In the shadow-dappled arena of Nepali politics, where leaders pirouette in gilded masks and the crowd roars for breadcrumbs of hope, we must ask: What lies beyond this carnival of the damned? Political discourse, once a crucible for ideas, has become a hall of mirrors— a theater of sound bites, grand gestures, and performances in the parliament. The script is written not by the people, but by the politicians, their strings hidden beneath the stage. The question is not where we go from here, but how we claw our way out of this maze of illusion.
The theatrics must be dismantled, and politics reclaimed as an act of collective liberation—one that dissolves the illusion of separateness and binds us in a shared struggle. Liberation is not an individual pursuit but a convergence, a merging of voices, histories, and futures into a force greater than the sum of its parts. It must be rooted in truth, justice, and the slow, stubborn work of healing—an act not of isolated defiance but of collective reimagining, where the fractures imposed by caste, class, and geography are mended through solidarity, and where power is not seized by a few but reclaimed by all.
Political theatrics are as old as power itself. Kings donned crowns to mimic divinity; rulers waved nationalistic slogans to mask plunder. Today, the stage is Kathmandu, lit by the cold glare of digital screens. Politicians no longer need mass gatherings—they have social media, viral hashtags, and the 24-hour social media feeds, all conspiring to reduce democracy to a spectator sport. The art of governance has become a slick pantomime, where crises are monetized, dissent is hashtagged, and empathy is filtered through press conferences. We are fed a diet of urgency without action, outrage without consequence, as if the country were a reality show and we, the audience, could swipe left on systemic failure. The result? A nation drowning in corruption, an economy teetering on remittance dependency, and the quiet erosion of our capacity to imagine alternatives.
At the heart of this spectacle lies a void—a refusal to confront the rot beneath the glitter. While politicians spar in parliamentary circuses, the Bagmati chokes on filth, villages crumble under landslides, and the youth flee abroad in search of dignity. Theatrics thrive on distraction: they turn systemic violence into partisan squabbles, recast climate collapse as a “development challenge,” and reduce inequality to a campaign slogan. The performative outrage of TikTok wars and the choreographed empathy of disaster visits are not accidents. They are tools to keep us numb, docile, and addicted to the dopamine hit of momentary drama while the engines of 21st-century Nepal’s neo-feudalism grind on.
Adding to this political farce, the government has approved a new bill to regulate social media, outlining norms for users and punishment for those who violate them. Some political leaders, digital rights activists, and experts have already criticized the bill and questioned the government’s intent. Successive administrations have attempted to introduce laws to regulate social media—its use by citizens, its code and ethics, and provisions for punishment. The latest attempt by the Government of Nepal has raised concerns about press freedom and democratic expression.
The government is doubling down on its narrative of control in the digital space, blaming social media for sowing chaos, undermining national sovereignty, and disturbing religious harmony. “Due to the anarchy of online and social media, questions have been raised over national independence, national interest, and sovereignty,” officials claim, positioning regulation as a matter of national security rather than individual rights.
Critics, however, see this as a thinly veiled attempt at censorship. Advocate Baburam Aryal, a long-time defender of media freedoms, has condemned the proposed bill, arguing that it bypasses legal and judicial scrutiny while concentrating excessive power in the hands of administrative agencies. “Ultimately, this will dilute the legal and constitutional vetting process of online content,” Aryal warned, highlighting concerns over unchecked bureaucratic authority.
Political opposition has also emerged. The MPs of Nepali Congress have urged the government to revise the bill to align with constitutional principles, calling for broader consultation with stakeholders before imposing sweeping restrictions. Former Prime Minister Pushpa Kamal Dahal (Prachanda) and MP Sumana Shrestha have strongly criticized the Social Media Bill, warning that it threatens fundamental freedoms.
Prachanda expressed deep disappointment over the government’s hostility toward constructive criticism and free expression, accusing it of undermining democratic rights under the guise of regulation. Shrestha echoed these concerns, arguing that the bill prioritizes control over dialogue, setting a dangerous precedent for future governments to stifle dissent. “The right to free speech cannot be selectively granted or revoked based on political convenience,” she asserted. The battle over digital freedoms, it seems, is far from over—raising urgent questions about whether regulation is being wielded as a shield for stability or a sword against dissent.
