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The number of self-proclaimed geopolitical observers in Nepal—those who claim to detect American maneuvering behind every major development—has been steadily growing. Not long ago, they pointed to an alleged US hand behind the GenZ movement; now, as election approaches, they are putting supposed American backing under a media trial fueled by conspiracy theories.

But did the United States really micro-manage Nepal’s GenZ movement? And is that even a priority for Washington at present?

A closer examination of the position taken by Washington at the time, along with the silence it maintained in Kathmandu, suggests otherwise. However, the three key issues raised by the GenZ movement—unrestricted access to and use of social media, good governance, and the elimination of corruption—are long-standing priorities of the United States. In that sense, the overlap may simply be coincidental.

Convergence of issues may imply goodwill, but there is no evidence to suggest that the United States actively intervened on the ground. That said, a notable number of youths who had participated in the US Embassy’s American Youth Council in Kathmandu were seen at the forefront of the movement. If one chooses not to view this as coincidence, it does leave room for suspicion.

As speculation intensified, the United States eventually commented on the GenZ movement, stating that “Nepal’s youth movement is an example of how old governments can be replaced to create opportunities for democratic participation.”

That, essentially, was the extent of Washington’s official position. Yet even this statement has been interpreted in multiple ways, often shaped by individual interests. It would not be entirely incorrect to say that the United States appeared supportive of youth-oriented initiatives—but equating that directly with support for the GenZ movement would be an overstatement.

Similarly, the United States has said little about Nepal’s upcoming election. Its official stance has been limited to a standard formulation: “In Nepal’s case, we believe they will adopt a credible and peaceful electoral process. We are ready to work with whichever side wins.”

However, it would be unrealistic to assume that Washington has no preferences at all in Nepal. Its most fundamental and default interest remains ensuring that no government in Nepal tilts toward China. Beyond that, it seeks a post-election government with which it can work comfortably.

This raises a crucial question: which party—and which prime ministerial candidate—fits that description?

At present, three major political forces dominate Nepal’s electoral landscape: the Nepali Congress, the CPN-UML, and the Rastriya Swatantra Party. It is widely expected that the next government will emerge from within these three. All have already announced their prime ministerial candidates: Gagan Thapa for Congress, KP Sharma Oli for UML, and Balen Shah for RSP.

Formally declaring prime ministerial candidates before election is neither an established norm nor a standard practice in parliamentary systems. However, Nepal’s hybrid political system has seen such practices before—and this time, it has arguably taken on the character of a trend.

Even so, such declarations only hold if the candidates win parliamentary seats and go on to lead their respective parliamentary parties. This remains uncertain for all three candidates.

Both Oli and Balen are contesting from Jhapa-5, meaning one of them is bound to lose. That alone eliminates one prime ministerial prospect. At the same time, victory is not guaranteed for Gagan Thapa in Sarlahi-4 either.

The likelihood of any single party securing a majority appears slim. It is equally difficult to predict whether Congress or RSP will emerge as the largest party, though UML appears to be slipping into third place. Under Gagan Thapa’s leadership, Congress is not only competing for first place but also increasingly positioning itself to surpass RSP.

Even in this scenario, Oli remains a strong contender in Jhapa-5. If he wins while candidates from potentially larger parties lose, it could create an unusual situation: a prime ministerial candidate from a third-place party entering Parliament while those from leading parties fail. That would also raise further questions about RSP’s leadership, particularly as party chair Rabi Lamichhane—even if elected—faces legal challenges that may prevent him from taking the parliamentary oath, let alone becoming prime minister.

In such a fluid and uncertain political context, what might the United States prefer?

At present, Washington appears to be in a “wait and watch” mode. This does not mean it lacks preferences. Naturally, it would prefer a particular party to win and a certain leader to become prime minister. Its primary consideration remains that the winning side should not be aligned with China—something that is neither hidden nor surprising.

So, who might be in America’s “good books”?

