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Land is more than a physical resource—it represents the foundation of culture, livelihoods and dignity in Nepal. However, centuries of discriminatory policies have systematically stripped communities like the Tharu, Limbu, and Chepang of their ancestral lands, consequently deepening poverty, exacerbating ethnic tensions, and causing extensive environmental harm.

The 2015 Constitution offers hope: Article 37 ensures every citizen’s ‘right to appropriate housing’ and protection from unlawful evictions, while Article 51(e) calls for scientific land reforms to eliminate ‘dual ownership’, curb ‘absentee land ownership’, and manage land for productivity, ecological balance, and farmers’ access to resources. Yet the crisis remains staggering—the Land Issue Resolving Commission reports roughly 89,144 landless Dalit families, 168,888 other landless families, and 875,164 unmanaged settler families, potentially affecting 1.5m families or 6m people. The High-Level Land Reform Commission (2065) estimates 5.5m landless people, with women owning merely 16 percent of land and Dalits controlling only one percent of agricultural land.

A controversial law

Despite these constitutional mandates, Nepal’s government has tabled a Bill to Amend Some Nepal Acts Related to Land, closely mirroring a previously withdrawn ordinance. Although claiming to address longstanding governance issues, it has generated intense controversy due to concerns that it may facilitate elite capture, enable exploitation by land brokers, benefit real estate businesses, and cause significant environmental damage—including deforestation in the Chure region and misuse of forests, public lands and national parks.

The High-Level Land Reform Commissions, established at various periods in Nepal’s history, have consistently warned against ‘cosmetic’ reforms that fail to tackle semi-feudal structures. Instead, they advocate comprehensive changes to prioritize marginalized groups and protect ecosystems. Through historical institutionalism and political ecology frameworks, this analysis explores the urgent need for equitable reforms aligned with constitutional mandates and Supreme Court rulings.

Historical roots of land injustice

Nepal’s land problems originated centuries ago with policies systematically favoring high-caste elites over indigenous groups, dismantling communal systems that sustained communities. Cox (1990) demonstrates how the 1768 Gorkha conquest centralized land control and disrupted the Limbu’s ‘Kipat’ system—a communal tenure where land was collectively owned and could not be sold, preserving cultural identity and economic stability.

Historical institutionalism reveals how these policies are permanently locked in inequalities. The 1886 ‘male tenure’ policy allowed cultivators, predominantly Brahmans, to claim ‘Kipat’ lands through ‘subinfeudation’—dividing and transferring rights—turning indigenous Limbus into tenants on their ancestral territory. The 1964 ‘Land Reform Act’, while aimed at redistribution, was undermined by loopholes allowing elites to retain control, fueling ethnic tensions. The 1968 ‘Kipat abolition’ completely stripped groups like the Limbu and Chepang of their foundations.

This pattern repeated throughout Nepal. The Chepang’s ‘Kipat’ lands, granted in 1848, became ‘Raikar’—state-owned, taxable land—by 1854, pushing communities into poverty. In Dang valley, the Tharu’s Barghar system, a sophisticated communal model for equitable land use, collapsed after 1950s malaria eradication allowed Hindu settlers to seize prime lands, displacing 3,000 Tharus by 1980. The Limbu’s ‘Satya Hangama’ movement, seeking ‘Kipat’ restoration, was crushed by 1946, reflecting ‘legal pluralism’—the clash between customary and state laws.

According to the HLLRC (2065) report, today’s reality starkly reflects these injustices: 47 percent of small farmers control merely 15 percent of land, while three percent of large farmers hold 17 percent, and 20 percent of fertile land lies unused due to speculative holding by bureaucrats and brokers. Semi-feudal practices persist—dual ownership, absenteeism, and bonded labor systems like Haliya, Kamaiya, Haruwa, Charuwa, Kamalari and Gothala encompass approximately one million agricultural laborers. Women, despite working 18 hours daily, hold only 16 percent of land ownership. Indigenous peoples, one-third of the population, face systematic encroachment. Around 1.02m families (5.5m people) remain landless, forcing migration to India and abroad.

