morality. Being rich does not guarantee good governance any more than being poor guarantees honesty.

The recent discussion on CBC Radio’s Ideas raised an important concern. Across the world, extreme wealth is increasingly shaping politics and public policy. Economic power often translates into political influence. As a result, policies may begin to favor those who already possess wealth and influence, while ordinary citizens are left to bear the costs.

Nepal appears to be facing similar questions.

Recent tax policies have provided relief for gold purchases and electric vehicles. These measures may benefit affluent and middle class consumers, but they raise legitimate questions about priorities when ordinary people continue to struggle with the cost of daily necessities.

At the same time, several ministers and public officials are facing growing public scrutiny regarding their decisions and conduct. Citizens who expected a new political culture are beginning to ask difficult questions.

This does not mean that wealthy people are inherently corrupt. Nor does it mean that every allegation is true. Allegations must be investigated fairly, and conclusions must be based on evidence rather than emotions.

However, one assumption deserves reconsideration.

The belief that rich politicians will automatically eliminate corruption has no historical foundation. Wealth alone cannot replace accountability, transparency, or strong institutions.

In fact, when wealthy and powerful individuals become involved in misconduct, the consequences can be far greater because their influence, networks, and resources are also much greater.

Ultimately, the issue is not whether politicians are rich or poor.

The real question is this.

Who benefits from public policy?

Do policies serve the majority of citizens, or do they increasingly protect the interests of those who already possess wealth and influence?

The true test of governance is not how firmly the state acts against the powerless. It is how fairly it treats everyone. A government that can easily remove street vendors, evict landless settlers, or confiscate the livelihood of the poor, but hesitates when confronting wealth and influence, risks creating two different systems of justice.

Nepal must ask itself whether development should benefit the many or merely preserve the privileges of the few.

Money can buy success.

Money can buy influence.

Money can even buy political power.

But money cannot buy integrity.

That must still come from character, accountability, and a commitment to the public good.

Clean Leaders Alone Can’t Make Nepal a Ram Rajya

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Dr. Rajendra K. Panthee

Imagine for a moment that Nepal is suddenly ruled by the most corruption-hating leader in the world. Let us say someone like Lee Kuan Yew, the founding father of Singapore, who is globally known for turning a corrupt and underdeveloped port into a clean and efficient economy. Or perhaps Estonia’s reformers, who built a digital governance model that many countries admire. Imagine his cabinet ministers are equally clean, selfless, and devoted only to the nation. In one magical day, Nepal becomes a Ram Rajya. Honest. Efficient. Benevolent. No more rigged tenders. No more ghost schools. No more money laundering through cooperatives.

Still, Nepal might not change or develop. For a few stubborn reasons.

1. The people
Too many of us do not think about the nation as a shared project. We think about personal benefit, party loyalty, and who will protect our group. Blind support for a party becomes more important than policy, integrity, or long term vision. We say we want clean leaders, but when it comes to our own people, we say, he is not corrupt, he is our guy, he feeds us, he protects us, he is like family.

We want clean leaders at the top, but we also want our own people to be protected, promoted, and let off the hook. We want the system to work for us, not for the nation. We want to be the exception, not the rule.

Even a perfect government gets worn down by our own cynicism, favoritism, and indifference to the public good. We ask for Ram Rajya, but we do not want to live in it. We protest against corruption, but we also protect our corrupt uncle. We vote for clean candidates, but we also vote for the one who gives us a job, a contract, or a favor.

Nepal will not change because we do not want to change. We want the system to be clean, but we do not want to be clean.

2. The political class
There is another ugly truth. Many Nepali political leaders and their supporters also make India into a convenient political weapon. When they feel close to India, everything suddenly feels normal. When they feel ignored, less useful, or less favored than other leaders, they quickly start saying India is playing a game or interfering in Nepal’s affairs.

This is where the hypocrisy becomes obvious. On one hand, some of them are ready to become a puppet of India when it suits their own power. On the other hand, they pull out the nationalist card and shout anti India slogans to emotionally blackmail simple Nepali people. They do not use nationalism as principle. They use it as a tool.