First, consider UML and Oli. UML today is largely synonymous with Oli, who is firmly rooted in leftist politics. Even if relations are not always smooth, his ideological inclination is widely seen as closer to China—America’s principal global competitor. From this perspective, it is natural that UML and Oli would not rank highly in Washington’s preferences.

Moreover, Oli has often framed the GenZ movement not as a domestic political development but as part of a foreign conspiracy, implicitly pointing fingers at the United States. Such rhetoric further diminishes his standing in Washington’s eyes.

Turning to RSP and Balen Shah, the situation is equally complex. The party has yet to evolve into a fully institutionalized political force and remains closely tied to the persona of Rabi Lamichhane. With Lamichhane facing multiple legal cases, including allegations of financial misconduct, his political credibility has come under strain.

Balen Shah, presented as the party’s prime ministerial candidate, appears more as a strategic choice than a deeply rooted political leader. Though popular, he remains politically inexperienced, having emerged from a background in music and local governance. Comparisons with Ukraine’s Volodymyr Zelenskyy are sometimes drawn, though such parallels may not be reassuring from Washington’s standpoint.

Given these factors, it is difficult to see either Lamichhane or Balen fitting comfortably within Washington’s strategic preferences—particularly for a country that emphasizes governance, institutional credibility, and anti-corruption.

This leaves the Nepali Congress and Gagan Thapa. Under Thapa’s leadership, Congress has sought to reposition itself within its traditional democratic space, moving away from the left-leaning alignments associated with former party president Sher Bahadur Deuba. For Washington, this likely signals the return of a familiar and historically cooperative partner.

Thapa also represents a blend of youth and experience. His academic exposure at Harvard University, though brief, has contributed to his international profile. From an American strategic perspective, neither Congress nor Thapa is likely to fall into China’s sphere of influence—something that provides reassurance for US policy toward Nepal.

Another key factor is India. In shaping its Nepal policy, the United States must also take into account New Delhi’s interests, particularly given the broader geopolitical balance with China. The notion that Washington views Nepal through a Delhi lens stems from this reality.

At present, neither Oli nor Balen appears to be in India’s good books. Balen’s past remarks on Hindi films and his invocation of “Greater Nepal” rhetoric have not been well received in New Delhi. Oli, meanwhile, has previously strained relations with India through statements on Ayodhya and by endorsing controversial territorial claims. He remains a leading figure of nationalist, India-critical politics in Nepal.

With both Oli and Balen falling outside India’s preference, Washington’s decision becomes relatively straightforward. In such circumstances, it is reasonable to infer that the Nepali Congress—and Gagan Thapa in particular—may well be in the “good books” of the United States as Nepal heads toward a highly uncertain electoral contest.

The author is a former journalist based in Washington, DC

The sun is just coming up in a green village in Parsa. Outside the small cooperative warehouse, farmers have already formed a long line and kept their sack since night. Some are holding old plastic sacks, others folded slips of paper that have been used too many times. No one knows if the fertilizer truck will arrive today. Still, they wait. Some walked for hours from outlying hamlets. By midday the stock’s gone again, leaving most to head home with nothing but frustration and another promise for ‘tomorrow’. It’s the same story over several years, and it hits harder than any drought.

On that same morning, an old bus heads toward Kathmandu. Young people fill the seats, looking out of the windows, quiet. They are going for coaching classes, for English lessons, or to talk to agents about work outside the country. Months later, many of them leave by plane. The fields in the village remain. The hands that worked them do not.

This is how daily life looks in much of rural Nepal. People line up for the basics. Others pack bags and leave, hoping for something better. Watching it is tiring, living through it worse.

Once again, elections are around the corner with politicians arriving in every village with their loud promises. They talk about roads, culverts, footbridges, gates, sometimes even statues in the chowk. These promises are easy to show and easy to photograph. But things that matter in the long run—science labs, agricultural research, better ways of farming—are rarely part of the conversation because these are not easy to show by cutting a ribbon within a month. Research and innovation take time.

