Tag Archives: silence

Kantipur’s Balen Feature: Reading Journalism Through Its Silences

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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.

The Power and Danger of Silence: A Cross-Cultural Perspective on Importance of Voice Over Silence

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Eastern vs. Western Rhetoric: The Value of Silence vs. Voice

Growing up in Nepal, I was taught that silence was a virtue. Questioning authority—whether parents, teachers, or bosses—was seen as disrespectful, rebellious, or even dangerous. Knowledge was often treated as absolute, handed down by elders, religious texts, or societal norms. To challenge it was to invite suspicion.

This cultural conditioning creates a society where conformity is rewarded and dissent is suppressed. The danger? A single, unchallenged “truth” dominates, leaving no room for dialogue or growth. As James Berlin’s socio-epistemic rhetoric suggests, knowledge is not absolute but socially constructed through exchange and debate. Yet, in many Eastern traditions, questioning is discouraged, and those who speak up—like me myself and Punya Sagar Marahatta and a few others—are labeled as troublemakers.

In Western rhetoric, however, silence is often viewed with suspicion. Leaders are expected to articulate their positions—when they don’t, they are criticized for hiding their true intentions. When Mark Carney, the future potential Canadian Prime Minister, briefly left the election campaign trail for the third time recently to return to Ottawa and discuss Donald Trump’s proposed tariffs with other world leaders, the move was interpreted with deep significance. Yves-François Blanchet, leader of the Bloc Québécois, seized on Carney’s absence, accusing him of hiding from public scrutiny. Blanchet’s implication was clear: Carney preferred conducting high-stakes negotiations behind closed doors rather than engaging openly with voters.

But this distrust of silence extends beyond politics: in workplaces, employees who don’t speak up in meetings are seen as disengaged; in classrooms, quiet students risk being overlooked; and in social circles, prolonged silence is often misinterpreted as disapproval or disconnection. The Western ideal of participatory democracy and open discourse leaves little room for comfortable silence—it demands vocal engagement as proof of presence and commitment.

But is silence always negative? Cheryl Glenn’s Silence: A Rhetorical Art argues that silence can be more powerful than speech. The Romantic poet John Keats wrote, “Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.” There is profound meaning in silence—but also danger.

The Double-Standard of Silent Disapproval

When I write about Nepali community issues—whether real estate exploitation, political hypocrisy, or unethical business practices—many agree privately but fear public association. After I wrote about Bijay Paudel’s Conservative Party alignment, some applauded me in private messages but hesitated to talk about it publicly. They feared backlash, revealing a deep cultural reluctance to openly dissent.

This silence is deceptive. Those who remain quiet while privately disapproving are more dangerous than outspoken critics. At least with critics, you know where they stand. But silent dissenters maintain a façade of loyalty while nurturing resentment. For example, let’s take an example of Nepali community members’ support for Bijay Paudel this Canadian Federal Election. Bijay likely interprets the photo-ops and crowded campaign office as genuine support, unaware how many attend just for free food, social clout, or fear of being seen as “disloyal” to the community’s perceived unity. The tragedy isn’t just the hypocrisy, but how this culture of performative allegiance silences meaningful debate about whether supporting any Nepali candidate—regardless of their politics or integrity—truly serves our collective interests.

The Cost of Being Truth-Tellers

Looks like Punya Sagar and I are often labeled as “disruptive” or “controversial” because we refuse to stay silent. Whether exposing fake refugee schemes, diploma mill exploitations, community and political hypocrisy, exploitation of community sentiments for business, and wrong real estate practices, we bring these issues into the open—not to divide, but to spark necessary conversations. At minimum, we strive to make our community aware of practices that ultimately harm us all. Yet when we ask these difficult questions, why are we so often treated as adversaries rather than allies in progress?

The answer lies in a painful truth: unhealthy communities mistake harmony for health. They prioritize the illusion of unity over accountability. But a society that grows stronger does so through open dialogue, not enforced silence. The real obstacle to progress isn’t those who speak up—it’s those who privately acknowledge problems yet publicly remain quiet, allowing harmful norms to persist through their inaction.

Why Our Community Needs More Than Silent Support

In our community’s ongoing journey toward meaningful change, writing stands as one of our most transformative tools – capable not only of critiquing but also of healing and reshaping perspectives. This realization became especially clear to me when Chitra Pradhan responded to a comment on Punya Sagar’s post about Prashanta Dhakal that had dismissed the value of writing. While some contended that financial support for Nepali candidates was more immediately important, Chitra eloquently articulated writing’s unique power: its capacity to preserve truths, alter viewpoints, effect change that outlasts election cycles, and offer alternative perspectives (a favorite concept of Chitra) on social and communal matters.

These alternative perspectives serve as crucial instruments for dismantling the idea of a singular truth in our era of multiple, coexisting truths. They help individuals understand that their personal truths may not align with others’ realities. Truth’s multiplicity encompasses whose truth we’re considering, when it applies, where it’s valid, and how it comes to be accepted as truth.

This cultural shift, though gradual, is unmistakable. Increasing numbers of community members are now engaging in this collective knowledge-building. Punya Sagar’s Facebook posts, for instance, regularly spark active discussions among Nepalis both in Canada and worldwide. Punya himself and Chitra Pradhan stand out as particularly engaged contributors to these dialogues. Observing this evolution fills me with hope. Through my own extensive writing about our community’s social, cultural and political challenges, I’ve witnessed writing’s unique capacity to ignite conversations that years of silent conformity failed to produce. Writing does more than reveal problems – it sows the seeds for their resolution.

Conclusion: Breaking the Culture of Silence

Silence can be powerful—but when misused, it becomes a tool of oppression. My cross-cultural experience has taught me that those who speak, despite backlash, are not the true threats. The real threats are the ones who nod in agreement publicly but whisper criticisms in the dark.

It’s time to move beyond fear. Whether in Eastern or Western contexts, progress demands voices that challenge, question, and refuse to conform. Because in the end, unspoken truths are far more dangerous than the ones we dare to say aloud.

Please know that Silence isn’t peace—it’s postponed conflict. From kitchen tables to boardrooms, the unspoken tensions we ignore today become the ruptures we can’t mend tomorrow. The choice isn’t between harmony and chaos, but between honest dialogue and collective dysfunction.