This pattern is dangerous because it turns foreign policy into a domestic performance. Instead of speaking honestly about Nepal’s interests, they use India either as a shield or as a villain depending on what benefits them politically at that moment. That is not patriotism. That is manipulation.

India, as a big and powerful country with its own strategic interests, will never ignore Nepal completely. That much is obvious. But Nepali leaders also help create this cycle by using India whenever it helps them defend themselves, attack rivals, or distract the public from their own failures.

The result is always the same. The public gets confused, the debate gets emotional, and serious national issues become cheap slogans.

The bitter reality
Nepal’s future is not just about cleaning up corruption at the top. It is about how we, as citizens, act. It is about whether we can stop being blind supporters of one party and start being citizens who demand accountability. It is about whether we can stop thinking about personal benefits and start thinking about the nation as a shared project.

It is also about whether our leaders stop using India as a political mask whenever it suits them. A weak political class cannot build a strong state by playing nationalist theater on one side and foreign dependence on the other.

Nepal is stuck between pride and weakness, between sovereignty and dependency, between slogans and reality. Even Ram Rajya in Nepal would struggle, not because leaders alone are bad, but because the people are divided and the political class is often dishonest about bigger forces at play.

What can we do
We can stop being blind supporters. We can stop protecting our corrupt uncle. We can stop voting for the one who gives us a job and start voting for the one who gives us a future. We can start asking questions, demanding transparency, and holding our leaders accountable. We can also stop falling for the same tired game where leaders pretend to defend the nation while using India only when it suits their own power.

We can start being citizens, not just loyalists.

Conclusion
Even if Nepal gets Lee Kuan Yew as its Prime Minister, even if his cabinet is made of angels, even if Nepal becomes Ram Rajya overnight, it will not change or develop unless we change first. Unless we stop being blind supporters. Unless we stop protecting our corrupt uncle. Unless we stop letting leaders use India as a political weapon whenever they want sympathy or advantage.

Nepal’s future is not just about clean leaders. It is about clean citizens. It is about clean institutions. It is about honest politics. And it is about refusing to be emotionally blackmailed by nationalist slogans every time leaders want to hide their weakness.

Members of Parliament Don’t Know Parliamentary Language and We Call It Okay

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Dr. Rajendra K Panthee

I teach David Bartholomae’s “Inventing the University” where he says entering a community means learning its language AND its culture. Understanding mere words, grammar, sentences is not enough. You must learn the values, the norms, the ways of thinking. Now look at our Parliament. Many MPs today have learned the words of democracy but not the culture of democracy. They can say accountability but skip Parliament when questioned. They can say the people but ignore parliamentary procedure. They can say revolution but refuse to learn the institution that gives them power.

This is populism at work. Populism teaches the vocabulary of change but not the culture of accountability. It teaches you to say the people but not to submit to institutions that represent them. It teaches you to say democracy but not to respect the rules of democracy. When Prime Minister Balen Sah skips Parliament and avoids answering questions, when MPs do not know parliamentary procedure and followers call it anti establishment, this is not revolution. This is performing ignorance and calling it virtue.

Balen Sah’s behavior is wrong. It is not just about one party. Other leaders like Harka Sampang are no better. But RSP has been especially responsible for ignoring the superiority of Parliament and normalizing this anti institutional attitude. The party has helped create a culture where skipping Parliament is acceptable, where parliamentary procedure is elite, and where accountability is optional.

Bartholomae would say you cannot participate in a community you refuse to learn. Parliamentary culture means the Prime Minister answers questions even when uncomfortable. It means rules apply to everyone not just the opposition. It means accountability through institutions not social media. It means respecting debate even when you disagree. It means you submit to the institution even when it costs you politically.

Many MPs have the words but not the culture. They have democracy vocabulary but not democracy practice. They have the appearance of representation without the substance of accountability. This destroys institutions built over decades. When leaders treat norms as optional, democracy erodes. When followers accept anti intellectualism as virtue, institutions lose authority. When populists say institutions are corrupt, they weaken representative democracy itself.