Where are the pledges for serious money into R&D? For at least building local innovation centers or research centers at the province or district level, linking universities with actual farmer communities or small industries, bringing in better seeds or techniques that don’t depend on waiting for the next subsidy truck? Politicians talk about development like it’s all about pouring cement, as if a new highway, freebies alone will keep our kids from packing up and leaving.

Fixing potholes and handling local works is the role of ward offices and local governments. An MP’s role is at the national level: shaping laws, framing long-term policies, setting budget priorities, and deciding which sectors need investment for national development. This is where real direction is set, not in day-to-day local problem solving. Election discussions in Nepal rarely move beyond small, visible wins—contracts, local projects, things that photograph well on posters. Meanwhile, the underlying problems stay where they are. Farmers still struggle to get fertilizer, students struggle to get placed even after university degree because research, planning, and supply systems are nowhere in the priorities of any of the political parties.

Young people keep leaving. According to our national data and figures over the past few years, more than 2.5m of our people have gone abroad for work or study, and nearly 900,000 left in just the last year. Student migration has followed the same pattern. Last year alone, over 112,000 students received no-objection certificates to study overseas, almost twice the number before covid. These are not abstract figures. They show a steady loss of people who might otherwise have built their lives here.

Universities play a role in this. Most continue to focus on theory, with limited emphasis on applied research or problem-solving that could create jobs locally. In 2019-20, when countries around the world were under lockdown, universities elsewhere redirected their laboratories and research capacity toward vaccines, treatment, and public health solutions. In Nepal, political attention during that period was on something else—donations, commissions, and short-term gains. It was the time that should have pushed their mentality towards investment in science and research, but even after that public money continued to flow mainly into roads, buildings, and temples, after the end of that deadly time no one again thought about what if this happens again, who are we going to depend upon? Not only that but if the world itself fights the battle who will really be ready to invest their research and innovation into us if that is not for trial and testing?

Science and research don’t give quick photo-ops. A bridge goes up fast and gets a plaque with the politician’s name. A good R&D program might take 8-10 years to show real results—no one gets credit for the slow build. That's why manifestos chase the fast and flashy instead of the patient work that actually builds a future.

It’s time to look around the world. Countries that pour money into research pull ahead. South Korea went from dirt-poor after the war to a tech giant by pushing R&D spending to nearly five percent of GDP. Israel tops the charts at over six percent, turning itself into a startup hub that actually pulls talent back in. China didn’t grow overnight; it has ramped up massively and lifted hundreds of millions out of poverty while building its own research powerhouses from physics to material science and what not. Even now, places like the UK are talking about hitting three percent for R&D, focusing on AI and green tech.

What about Nepal? Our politicians look in a different mood from decades ago. Our government official data show R&D at around 0.3 percent of GDP back in 2010, and recent reports (including from ministers) suggest it's dropped even lower—maybe under 0.1 percent in places. Our research institutes have more administrative expenditures than the research budget. That’s why we are below the global average of about 2.6 percent. We stay stuck importing seeds, tools, medicines, expertise—always buyers, never sellers. Reports from the Ministry of Education science and Technology indicate that the National Academy of Science and Technology (NAST) spends the vast majority of its budget on ‘mandatory obligations’ like salaries and administration (recurrent expenditure), leaving very little for actual research. In FY 2021-22, for instance, the recurrent expenditure rate was 95 percent, while capital expenditure (needed for research infrastructure) lagged significantly. At Nepal Agricultural Research Council (NARC), the operational budget available for actual research projects is a small fraction of the total allocation, with one analysis showing ‘real investment’ in specific research components as low as 3.5 percent of the total budget.

Our best minds go abroad for better labs, better pay, better chances. They don’t come back not because they hate Nepal, but because there’s no place here to use what they’ve learned. We call it brain drain, but it’s really a failure to create the soil where talent can grow.