Global lessons

Nepal’s challenges mirror global land inequities. Westwood (1984) shows how the US South’s failed “land redistribution’—General Sherman’s 1865 promise of ‘forty acres and a mule’ to freed slaves—was reversed by political forces restoring elite control. Gates (1976) demonstrates how the 1862 ‘Homestead Act’ favored speculators over genuine settlers while displacing Native Americans. In Muscovy, ‘absentee land management’ triggered ‘peasant revolts’ (Melton, 1978).

Spence (1985) defines ‘landlessness’ as systematic exclusion creating ‘dead capital’—land unusable for loans or investment due to insecure tenure. Political ecology frameworks highlight how power imbalances enable elite capture, echoing Nepal’s current Bill concerns. Smith (2018) notes ‘global land use’ tensions harm marginalized groups, while Hrabovszky (1987) warns ‘land use pressure’ risks deforestation.

A fundamental right

Land represents a fundamental human right central to dignity and survival. Enemark et al. (2014) connect ‘land administration’—managing ownership, value, and use—to Universal Declaration of Human Rights' Article 17 (property) and Article 25 (living standards). ‘Tenure security’ aligns with Article 37 of Nepal’s Constitution. The ‘Social Tenure Domain Model’ recognizes a ‘continuum of land rights’, protecting informal tenure, though facing elite capture risks.

Nepal’s crisis produces profound impacts. Economically, losing ‘Kipat’ and Barghar lands drives poverty and migration through ‘dead capital’. Culturally, these losses sever indigenous traditions. Politically, suppressed movements like ‘Satya Hangama’ mirror global exclusion patterns. Environmentally, ‘land use pressure’ creates risks like Chure deforestation. Socially, bonded labor and inequalities persist with women and Dalits systematically marginalized.

Beyond cosmetic changes

The proposed bill must adopt the HLLRC’s structural reforms rather than perpetuating elite capture. Genuine transformation requires ending ‘dual ownership’ and ‘absentee land ownership’, redistributing land to tillers, and prioritizing Dalits, women and indigenous groups. Land classification must scientifically separate agricultural and non-agricultural uses. Agricultural land should be classified by production zones—grain, fruit, vegetable, cash crops, medicinal herbs, grazing, tea, coffee, cardamong, sugarcane, jute and special zones. Non-agricultural land needs residential, industrial and environmental protection designations. Special measures for fragile ecological zones like Chure and Mahabharat are essential.

Clear policies on priority rights and compensation are critical. As the HLLRC states, “Competition essential for capitalist development must be among equals.” Reforms must promote cooperatives, overhaul corrupt administration, and implement collaborative governance with monitoring to prevent land grabs while ensuring constitutional compliance.

A vision for lasting justice

Nepal’s 1.5m landless families face a pivotal moment. The proposed Bill must move beyond ‘cosmetic’ reforms by implementing the HLLRC’s blueprint to dismantle semi-feudal systems, restore ‘customary tenure’ like Barghar and Kipat systems, and protect ecosystems like Chure and Mahabharat. By aligning with constitutional mandates and Supreme Court rulings, Nepal can ensure equitable land access, empower marginalized groups, and boost agricultural productivity through cooperatives and modern methods.

Learning from global failures and local traditions, Nepal can establish a new standard for land justice, ensuring no community remains landless or voiceless. The choice is clear: continue cosmetic fixes preserving centuries of injustice, or embrace transformative reforms that Nepal’s Constitution demands and marginalized communities deserve.

Nepal’s School Education Bill, long awaited to operationalize Article 31(2) of the Constitution—which guarantees every citizen the right to free and compulsory education up to secondary level—is now mired in conflict and controversy. Initially introduced to provide equitable, quality education, the Bill’s process has become a battlefield of political interests, pressure groups, and conflicting ideologies. Instead of upholding learners’ rights, the Bill now appears to be tilting toward protecting vested interests.