This is the destructive nature of populist anti-intellectualism. Populism while potentially serving as a corrective force poses significant threats to democratic norms. The pattern is clear. Institutional erosion happens when leaders treat norms as optional. Democratic accountability disappears when followers accept anti intellectualism as virtue. The research shows we need to strengthen checks and balances to counter the appeal of populism. But first we need to recognize what is happening. We need to name it. We need to teach people why institutions matter. We need to teach them that culture matters as much as words.

When we lose parliamentary literacy, we lose the ability to hold power accountable through institutional means. When we lose parliamentary culture, we lose the values that make accountability possible. We lose the ability to debate respectfully. We lose the ability to build consensus. We lose the ability to protect minority rights. We lose the ability to govern effectively.

What we gain is chaos. What we gain is personal rule. What we gain is the illusion of representation without the reality of accountability. What we gain is the words of democracy without the culture of democracy.

We need to teach democratic literacy the way we teach academic literacy. We need to teach students and citizens how institutions work. We need to teach them why rules matter. We need to teach them that accountability is not optional. And we need to teach them the culture of democracy, not just the vocabulary.

David Bartholomae taught us that learning a new language is hard. It requires effort. It requires humility. It requires practice. Entering a new community means learning to speak like its members. But it also means learning to think like its members. It means learning its values. It means learning its culture.

Entering a democratic community means learning the language of democracy. It means learning parliamentary procedure. It means learning to hold power accountable through institutions. It means learning that rules protect us all not just the elite. And it means learning the culture of democracy, which means submission to process even when it is uncomfortable.

When MPs refuse to learn this language and culture they are not revolutionaries. They are illiterates. And when their supporters say it is okay they are complicit in the destruction of democracy.

Democracy requires language. It requires culture. It requires institutions. It requires people who know how to participate in the code even when it is uncomfortable. Populism promises to give power to the people but it delivers power to the leader. It promises to disrupt the system but it disrupts democracy itself. It teaches the words but not the culture. It teaches the vocabulary without the values.

Balen must answer questions in Parliament. MPs must learn parliamentary procedure. RSP must stop normalizing disrespect for institutions. Other populist leaders must stop treating Parliament as optional. Accountability is not optional. That is the point.

Democracy is not a protest. It is a practice. And you cannot practice if you do not know the language or the culture.

RSP’s First Month: Visible Action, But the Real Test is Still Ahead

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Dr. Rajendra K Panthee

The RSP government has opened its tenure with speed, energy, and a clear effort to project competence. Its one-month progress report is packed with concrete measures, from telecom and postal reforms to digital service upgrades, cybersecurity steps, and administrative discipline tied to the 100-point governance roadmap. That is a promising start. But a promising start is not yet proof of lasting reform.

What stands out most in the report is its focus on visible, everyday services. Extending prepaid package validity, introducing choice in PAYG billing, improving data-usage alerts, advancing 5G readiness, expanding one-time KYC, and improving passport delivery are practical changes people can understand. In a political culture where governments are often accused of producing more slogans than results, that kind of specificity matters. It gives the administration something tangible to point to.

The report also suggests a government that understands that reform is not only about high-level announcements. Its emphasis on zero pending files, business process re-engineering, and better coordination across agencies shows some awareness that the machinery of government must be fixed if public service is to improve. That is a welcome sign. Administrative reform is often boring, but it is usually the difference between public frustration and public trust.

Still, one month is too short a period to treat these measures as full achievements. Many of the report’s items appear to be starts, not finishes. A policy can be introduced, a system can be launched, and a directive can be issued without yet producing durable institutional change. That distinction matters. Citizens do not ultimately judge governments by the number of announcements they make, but by whether those announcements improve the way the state actually works.

That is why the 100-point roadmap should be read as a test, not a trophy. Roadmaps are useful only if they can be translated into deadlines, measurable outcomes, and real accountability. The report shows movement, but movement is not the same as transformation. Some projects appear to be operational, while others are still at the stage of preparation or coordination. The real challenge is whether this initial momentum can survive beyond the first month.