Imagine election promises that actually say: “We’ll aim for 1–2 percent of GDP in R&D within a decade. We promise to set up regional innovation hubs focused on agriculture, chemistry, AI, biotech, renewables. We'll pass laws to immediately link universities to startups and farms, fund real research (obviously with less administrative budget and more research budget like now) instead of just buildings." Labs could matter as much as roads—better seeds that cut fertilizer needs, new techniques that make farming pay enough to keep families on the land, skilled jobs that make staying home feel like progress. Infrastructure still matters—roads get goods to market. But without the ideas and innovation to go with them, those roads just speed up the exodus.

Nepal’s dependence on imported seeds, medicines, technologies, and expertise did not happen overnight. It is the result of years of political choices that treated self-reliance as optional. What should worry policymakers as a strategic weakness is often handled as a convenient arrangement—import today, postpone reform tomorrow. The problem is that this mindset keeps the country permanently unprepared. Every global disruption exposes how fragile this dependence really is, yet the lesson is rarely taken seriously.

At the same time, our politics still measures development by what can be seen and inaugurated. Roads, buildings, gates, statues—these are easy to explain to voters and easy to photograph. Science does not fit into this style of politics. Laboratories take years to mature. Research outcomes are uncertain. Patents and pilot projects do not offer instant visibility. So they are pushed aside, even though they shape long-term economic strength far more than another stretch of concrete. Migration adds another layer of denial. Political discussions continue to frame it as a success story of remittance inflows rather than as a warning sign that the system is failing its own people. When the exit of skilled youth is normalized, there is little pressure to build research environments that give them reasons to stay. Science funding then becomes a “nice-to-have,” not a necessity.

As new political faces seek public trust in this election, this silence matters. Real change will not come from new slogans or younger candidates repeating the same priorities. The real question is whether anyone is willing to shift the agenda—to treat science and research as matters of economic survival, strategic security, and political responsibility. Without that shift, Nepal may get new leaders, but it will remain stuck with the same future.

We voters share the blame too. We cheer for the quick fixes, the inaugurations, the handouts. Politicians know the game well and they give us what we reward. If we keep settling for short-term bandaids and freebees, we’ll keep getting them.

As a GenZ in science, I think it’s time to ask for more. Demand manifests that don’t only talk about happiness, freebees but talk about science labs, innovations as urgently as they talk about highways. Real progress isn't just concrete—it's breakthroughs, knowledge, people building things here instead of wiring money from thousands of miles away.

In that Parsa village tomorrow, the queue will form again, another young person will pack a bag. Whether that changes depends on what we insist our leaders promise—and what we hold them to after the votes are counted.

Nepal’s future isn’t in more statues. It’s in the ideas we dare to invest in. Let’s start demanding the kind of vision that keeps our kids home, working in labs and fields that actually thrive.

Every year on Women’s Day, we celebrate strength. We celebrate resilience. We celebrate how far women have come. And yet, I often find myself reflecting on what these celebrations might overlook: whose rights are acknowledged, and whose freedoms remain conditional?

I have seen what it looks like when a woman slowly disappears. Not physically, but piece by piece, in the name of keeping peace, staying agreeable, remaining acceptable. I have seen how easily a confident woman is reduced, her success scrutinized, her choices dissected, her story retold in ways that make others comfortable.

I first noticed this when I was 13 or 14. I had been invited to judge a children’s competition, having won a similar one before. I do not remember the details of the discussion that day, but one moment stands out vividly. A female doctor on the panel made a thoughtful point. A male judge immediately disagreed. Even at that age, I could see that her argument was valid. But she did not respond. She shut down.

What stayed with me was not the disagreement. It was the silence that followed. It felt unsettling, almost disorienting. Why did she not insist? Why did she not clarify? She was accomplished, experienced, far more qualified than I was. And yet I felt something collapse in the room. Almost instinctively, I spoke up to defend her view while she remained quiet.

That moment lingered long after the event ended. It left behind a quiet discomfort I could not name at the time. The realization that being right is not always enough. That sometimes the cost of speaking feels heavier than the cost of stepping back.