On April 30, the Nepal Teachers’ Federation reached a deal with the chief whips of the Nepali Congress and CPN-UML, halting its month-long protest on the understanding that the Bill would be endorsed by June 29. The Education, Health, and Information Technology Committee had initially agreed to a provision allowing permanent appointment of temporary, relief, and contract-based teachers through a 60 percent internal and 40 percent open competition model. Earlier, this was adjusted to a 50–50 ratio while presenting in parliament. However, the Federation insisted that 100 percent of permanent appointments be reserved for internal candidates, arguing they had “sacrificed” long enough.

In response to this demand, Education Minister Raghuji Panta requested the committee to withhold the Bill. This action drew sharp criticism and revived public distrust, evoking memories of the controversial cooling-off period in the Civil Service Bill. The credibility of the Parliament’s legislative sovereignty is now under scrutiny, as it appears increasingly vulnerable to organized lobbying. The key issue at stake is whether sacrifice can override constitutional principles such as fairness, competition, and inclusivity in public service. Can the Parliament remain accountable to the wider public—students, parents, and future educators—or will it continue to serve organized interest groups?

Reflections on the purpose of education

Meanwhile, the core idea of education itself is being missed in this debate. The Latin root educare means “to draw out” or “to lead from darkness to light.” In the words of the Upanishads: Asato ma sadgamaya, tamaso ma jyotirgamaya—“From falsehood to truth, from darkness to light.” However, when education becomes limited to securing permanent jobs for insiders, its transformative essence is lost. Education risks becoming a bureaucratic entitlement rather than a fundamental right.

Globally, education has often swung between these two poles: liberation and control. Caroline Veniero’s legal-historical research in the U.S. shows how the Freedmen’s Bureau (1865–1872) helped African Americans acquire literacy after slavery, reinforcing the connection between literacy and citizenship. In stark contrast, the Boarding Schools for Native Americans forcibly assimilated Indigenous children under the slogan “Kill the Indian, save the man.” These examples highlight how education can be used either to empower or to dominate.

Additionally, India’s legal evolution offers further insights. In Unnikrishnan v. State of Andhra Pradesh (1993), the Indian Supreme Court linked Article 45 (Directive Principle) with Article 21 (Right to Life), recognizing education as fundamental to human dignity. This marked a doctrinal shift by merging Directive Principles with enforceable Fundamental Rights. Literacy was seen not just as a skill but as a condition for democratic participation. Yet, as Anil Sadgopal argues, this principle was soon undermined. Sadgopal’s critique of India’s Right to Education Act (2009) reveals how it created a segmented system: elite private schools for the rich, under-resourced public schools for the poor. He described it as a “Fundamental Right to Unequal Education.” His alternative vision was a Common School System based on Neighbourhood Schools, where children from all backgrounds would study together in the same public institutions. Nepal could draw from this model as it reconsiders its own Bill.

Alongside domestic policy debates, international frameworks have shaped education’s trajectory. The Jomtien Declaration (1990) and the Dakar Framework (2000), both endorsed by the World Bank, promoted education reform through “basic” and “life skills,” encouraging public-private partnerships and reducing state responsibility. Education was recast as a service to meet market needs rather than a public good. In India, this led to an emphasis on voucher systems and minimum learning benchmarks, gradually disconnecting education from its democratic and egalitarian roots.

Moreover, these global and regional influences carry serious implications. Historian Badri Raina reminds us how access to education has historically been denied to preserve privilege. The stories of Eklavya, Karna, and Shambuka from epics show how caste and class boundaries were enforced through educational exclusion. Colonial policy continued this pattern. Lord Macaulay’s 1837 Minute on Indian Education proposed to create a class of intermediaries loyal to the colonial state by limiting education to the privileged few.

