Tag Archives: history

Kantipur’s Balen Feature: Reading Journalism Through Its Silences

Posted on by
Reply

The most sophisticated way to read journalism isn’t merely to analyze what is written—it is to pay close attention to what is carefully, strategically left unsaid. Kantipur’s recent long feature on Kathmandu Mayor Balen Shah is, by conventional standards, an impressive piece of documentation. It traces his political journey from constitutional-era activism to his disruptive mayoralty and now to his growing national ambitions. It acknowledges controversies, administrative shortcomings, and raises legitimate questions about whether disruption at the municipal level can scale to national governance.

Yet it is precisely this apparent comprehensiveness that invites deeper scrutiny. When Nepal’s most influential establishment newspaper—one that spent years dismissing Balen as a “social media mayor”—suddenly produces an exhaustive, balanced profile at the exact moment he becomes electorally viable at the national level, the question is not simply what does the article say? The more important question is: what does it choose not to say, and why?

These silences are not accidental. They are rhetorical.

Silence as Power, Not Absence

Rhetorician Cheryl Glenn reminds us that silence is never empty. In her work on the rhetoric of silence, Glenn argues that silence functions as an active communicative force—it protects power, shapes legitimacy, avoids accountability, and guides interpretation without openly arguing anything. Institutions, especially powerful ones, often rely on silence not because they lack information, but because silence is strategically useful.

Reading Kantipur’s Balen feature through this lens reveals something crucial: the article’s power lies not in misinformation, but in selective omission.

The Missing Mirror: Media’s Own Role

The most striking absence in the feature is any serious self-reflection. The article is written as if Kantipur has always understood Balen’s political significance, merely documenting it now in fuller detail. There is no acknowledgment of the years during which he was treated as a novelty act rather than a serious political challenge. There is no examination of why tens of thousands of Kathmandu voters saw something the establishment media did not.

If this were fully honest journalism, the feature would have included a section titled something like: “Why We Got Balen Wrong.” That would require confronting uncomfortable questions: Why were his early interventions framed largely as authoritarian spectacle? Why were unverified accusations amplified while governance outcomes received less attention? Why did the media fail to recognize a structural shift in voter sentiment?

This silence serves a clear function. Acknowledging such misreading would undermine institutional authority. Instead, Kantipur performs what might be called narrative revisionism—rewriting the past as if skepticism never existed, thereby preserving credibility while adapting to new political realities. As Glenn would suggest, silence here works to protect institutional power.

The Money Question That Goes Unasked

Another conspicuous silence concerns political finance and business relationships. The article briefly mentions that Balen used a Land Rover Defender worth approximately NPR 4.2 crore during his campaign, borrowed from businessman Kamal Malpani of Timure Industries. This remarkable detail is presented without follow-up.

Why would a businessman lend such an asset to a mayoral candidate? What expectations, if any, accompany that support? Have any municipal decisions benefited related business interests? These are not “gotcha” questions—they are the foundation of democratic accountability journalism.

The absence of financial investigation is particularly striking given that transparency and anti-corruption form the core of Balen’s political brand. If those claims are robust, scrutiny should strengthen them. If such scrutiny is avoided, the silence itself becomes meaningful. As Glenn notes, silence often enables legitimacy by keeping inconvenient complexities out of public view.

The Strategic Minimization of Rabi Lamichhane

Perhaps the most politically consequential silence is the near-erasure of Rabi Lamichhane. In an 18-page feature about RSP’s prime ministerial prospects, the party’s founder and most prominent mass leader barely appears. This is not editorial oversight; it is narrative positioning.

By minimizing Rabi’s presence, the feature subtly frames Balen as the natural face of RSP’s national future, discouraging comparison, debate, or scrutiny of internal party dynamics. This silence matters because Rabi represents a more unpredictable challenge to establishment media. With a media background and a history of confrontation with Kantipur, his potential premiership carries greater institutional risk.

Balen, by contrast, is politically disruptive but media-naïve—less likely to challenge media power directly. Through silence, Kantipur may not be endorsing anyone outright, but it is shaping the field of acceptable political imagination.