Over time, I began to understand what I had witnessed. The pressure was not loud. No one silenced her directly. But subtler forces were at work,  expectations about tone, likeability, deference. Societal conditions can quietly squeeze out a woman’s voice, even when she is right. The freedom to speak is rarely unconditional; it is often measured against how one will be perceived.

It is this question, not of strength but of permission, that has stayed with me. The issue is not whether women are strong. Women have always been strong. The deeper question is whether they can be ambitious without being labeled difficult, assertive without being disliked, emotional without being diminished, successful without being reduced.

I do not claim to speak for all women. My life has been shaped by education, opportunity, and a family that gave me confidence. Many women navigate realities far harsher than mine. But even within privilege, the quiet enforcement of roles is visible.

Women learn to preface opinions with apologies. They soften their language to avoid appearing harsh. They measure their tone before expressing disagreement. Men, in turn, learn to swallow emotion, to equate vulnerability with weakness, to maintain composure at all costs. Both, in different ways, learn to edit themselves. Children absorb these patterns long before they understand policy or ideology. They notice when confident women are labeled “disagreeable” or “difficult to work with.” They notice when boys are told to “man up” instead of “talk about it.” These small corrections accumulate. They become internal rules.

The leadership-likeability dilemma is one expression of this. A decisive man is respected. A decisive woman is often disliked and dismissed. A man who prioritizes work is ambitious. A woman who does the same is expected to justify herself,  especially if she is also a mother. The standard is not neutrality; it is negotiation.

The societal norms that stifle women’s voices do not exist in isolation; they shape men’s lives too.  When a father chooses to be the primary caregiver to raise children and manage a household,  his decision is still met with surprise and skepticism. His choices are questioned. His masculinity is subtly measured. In that quiet measurement lies a mirror of the pressures women face in professional and social spaces: the freedoms we claim for one are often conditional, and the rules quietly constrain both.

This is not simply about women or men. It is about the narrow definitions we assign to both. The boundaries imposed on one inevitably affect the other, and the small, uneven victories we celebrate are often short-lived when they depend on limiting someone else. True equality requires questioning these scripts, not shifting them from one side of the scale to the other.

Equality is not about making women stronger than men. It is about making both free. Free from inherited scripts, free from conditional respect, free from shrinking or hardening simply to survive. Only when we see that women’s rights are human rights,  inseparable from men’s, will change be lasting. Only when both are allowed to live fully, without judgment, expectation, or compromise, will these freedoms endure. Too often, women give parts of themselves away to preserve peace until they barely recognize who they are. Too often, men carry emotional burdens in silence to preserve pride. In different ways, both are constrained.

Dignity is not measured by how loudly we prove ourselves. It is measured by whether we are allowed to exist without constant proof. Perhaps that is what Women’s Day should remind us of. Not that women are extraordinary, but that being fully human should not be extraordinary at all.

When roles loosen, equality deepens. And when daughters and sons grow up unafraid to inhabit their whole selves, without explanation, reduction, or apology,  we may finally stop arguing about whose rights matter more, and begin recognizing that dignity was never meant to be divided.

Nepal’s political landscape is dominated by long-standing parties: the Nepali Congress (NC), the CPN (Unified Marxist–Leninist), and the Nepali Community Party (NCP) with many names and faces remaining the same. Despite the emergence of reformist challengers like the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP), the nation’s most persistent developmental hurdle, the management of hydropower and water resources remains unresolved. While investments in this sector have exceeded Rs 7trn, hydropower has yet to catalyze the transformative economic prosperity once envisioned. Today, the electorate is increasingly scrutinizing the systemic failures of traditional parties, the rising appeal of the RSP, and the broader implications for governance, transparency, and the future of Nepali democracy.