Raina argues that postcolonial policies like the National Education Policy (1986) also reproduced inequality by assuming poverty as permanent and designing education around that assumption. If Nepal’s School Education Bill moves in the direction of institutionalizing privilege by excluding open competition and undermining local autonomy, it may replicate these unjust patterns.

A call for rights-based and inclusive education reform

Further, this risk becomes even more pronounced when education is evaluated against four international standards of rights-based provision: availability, accessibility, acceptability, and adaptability. A meaningful education system must provide sufficient infrastructure and qualified teachers (availability), ensure non-discriminatory access (accessibility), uphold quality and relevance (acceptability), and remain responsive to diverse learner needs (adaptability). Without addressing all four pillars, any reform risks being incomplete.

The current proposal, as shaped by union demands, fails on all four counts. It limits access for new and future educators, prioritizes job security over learner outcomes, resists decentralization, and risks undermining the constitutional authority of local governments. By shifting decision-making back to central and freezing competitive recruitment, the Bill sets a precedent for political capture over public accountability.

If passed in its current form, the law will likely protect the system but not the students. It will reward seniority over merit, representation over performance, and status quo over innovation and departure. It risks becoming what one might call a “School Staff Bill” rather than a “School Education Bill.”

In this context, the haunting phrase from US history—“Kill the Indian, save the man”—becomes relevant once more. It shows how education, if misused, can erase identities, suppress change, and maintain control. Nepal must choose another path. It must adopt a law that empowers rather than protects, that includes rather than excludes, and that looks ahead rather than backwards.

Nepal’s School Education Bill was introduced to fulfill the constitutional right to free, equitable education. But under political and institutional pressure, it risks becoming an instrument of exclusion rather than inclusion. The demands for 100 percent internal recruitment, the delay in committee meetings, and the withdrawal of agreed provisions all point to a system more concerned with safeguarding employment than delivering justice.

Conclusion

This is the moment for the Parliament to show courage. It must listen to students, parents, and prospective teachers—not only to organized interest groups. The Bill must be reframed to center education as a public good, grounded in constitutional ethics, democratic participation, and equity. Ultimately, the choice is clear: a law that leads Nepal from darkness to light, or one that leaves it circling in the shadows of inequality. Let this Bill become a beacon of justice—not a symbol of another missed opportunity.

Nepal is facing a growing crisis of trust in government. Recent protests by teachers demanding reform in education law and doctors calling for enforcement of prior agreements have disrupted essential services. High-profile resignations—including the Education Minister, state minister and the Vice Chancellor of Tribhuvan University—reflect a political culture marred by interference and disillusionment. Statements by former Governor Vijayanath Bhattarai, who criticized the influence of middlemen in public appointments, underline a widening gap between citizens and institutions.

This disillusionment is not exclusive to Nepal. As Chris Eccles explains in his essay Restoring Trust in Government, public confidence in democratic institutions has declined across many countries over the past several decades. His insights are especially timely for Nepal as it navigates its own democratic transition and seeks to restore public legitimacy.

Eccles begins by highlighting how trust in government has eroded steadily since the 1960s, citing surveys in countries like the United States and New Zealand. This decline cannot be attributed to isolated events or leadership failures. It reflects a deeper, structural shift in how citizens perceive and interact with democratic institutions.

In Nepal, trust remains low despite constitutional reforms and federal restructuring. Political institutions are often viewed as self-serving and unresponsive. Eccles argues that declining trust is not just a result of poor performance but of a changing political culture where citizens demand more than material benefits—they seek fairness, dignity, and voice.

For decades, governments believed that delivering roads, schools, and jobs would be enough to earn public support. Eccles refers to this belief as “performance legitimacy.” However, his research shows that service delivery alone is no longer sufficient to maintain trust. Citizens increasingly judge governments by how decisions are made, who is included, and whether processes are fair.

In Nepal, development initiatives often fail to improve legitimacy when implemented without transparency or local participation. Even when services are delivered, communities may feel excluded or manipulated. Eccles’ insight is clear: trust is not just about output, but about justice and accountability.

