Keshav Gharti Magar

In Nepal, criticizing leaders and leadership has become as routine as any daily habit. From tea shops to social media, from bus seats to university canteens, criticism of leaders, parties, the government, parliament, and even the judiciary is heard everywhere. But the contradiction is clear. In a democracy, leaders and leadership cannot be treated as the result of a sudden accident. It must be understood as a reflection of the collective consciousness, collective psychology, and collective silence of the citizens. Whether that leadership emerges from organizational structures, is embodied in a charismatic leader, or is shaped by the algorithmic crowd of social media, its roots lie deep within the mindset of the people.

Our culture, our education, our awareness, our political habits, our silence, and our tolerance shape the character of our leadership. History has shown again and again that bad leaders rise when citizens remain silent and passive. Where citizens are quiet and inactive, power becomes arbitrary. Where citizens are indifferent, corruption becomes normal. Where citizens do not question, accountability disappears. Today’s Nepal is becoming a clear example of this harsh truth, even though social media has recently painted leaders and leadership in the colors of algorithms.

We have changed leadership time and again. We have issued the constitution on several occasions, revised and repealed laws according to the demands of time and necessity, and replaced governments repeatedly. Yet we have not been able to uplift the living standards of the people. Foreign debt has not decreased, national production and GDP have not grown, and instead the number of young Nepalese leaving the country rises every year. The nation is surviving largely on remittances. This raises a fundamental question: why do outcomes remain unchanged even when structures change? The core reason is that our collective consciousness remains the same.

For decades, leadership had fed us illusions, and we had accepted those illusions as truth, defended them, and protected them. What we failed to understand was that leaders exercised power because we, the citizens, handed that power to them. During elections, they provoked conflict, spread division, and inflamed emotions in the name of caste, sex, language, religion, region, and identity. We participated in this process as well. Yet when it came to dividing power, they sat together in dark rooms and negotiated deals over appointments, resources, influence, and immunity. There was no battle of ideas, no discussion of principles, and no concern for the public interest.

This was why governments kept changing while governance remained the same. Faces changed for a while, leadership rotated, but the character never did. But today, the situation is fundamentally different. The party leading the current government holds almost a two-thirds majority. This does not guarantee that past patterns will never repeat, but it does make one thing absolutely essential: silence and indifference must no longer be treated as our inherited comfort or habit. Although the government is still in its honeymoon period and some administrative reforms have begun to appear, the leadership and the government should not be insulated from public criticism. They should not be made distant from scrutiny; they must remain accountable to it. More importantly, in some instances the government appears to be practicing rule by law rather than upholding the rule of law, and this is a serious concern for any democracy.

Today, the problems of the country and its people are not confined merely to the shortcomings of leaders or leadership. Their roots run deep into our own silence, indifference, and the absence of constructive criticism. Silence and indifference are not just weaknesses; they function as forms of complicity that allow injustice and oppression to endure. Every Nepali must understand and help others understand this truth. Additionally, constructive criticism is not an outburst of opposition; it is an awakening of civic consciousness and a duty to monitor power responsibly.

Yet the tragedy is that we are gradually becoming accustomed to saying “It’s fine” even when we clearly see something wrong. The mindset of “Others have done the same” has erased our own moral boundaries. When we witness injustice or abuse, the belief that “Nothing will change even if we speak up” has weakened our inner resolve. The illusion that raising our voice makes no difference has imprisoned us in a cage of silence, where the possibility of change does not grow, only the habit of surrender does.

From local bodies to Singhadurbar, we have seen and heard so much corruption and irregularity that we have normalized the argument that “Everyone is the same.” This normalization and our silence have emboldened leaders and inflated their arrogance, allowing power to be exercised arbitrarily. Plato said that a nation whose people remain silent in the face of injustice ends up being ruled by injustice itself. If we reflect on this statement seriously, it mirrors our present reality. Laws are formulated, but they are not implemented. Accountability is demanded, yet no one is willing to answer. In such circumstances, citizens have no choice but to raise their voices consciously and collectively. Silence is no longer a safe option; it only strengthens the very forces that undermine justice and good governance.

When we face injustice and try to seek justice, from local offices to the courts, we often end up being harmed instead. Even if a case reaches the court, it gets stuck for years, victims wait endlessly for justice, and those who demand justice are forced to suffer further injustice. This happens not only because of weak institutions but also because we lack the kind of sustained civic pressure and culture of accountability seen in countries like Japan. Japan’s judicial transparency, punctuality, and accountability are the result of decades of continuous public pressure. In education, Finland shows a similar example. Parents, teachers, policymakers, and citizens raised their voices for decades, which is why Finland’s education system is now considered one of the best in the world.

In Nepal, however, education remains expensive and low in quality. Private schools and colleges impose arbitrary fees, government schools are negligent, curricula are outdated, and teachers often act irresponsibly. Yet parents rarely raise a collective voice. The same is true in healthcare. Services are expensive, rural access is weak, medicines are costly, and hospitals are negligent, but citizens do not consistently demand policy reforms. This silence allowed problems to deepen. But the public unrest on Bhadra 23 and 24 last year demonstrated an essential truth: when citizens raise their voice, power is compelled to pause, and when citizens question, leadership is forced to respond.

Now, we must understand that even in our neighboring country India, many policies have changed because of citizen pressure. From pollution control in Delhi to education reforms in South India, forest rights in Central India, and movements against violence toward women in North India, the driving force behind these changes was the voice of the people.

Similarly, in our neighboring country China, despite having a different political structure, we cannot ignore the fact that collective demands at the local level have compelled the administration to improve basic services such as roads, water, health, and education. And in essence, we must understand that wherever citizens speak consciously and responsibly, policies change. Once policies change, programs are announced and implementation follows.

Because today’s era is the era of expression, a vocal citizen shapes the direction of change. But a silent and indifferent citizen ultimately loses rights, opportunities, and the future itself. A nation is not destroyed by its enemies; it is destroyed by the indifference of its people.

The author is an advocate.