By Dr Janardan Subedi
If Nepal ever needed a reality TV show, we wouldn’t have to script anything. Just set up a camera in Singha Durbar, sprinkle in a few Facebook “intellectuals” with too much free time, and watch the drama unfold. Case in point—the sudden outpouring of online grief and outrage over Dr. Ramesh Koirala.
Let’s start with the obvious: yes, Dr. Koirala had his share of controversies. Yes, he eventually left the country. But now, a small army of keyboard warriors—people who wouldn’t lift a finger when he was under pressure—have suddenly discovered their inner freedom fighter. Where were these brave defenders of justice when the institutional knives were out for him? Oh right—busy posting selfies, updating their “feeling blessed” status, and pretending they hadn’t seen what was happening.
Nepal’s social media moralists are a peculiar species. They specialize in retroactive outrage. They wait until the victim is gone, the damage done, and then they emerge from the digital shadows, wailing about “injustice” like mourners who missed the funeral but still want their share of sympathy. If courage were measured by timely action, most of them wouldn’t qualify to guard a potato.
And of course, let’s not ignore the political theatre running in the background. Many of us already know whose fingerprints are all over this episode. Step forward, Arzu Rana Deuba—Nepal’s current foreign minister and one of the most skilled political operators of her generation. Skilled not in diplomacy, mind you, but in the fine art of political survival.
Here is a politician who has never won an election, yet wields power that elected MPs can only dream of. She has turned political patronage into a personal brand. In the twisted logic of Nepali politics, she is the embodiment of “representation”—representing, that is, the interests of the entrenched elite rather than the people.
Dr. Koirala’s troubles, in this light, are less about his personal failings and more about the ruthless calculus of political vendettas. When you live in a system where power is currency, and loyalty is the only real qualification, it’s only a matter of time before someone decides you’re more useful as a cautionary tale than as a colleague.
Political sociology has a name for this: elite capture. Institutions meant to protect the public good become tools of the ruling class to consolidate power, reward loyalty, and punish dissent. Justice in such a system isn’t blind—it wears reading glasses and a party badge.
But let’s get back to our online heroes. These sudden defenders of Dr. Koirala are the same people who think sharing a hashtag is equivalent to political resistance. They’re the ones who post Gandhi quotes from Google while quietly making sure they never offend the ruling clique. When the storm was raging, they were nowhere to be found. Now that the dust has settled, they’re busy writing think-pieces on Facebook as if the revolution depends on their Wi-Fi connection.
The irony is almost poetic: a man’s career and reputation are dismantled in real time, but the outrage is delivered on delay—like a bad internet connection in rural Nepal.
And Arzu Rana Deuba? She must be smiling. In Nepali politics, the real victory isn’t just winning—it’s making sure your enemies don’t even make it to the starting line next time. If politics is a game of chess, she’s the one flipping the board when she’s losing and declaring herself the winner anyway.
This whole episode is a masterclass in selective justice. We have an attorney general’s office, a police force, and a judiciary that all seem to operate with a GPS for political loyalty. If you’re in favor, your scandals are “misunderstandings.” If you’re out of favor, your missteps are “national crises.” In Dr. Koirala’s case, the system simply decided he was expendable.
What makes it even worse is the public’s role in enabling this rot. Our collective political memory is so short that every new scandal feels like déjà vu. We shake our heads, make a few sarcastic comments over tea, and then move on as if nothing happened. In the meantime, the same small circle of power brokers keeps recycling itself like bad cooking oil in a roadside momo stall.
Nepal’s political landscape today is not a democracy in the true sense—it’s an oligarchy wearing a democratic mask. The republic has become a stage for a handful of political dynasties to act out their personal rivalries while the rest of us are cast as unpaid extras.
So when I see people suddenly crying foul over Dr. Koirala’s fate, I can’t help but wonder—are you upset because you care about justice, or because this time the political dagger happened to land in someone you liked? If you can’t muster the courage to speak when it matters, spare us the moral lecture after the fact.
If there’s any lesson here, it’s that Nepal’s political class has perfected the art of destroying opponents without leaving fingerprints. They’ve turned smear campaigns into a national sport, and the public is the unwitting audience. Arzu Rana Deuba’s role in this saga isn’t shocking—it’s textbook. This is how power is exercised in our system: silently, surgically, and with plausible deniability.
Dr. Koirala’s story will fade, just like so many before it. Another scandal will take its place, another round of social media outrage will flare up, and the political elite will carry on as usual. And unless we change the system that allows individuals like Arzu Rana Deuba to operate without accountability, we’ll keep watching this rerun for years to come.
So to the Facebook warriors and Twitter philosophers: next time you see injustice unfolding, don’t wait until the victim has packed their bags and left the country. Your silence then speaks louder than your outrage now.
Until then, I’ll keep my expectations low—and my popcorn ready.
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