Eccles draws on Ronald Inglehart’s theory of social modernization to explain how rising education and global exposure have changed citizen behavior. As societies modernize, people expect governments to respect their rights, engage in dialogue, and share decision-making. They no longer accept top-down rules without explanation or consultation.

Nepal is experiencing this shift. Civic protests, youth-led campaigns, and digital activism reflect a political environment where citizens—especially young people—demand transparency, equality, and ethical conduct. Trust must now be earned through relationships and engagement, not merely promised in speeches.

A defining feature of Eccles’ argument is the idea of a new civic culture. Citizens want more than services—they want institutions to act with honesty, competence, and respect. Trust today is not an automatic result of governance; it is a public value that must be cultivated.

Nepal’s participatory frameworks provide an opportunity to build this culture. Local governments hold public hearings and consultations, but these often fail to influence actual decisions. To restore credibility, these mechanisms must go beyond ritual and become meaningful platforms for collaboration.

Eccles notes that repeated political scandals deepen public cynicism. While the media plays a vital role in uncovering wrongdoing, constant negativity without resolution can damage morale and weaken democratic engagement. In Nepal, headlines about corruption, impunity, and political manipulation are common, yet few are followed by accountability.

Citizens begin to believe that change is impossible. Eccles calls for a shift in narrative—one that includes not only critique but also examples of reform, ethical leadership, and citizen participation that rebuild hope and confidence.

Eccles presents several reforms introduced in New South Wales, including a Public Service Commission, a Customer Service Commissioner, and Infrastructure NSW. These bodies aimed to strengthen professionalism, prioritize public needs, and insulate planning from political interference.

Nepal can adopt similar reforms. Independent commissions, long-term planning authorities, and citizen feedback mechanisms can improve integrity and transparency. These changes must be supported by a public service culture that values competence and service over patronage.

To guide institutional behavior, Eccles introduces the ITARI framework: Integrity, Transparency, Accountability, Responsiveness, and Inclusiveness. Each principle addresses a key dimension of democratic trust.

Nepal’s constitution and laws already reference these values, but implementation is inconsistent. Merit is often compromised by political interests. Public data is not always accessible. Marginalized communities are still underrepresented in key decisions. Restoring trust means turning these values from ideals into lived practice at every level of governance.

Eccles outlines an “engagement continuum” with five levels: networking, coordination, cooperation, collaboration, and partnering. Many governments promise partnership but deliver only limited consultation. This gap between promise and practice damages trust.

Nepal’s experience reflects this challenge. Community members may be invited to meetings, but decisions often remain top-down. True engagement requires that citizens help define problems, shape solutions, and share responsibility for implementation. Community forestry and school management models offer practical examples of deeper participation already at work in Nepal.

Eccles critiques overly strict administrative rules—called probity frameworks—that were meant to prevent corruption but often block innovation. In many systems, civil servants become afraid to take initiative, slowing progress and avoiding responsibility.

This is a serious issue in Nepal. Delays and inaction are often driven by fear of audits or political retribution. Eccles proposes a fit-for-purpose approach, where rules are tailored to the size and risk of each project. Such flexibility can encourage problem-solving while maintaining integrity.

A vital solution offered by Eccles is co-production. This means that the government does not act alone but works with citizens to design and deliver public services. Trust grows when people see themselves as contributors, not just recipients.

Nepal has strong traditions of cooperative action, from community-managed forests to disaster response. These approaches show that when citizens are trusted, they help solve complex problems. Expanding co-production can make governance more inclusive and more effective.

Eccles ends his essay with a powerful revision of a common phrase: instead of saying, “I’m from the government and I’m here to help,” public servants should say, “I’m from the government and I need—and want—your help.” This simple change reflects a deeper transformation—one that centers humility, partnership, and mutual respect.

In Nepal, this message is more urgent than ever. Trust cannot be rebuilt with slogans or plans alone. It requires institutional courage, ethical leadership, and daily practices that honor the voice and dignity of every citizen.