The Absent Voices and the Policy Vacuum

The feature also avoids systematic engagement with municipal staff perspectives. Beyond headline conflicts, we hear little from those who actually work within Kathmandu Metropolitan City. Are they empowered reformers or reluctant executors? Is governance institutionalized or personality-driven? These questions determine whether Balen’s model can scale nationally—but silence keeps that ambiguity intact.

More striking still is the lack of substantive policy exploration. A long profile of a prime ministerial aspirant offers little insight into positions on federalism, foreign policy, economic strategy, or social justice questions. Silence here serves both subject and publisher: Balen remains broadly appealing, and Kantipur avoids alienating readers by forcing clarity.

Reading Through the Silences

None of this requires assuming a conspiracy. Institutional behavior rarely does. What we see instead is the cumulative effect of editorial caution, power preservation, access maintenance, and strategic adaptation. As Cheryl Glenn teaches us, silence often operates most effectively when it appears natural, neutral, or accidental.

Kantipur’s feature is not inaccurate. The facts presented are largely verifiable. But journalism’s responsibility is not only factual accuracy—it is contextual completeness. When omission consistently aligns with institutional interests, silence becomes a form of rhetoric.

The lesson extends beyond this single article. In moments of political transformation, media does not merely document change; it participates in shaping it. That participation often happens not through loud endorsements, but through quiet exclusions.

Kantipur’s Balen feature is valuable reading—but only if we listen carefully to what it does not say. In the politics of silence, absence is never neutral. It is power speaking softly.

Rabi-Balen Unity In Nepal: Is There a Genuine Reason for a Celebration?

Posted on by
Reply

Just read Professor Bishnu Sapkota’s powerful piece in Kantipur debunking three Nepali myths that desperately need challenging. His analysis resonates deeply with arguments I’ve been making about Nepal’s political landscape.

Speaking of myths: watching my Facebook friends celebrate the Rabi Lamichhane-Balen Shah unity as if it’s Nepal’s salvation feels like déjà vu. Remember the Gen Z movement excitement? Within months, we saw it was largely destruction of national heritage and property—not the transformation everyone promised.

This Lamichhane-Balen alliance is just another fleeting “blinker of hope” Nepalis have witnessed repeatedly in recent history. We get excited, we believe, we’re disappointed—rinse and repeat.

But here’s what nobody’s asking: What exactly IS this unity? Is it a formal political party merger? An electoral alliance? A friendship photo-op? More critically—has anyone heard their vision for actually running the country? What policies will they implement? How will they address corruption differently than their predecessors? What’s their economic plan? Their foreign policy? Their strategy for federal restructuring?

We have two popular personalities joining forces, but popularity is not policy. Social media following is not governance capacity. Photo opportunities are not reform agendas.

Will this alliance dismantle the myths Professor Sapkota identifies? Will they do anything substantial that future generations will remember as their contribution to breaking Nepal’s political deadlock? Or is this just another example of what I describe in my recent article—political entrepreneurship where personalities replace principles, and brand management substitutes for serious governance?

As I argue in my piece, these new formations represent populist moments, not sustainable movements. Without ideological foundations, institutional capacity, or history of genuine sacrifice, they’re political entrepreneurs treating democracy as business opportunity. The Lamichhane-Balen union seems to follow this exact pattern: high on publicity, silent on policy.

Professor Sapkota dismantles the myths keeping Nepal stuck. We need this intellectual honesty—and we need to demand more than charisma and popularity from our political leaders. We need answers: How will you govern? What will you change? Why should we believe you’ll succeed where others failed?

Until these questions are answered with substance rather than slogans, this is just another momentary distraction from the hard work of genuine political reform.

When Political Loyalty Distorts Reality: A Sign, Some Laughter, and How We See What We Want to See

Posted on by
Reply

Introduction: The Delight of Linguistic Discovery
I never expected my playful observation about a political sign would spark such controversy. There it was—a conservative leader’s campaign board reading “Axe the Tax on Homes,” its words awkwardly divided across two lines. To my linguist’s eye, the accidental double meaning was irresistible: “Stop Sales / Tax Homes!!” The irony was perfect—a tax-cutting slogan that, through clumsy design, could be read as advocating precisely what it opposed. I shared this humorous linguistic discovery online, anticipating fellow word enthusiasts might enjoy the joke. Instead, I witnessed how quickly language play collides with political tribalism, and how our capacity for humor evaporates when ideology enters the conversation.