Besides regulating online media, the new bill mandates social media companies to register in Nepal. However, only two platforms—TikTok and Viber—have complied, while others have resisted, citing onerous conditions and excessive regulation. Once registered, these platforms are required to pay applicable taxes and royalties. The government claims this measure is necessary to curb misinformation, but critics see it as a veiled attempt to consolidate control over digital discourse.
Now is the time for the Nepali people to breach the smartphone screen’s glow, to inhale the raw air of a reality stripped bare, and to gaze upon the fractured remnants of a nation—a spirit unraveled, its youth whispered away in the shadow of unseen hands.
To escape this suffocating cycle, we must first name the farce. Imagine a Nepal where policy is not a script for applause but a covenant with the land and its people. Substance over spectacle demands more than slogans; it requires dismantling the machinery that equates politics with entertainment. Then there are those peddling 17th-century nostalgia like cheap perfume, promising resurrection while quietly embalming the status quo. Real change is not televised. It lives in the quiet corners where farmers revive dead soil, where mothers march for disappeared sons, where labor unions resurrect solidarity in the rubble of neoliberalism. It flickers in the defiance of a crypto kid making millions outside the system, rewriting the rules of wealth and power. It demands policies that smell of sweat and soil, not boardrooms.
What if we became saboteurs of the script? Grassroots movements—from the protests against the Guthi Bill to the indigenous resistance in the East—have shown that true power lies not in the ballot box alone, but in the raw, unapologetic force of collective refusal. We must discard the false hope of electoral redemption and instead embrace the chaos of direct action, the only real antidote to a political system rigged against us.
Yet, the commercialization of sacred spaces like Mukkumlung Pathivara Devi Temple tells another story—one where faith is repackaged for investors, not devotees. The proposed Nepal cable car projects promise convenience but strip indigenous communities of their spiritual and economic autonomy. “It benefits investors, not locals,” say indigenous leaders resisting the commodification of their heritage, refusing to let reverence be replaced by revenue.
The true essence of visiting Mukkumlung Pathivara Devi Temple lies not just in reaching the sacred peak, but in the arduous journey itself—a profound test of devotion, endurance, and sacrifice. To bypass the struggle is to miss the heart of the pilgrimage, for the path is as sacred as the destination. To erase the hardship is to hollow out the meaning, transforming what should be a spiritual rite into mere tourism, faith into a spectacle, and devotion into a commodity. This is not “engagement” as the algorithms define it; it is desecration masquerading as convenience.
Here, solidarity becomes our weapon. In a country splintered by caste, ethnicity, and regional divides, the spectacle thrives on our isolation. But collective action is an antidote—a reminder that the “we” is not a footnote but the plot. Consider the Nepali migrant workers organizing for fair wages in the Gulf, or the landless squatters building communities in the margins of urban Nepal. These are not mere interest groups; they are the living, breathing counter-narrative to the theater of division. Their power lies not in unanimity but in the recognition that our fates are entwined—that the same system that exploits Dalit labor in the brick kilns displaces indigenous Tharus from their ancestral lands.
None of this is a retreat from politics. It is a reimagining. To escape the spectacle, we must abandon the lie that change is linear—that progress is a product to be consumed. True transformation is circular, recursive, as nonlinear as the course of the Bagmati River. It demands that we slow down, listen to the whispers beneath the noise, and recognize that the “perpetual brink” is a myth sold to keep us compliant. The future is not a cliff edge but a horizon, and the path there is paved not with hashtags but with the quiet, relentless labor of those who refuse to vanish.
Beyond the theatrics, beyond the empty promises—here, power is not a spectacle, but a system of surveillance; not governance, but a mechanism of control. To reach it, we must unlearn the scripts force-fed to us: the passive audience applauding its own subjugation, the loyal voter casting ballots in rigged charades, the obedient social media consumer numbed by an endless drip-feed of distraction. The theater’s gates were never locked because the walls extend beyond sight, an invisible prison built of algorithms and inertia. Now is the time for the Nepali people to breach the smartphone screen’s glow, to inhale the raw air of a reality stripped bare, and to gaze upon the fractured remnants of a nation—a spirit unraveled, its youth whispered away in the shadow of unseen hands.
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