Believe in leadership? Well, if leadership means one person says “jump” and everyone else asks “how high,” then yes—Nepal must be the global headquarters for blind obedience to leadership.
Take our recent political theatre. The main opposition party marched into Parliament like angry heroes, shouting about corruption, pointing fingers, and demanding the head of a minister allegedly tangled in a visa scam. “Terminate him now!” they cried, standing tall—finally, accountability. But just when citizens thought something might actually change, came the plot twist: the same opposition leaders who were up in arms one day held hands with the very people they were accusing the next, signing a document for the “smooth running of Parliament.”
All forgiven. All forgotten. One signature later, what was corrupt on Monday became cooperative by Thursday. What changed? Only the leader’s mind. The rest simply followed. There was no outrage, no questioning, no resistance—because when the supremo speaks, even the laws of logic take a holiday.
And this isn’t even the most unbelievable part. The two biggest rivals in Nepal’s political circus—Nepali Congress and UML—who have spent years accusing each other of everything short of witchcraft, are now sharing power like long-lost relatives at a family reunion. A unity government between the two most ideologically incompatible forces in the country has become a political reality. The plot twist is so absurd, it would make a Bollywood villain faint.
Yet party members show no outrage. They remain proudly silent, because the top bosses are fine with it. What was condemned as a betrayal of ideology just weeks ago is now labeled as political maturity. Nepal has effectively turned into a reality show where nothing makes sense, but everyone claps anyway.
We live in the information age. Even in the far corners of the Terai or halfway up Everest, people have access to real news with a half-decent internet connection. Scams can be Googled. Court verdicts are publicly available. Leaked audios circulate within minutes. And yet, citizens continue to support the same leaders with the same blind devotion—as if they were pop stars. Ironically, some of these very leaders struggle to open PDF files and believe memes are a form of cybercrime.
It resembles the French monarchy all over again. Queen Marie Antoinette, who allegedly said, “Let them eat cake” while people starved, would feel right at home. Nepal’s political elite are no different—clueless about ground realities, drunk on power, and masters of grand speeches while the economy crumbles beneath them.
And the public? We gather in tea shops and argue over which leader is better, as though selecting football teams. “My leader is always right!” “No, mine is better!” Meanwhile, the direction of the nation remains uncertain—and few seem to care.
Blind loyalty has overtaken rational thinking. Questioning a leader now feels like an act of treason. The youth—expected to be progressive, tech-savvy, and forward-thinking—are often seen repeating old party slogans from politicians who still use button phones and think “AI” stands for “Aama-Institution.”
Where is the accountability? Where is the public outrage? Or are we all just hypnotized by the political equivalent of Simon Says? If a decision makes no sense, it’s probably because it doesn’t. And if no one is questioning it, it’s probably because obedience has been mistaken for patriotism.
Nepal does not lack talent or potential. What it lacks is real leadership—and the courage to call out the fake ones. Until that changes, the leaders will keep dancing, and the crowd will keep cheering. It’s no longer a democracy. It’s a political puppet show. And sadly, it seems we’re enjoying the performance.