The paradox of ‘white gold’

Hydropower is frequently hailed as Nepal’s ‘white gold’. With its network of high-altitude rivers and steep gradients, the country possesses the natural capacity to generate tens of thousands of megawatts of electricity. If properly harnessed, these resources could power domestic industrialization, eliminate import dependency, and stimulate a diverse energy-based economy rather than merely generating revenue through cross-border trade. Furthermore, integrated water resource management encompassing irrigation, potable water, flood control, mitigating risks of glacier lakes’ outburst, public health, environment and tourism could fundamentally restructure the national economy.

However, despite decades of political rhetoric, the sector remains significantly underdeveloped. Managing the technical, regulatory, and administrative complexities of hydropower is a monumental task. As hydropower shares are now traded on the public market, the need for scientifically grounded, independent regulation has become critical. Without robust oversight, public and private investments risk being squandered. To date, over the Rs 7trn invested has yielded disappointing results, characterized by: infrastructure gaps, chronic delays and weak transmission grids; operational inefficiency: plants operating well below capacity and underutilization of domestic end-use remains minimal relative to the potential. This disconnect between massive capital expenditure and tangible outcomes has fueled a deep-seated public skepticism. Citizens are left asking a fundamental question: if such vast sums have been spent, why has prosperity remained out of reach?

Systemic failures of governance

For over three decades, the NC, UML, and NCP (Maoist) merged with UML factions have governed Nepal, often through musical chair coalitions. While leaders of these parties promised structural transformation, practical progress has been stifled by corruption, a lack of transparency, and the politicization of state institutions. Singhadurbar, the seat of the government, has become a symbol of bureaucratic apathy and political patronage. 

The electorate has grown weary of a cycle of broken and false promises regarding ‘load-shedding’ (power outages), irrigation expansion, infrastructures and export growth. Governance concerns are paramount; public procurement in the energy sector is frequently manipulated by political elites, leading to inflated costs and substandard infrastructure. Because regulatory bodies often lack the independence to provide true oversight, public trust in the state’s capacity to manage large-scale projects and public economy has eroded.

Rising appeal of the RSP

In response to this stagnation, the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP) has emerged as a disruptive political force. Unlike traditional entities, the RSP positions itself as a technocratic and reformist movement, emphasizing: depoliticization: removing party influence from civil and regulatory institutions; digital governance by increasing accountability through technology and economic geography by leveraging regional advantages for growth like Karnali. 

This platform resonates strongly with younger voters and the vast community of Nepali migrant workers abroad. These laborers, who left the country due to a lack of domestic employment opportunity, are increasingly urging their families and keen at home to reject the status quo. Their logic is pragmatic: since traditional parties have failed repeatedly, the nation must test a new alternative.

Voter sentiments

The prevailing public mood is one of palpable frustration. Voters are questioning the moral authority of legacy parties to seek re-election after decades of unmet goals with the same faces but changing color like lizards. This anger extends beyond hydropower to a general failure in delivering public goods, services, and accountability. The upcoming elections will serve as a referendum on governance. The stakes are historically high: if the RSP can translate its reformist rhetoric into measurable action, it could redefine Nepal’s political trajectory. 

However, caution is necessary. New parties often encounter the same structural constraints such as rooted patronage networks that hampered their predecessors. Realizing Nepal’s hydropower potential requires more than just a change in leadership; it requires technical expertise, financial discipline, and a total overhaul of the regulatory framework.

Conclusion

The hydropower sector is a microcosm of Nepal’s broader struggle: immense natural potential hamstrung by chronic governance failures. While trillions have been spent, true prosperity remains elusive due to corruption and a lack of strategic vision. As traditional parties struggle to justify their track records, the RSP offers a glimmer of hope for an electorate desperate for transparency. Ultimately, Nepal’s future depends on whether its leaders can move beyond political maneuvering to implement the transparent, productive policies necessary to turn its water resources into national wealth.

The author is a hydropower engineer and multiple gold medalist with an MSc in Hydropower Engineering from the AIT, Thailand. Laxman Neupane, PhD is the former chairman of the Nepal Stock Exchange (NEPSE). The opinions expressed here are strictly personal and do not represent any political party, institution, or organization