The Battle Over Meaning
The responses fell into distinct camps. The first commenter, a linguistically-inclined friend, set the tone with measured analysis: “When the given sentence is divided into two sentences, then you are right! Otherwise, I do not agree.” His distinction was crucial – he acknowledged the design’s ambiguity without dismissing the intended policy. My reply – “They divided it (for a reason), not I!” – highlighted how the sign’s formatting created the double meaning. His follow-up (“This is design, not a divide”) further clarified his view.

Then another participant offered a diplomatic perspective: “Yes, both of you are correct. It’s a very ambiguous sentence.” This comment was a quiet masterstroke, validating both perspectives while modeling how to depoliticize language.

The Spectrum of Reactions
The literalists analyzed the sign as a communication failure. One noted: “It should read ‘Axe the sales tax on new homes,'” pointing out how line breaks create unintended meanings. The defenders reacted as if I’d launched a political attack rather than a grammatical observation. “You’re misleading people!” insisted one particularly vocal participant, who later escalated: “It was deliberately made misleading by you… Someone like you shouldn’t do this seriously.” This revealed a deeper pattern – for some, any interpretation diverging from party orthodoxy wasn’t just wrong, but malicious.

The Psychology Behind the Responses
What fascinated me wasn’t the disagreement, but how predictably it followed documented psychological patterns. One defender shifted the conversation completely: “Nepali people never change, even in Canada! If you don’t understand English, try French!” Where some saw typography, others saw ideology.

Another participant’s evolving position was particularly telling. They first dismissed the conversation as “AI-generated info,” but later conceded it was simply “a design problem.” This reversal mirrored the classic pattern of conspiracy thinking – initial defensive outrage giving way to reluctant acknowledgment of facts.

The Conversation Spirals: Defensiveness and Distortions
The discussion took revealing turns when certain participants:

  • Framed sarcastic remarks as honoring cultural heritage
  • Made striking accusations completely absent from the original post
  • Sought validation from respected community figures

One observer’s graceful refusal to be drawn in – “Don’t drag me into the dirt” – and another’s probing questions – “Where were Indigenous people defamed?” – underscored how far the conversation had diverged. The most insightful commentary came from those who understood political language operates on multiple levels: “Are we looking at formal or lexical semantics?”

Language as a Political Weapon
The campaign sign wasn’t just policy – it was a rhetorical Rorschach test. Supporters saw their preferred meaning, critics saw the clumsy messaging, and the campaign benefited from the engagement either way. This phenomenon isn’t unique to Canadian politics; similar vague, feel-good phrasing appears in slogans worldwide.

A Mirror for Our Digital Age
This micro-drama reflects our broader information crisis. When participants accused me of “deliberately misleading,” they weren’t engaging with the post – they were reacting to perceived threats to their political identity. We’ve become so accustomed to political warfare that even playful analysis gets weaponized.

Conclusion: Playfulness as Political Mirror
This entire episode began with what should have been an uncontroversial truth: language is inherently playful, and design choices create unintended meanings. My amusement at the sign’s ambiguity wasn’t just about the words themselves, but about how they revealed the fragility of political messaging.

The most telling response wasn’t the disagreement—it was the complete inability of some participants to even recognize the linguistic playfulness. Their insistence that “no competent English speaker could misunderstand the sign” ironically demonstrated their own constrained perception. In policing my observation, they revealed how political allegiance can literally narrow what we’re able to see in plain language.

Three crucial lessons emerge:

Humor is ideological – What one person finds amusing, another perceives as attack

Design has politics – Even accidental ambiguities reveal messaging vulnerabilities

Playfulness is power – The ability to see multiple meanings resists political framing

Perhaps the healthiest democratic practice would be embracing—rather than attacking—those who point out clumsy messaging. After all, if we can’t laugh at awkward phrasing, how will we ever confront substantive policy differences? The sign’s true revelation wasn’t its policy position, but how fiercely we’ll defend our team’s sloppy design—and how angrily we’ll attack those who notice it.