There is also an important political dimension here. Every new government wants to create a story of competence early in its tenure. That is normal. But the more strongly a government advertises early success, the more closely it will later be judged on whether that success endures. Public trust is not built by momentum alone. It is built by consistency, follow-through, and visible results that ordinary people can feel.

So the fairest reading of the report is balanced. The RSP government has made a fast and visible start, and that should be acknowledged. But it has not yet proven that this start will become a sustained record of reform. The one-month report shows intention, direction, and energy. What it does not yet show is whether the government can turn those qualities into lasting change.

Two Democracies, One Problem: When Governments Block the People’s Right to Know 

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In Ontario, Canada, the Doug Ford government just passed changes to freedom of information laws. These changes exempt the premier, cabinet ministers, and their staff from disclosing emails, texts, and other records related to public business. Across the world in Nepal, the Right to Information Act of 2007 exists on paper. But it routinely fails when citizens seek records about political corruption, elite wealth, or government spending. These are not isolated incidents. They represent a global pattern. Governments promise reform while quietly making it harder for citizens to verify those promises.

The parallel is striking. Ontario’s changes came after court rulings demanded access to the premier’s phone records in connection with the Greenbelt scandal. Nepal’s RTI system has existed for nearly two decades. Yet political offices consistently delay, redact, or deny requests about ministers’ assets, public procurement, or the implementation of reform roadmaps. In both cases, ordinary government agencies must disclose information. But the political leadership creates exemptions for itself.

This is not about partisan politics. It is about a fundamental principle of democratic accountability. Citizens have a right to know how decisions affecting their lives were made. Freedom of information laws exist precisely because governments cannot be trusted to tell their own stories accurately. When leaders exempt themselves from these laws, they are saying their work is too sensitive for public eyes. The public is left to accept official narratives without the records to test them against reality.

In Nepal, the stakes are particularly high. The new government’s 100‑point reform roadmap promises anti‑corruption measures, faster service delivery, and transparent governance. But without strong RTI enforcement, citizens have no way to verify whether these are real commitments or political theatre. Journalists requested details about ministers’ recently declared gold holdings and property. What did they receive? Delays, partial disclosures, or outright denials. The same pattern repeats with questions about arrests of former leaders, implementation of the roadmap, or the budget allocations for promised reforms.

Ontario offers a cautionary tale. The FOI changes there were framed as modernization for the digital age. Yet critics, including the province’s privacy commissioner, warned they would make government less transparent than even some authoritarian states. The timing also mattered. The changes came after court losses over access to political records. That timing suggested a deeper motive. Leaders wanted to shield decision‑making from scrutiny.

Both situations reveal the same structural flaw. Democratic governments often weaken the very mechanisms designed to hold them accountable. Nepal’s RTI Commission exists but lacks teeth. Ontario’s Information and Privacy Commissioner can complain but cannot compel disclosure from the political elite. The result is predictable. Leaders control the flow of information while citizens struggle to separate fact from spin.

This matters most for Nepal because the new government came to power promising to break decades of corrupt governance. The public wants to believe in that promise. But belief without verification becomes blind faith. When citizens cannot access records showing how ministers accumulated their wealth, whether arrests followed due process, or if the 100‑point roadmap has concrete timelines and budgets, skepticism grows. Transparency is not a luxury. It is the foundation of trust.

The solution is straightforward but politically difficult. Nepal should strengthen its RTI law. It should mandate timelines for political office responses, create real penalties for non‑compliance, and give the National Information Commission power to compel disclosure. Ontario should reverse its exemptions and recommit to the principle that no public official is above public scrutiny.

Around the world, democracies face this same test. When governments limit access to information, they limit the public’s ability to govern itself. Nepal and Ontario show that the problem transcends borders, political systems, and cultures. The right to know is universal because the need to hold power accountable is universal.

Leaders promising reform should welcome scrutiny, not evade it. Citizens demanding accountability should insist on records, not just rhetoric. When governments exempt themselves from transparency laws, they are not modernizing democracy. They are undermining it.