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 ‘Singha Durbar Gaugauma’ was a widely used political slogan during the debates on state restructuring and elections cam­paigns. What this implied was that as the country had adopted a federal system of governance, the political power vested in the center would be devolved to local bodies so that the state-administered services would be easily accessible to people from far-flung places. Based on what I observed in and around the Singha Durbar during a recent fieldwork for my doctoral research, if what the politicians’ pledge—Singha Durbar Gaugauma—means simply reproduc­ing the microcosms of the Singha Durbar, this is absolutely not what Nepali people aspire for. Let me begin with a few represen­tative vignettes from my observation around the Singha Durbar premises.

l When a Secretary refused to see him, a middle-aged man said: “Singha Durbar is no different to America… Italy for us, sir.”

l Another young man, holding some loose folios in his hands, was venting his ire when the other person on the phone presumably denied him a “pass”: “I just need to drop off my documents, sir … it’s urgent. I’m right at the gate…”

l A couple of baffled looking young men who were seeking informa­tion about employment oppor­tunities abroad, walked up to me and asked: “Do they let you in with a citizenship certificate?” When I said that they would require you to produce a “pass”, they whis­pered something in each other’s ears and walked away in silence.

The Singha Durbar houses 24 important state apparatuses, includ­ing all major ministries. However, if people do not personally know some officials or party-workers to help them obtain a ‘pass,’ they cannot access those state machineries. But if the general people are restricted entry, who are those thronging the chambers of Secretaries, Ministers and other high-ranking bureaucrats?

My observation revealed that they are interest groups, party affiliates, or dalals with some sort of nexus with people in power and politics. Obviously, the valuable time and energy of the state officials could have been put to better use.

What I found more shocking was the country’s bureaucracy. I had an appointment with a Secretary for 1 pm, but unsolicited visitors meant that I had to wait for above an hour. What is more, when I entered, the Secretary’s eyes were glued to the table in front, and he did not even bother to heed my presence. Deem­ing that to keep standing would be a disrespect to my dignitary, I decided to sit on the empty sofa nearby. As I was about to take my seat, one of the three other officials (perhaps sub­ordinates to the Secretary) rather offensively told me to avoid that sofa as if sitting there would violate its sanctity.

Insignificant though such encoun­ters may sound, they tell us about the state’s effects on the everyday lives of people. More importantly, they provide a window into larger processes of governance and power, and also reveal the fundamental character of our State and its bureau­cracy. The state is indeed a set of practices enacted through relation­ships between people, places, and institutions and not a unitary object. Everyday encounters such as the ones presented above raise some fundamental questions: Despite a restructured political system, what explains the perpetuation of the status quo? In the (good) governance discourse, why do ordinary people’s everyday lived experiences not get sufficiently voiced?

Good governance should be at the center of not only development pro­cess but also of the entire statecraft. However, often, such everyday lived experiences are largely seen as insig­nificant, or we (both social critics and citizens) simply take them for granted. The dusty, broken streets of Kathmandu get painted and embel­lished overnight for the BIMSTEC but are forsaken the next day; we simply take this for granted. There is no water in our taps; again we take it for granted. The psyche is so accus­tomed to the everyday aberrations that we consider them integral parts of our life, and any anomalies of the state hardly ever provoke us.

To stay silent would mean abetting the state in the production of what Michel Foucault calls ‘governmen­tality’ that rules through the willing participation of ‘government-able’ subjects. Let’s shun status quo; let’s question, critique, and even thwart those seeming normalcies that make us ‘subjects’ and not ‘citizens.’ As for the Singha Durbar, the first step should be to ban the frequenters from it. No more impenetrable, sta­tus quoist Singha Durbars.

While it’s common for us to hear that we need to learn from China’s devel­opment, no body offers an insight on how the Chinese growth came about. Some view it as a result of a strong authoritarian government, but they don’t tell us why a bil­lion-plus people willingly accept a different form of government to most of the world’s. Then there are those who believe Chinese development resulted from effec­tive use of FDI, and because of the capacity of its past and present leaders. This too doesn’t explain the development because parts of China are still poor and corrupt leaders are arrested every year. Others believe it has to do with Confucianism and the Chinese desire for “order.” So what makes Chinese peo­ple accept the system? What has led to China’s development? Why have there been no popular protests against the government since Tiananmen 1989? These questions are vital in understand­ing China’s growth.

The answer to all these ques­tions is nationalism. Not the defensive nationalism that pits one people against the other but a constructive sort that only wants good for one’s country. ‘National humiliation’, ‘national pride’ and ‘national power’ are the three concepts that bind the people and the government and that’s what leads to China’s development. It has nothing to do with commu­nism and Confucianism.

National shame

All of China’s rebellions and revolutions of the 19th and 20th centuries were motivated by the sole intent of avenging the nation­al humiliation suffered in the tur­bulent 19th century, beginning with its defeat by the British-led coalition in the Opium War in 1840. From the Chinese perspec­tive, hierarchy had been turned upside down and it was their duty to restore the “natural” order. No wonder that every time China lost a war, there was a rebellion/revolution aimed at restoring the order or China’s dignity.

First in the series was the mes­sianic Taiping Rebellion led by Hong Xiuquan. Hong believed that he was the son of God and younger brother of Jesus sent to the earth to establish the king­dom of heavenly peace. His call to the Christian monarchs includ­ing queen Victoria of England to submit to his authority at a time the Europeans thought of China as the ‘sick man of Asia’ was one reason why the Christian Europe­ans allied with the Qing to defeat the rebellion in 1860s.

China’s defeat in the Jiawu War with Japan in 1895 and Euro­pean powers’ continuing dis­respect of Chinese sovereignty resulted in another nationalist rebellion, the Yihetuan Rebel­lion (or the Boxer Rebellion in English). The Boxers believed their practice of martial arts gave them supernatural powers and they were invincible. If the Taiping wanted to oust the Qing dynasty for failing to protect Chi­na’s interests, the Boxers wanted to kick out foreigners for bullying China. Well, they too were defeat­ed by the foreigners.

Then came the first modern revolution against the dynasty that had disastrously failed to pre­serve the honor of the Chinese race. The Xinhai Revolution or the republican revolution led by Sun Yat-sen in 1911 succeeded in overthrowing the Qing dynasty. But it too failed in restoring order and in containing foreigners and avenging their undermining of Chinese sovereignty.

The failure of the republican revolution led to the commu­nist revolution in 1949, again to restore the hierarchy that had been violated since 1840. Establishing an egalitarian society was the secondary aim of the com­munist revolution. Just as the previous generation of rev­olutionaries had done, the communist party propaganda machinery stressed, even after the 1949 revolution, that in Shang­hai’s Huangpu park there was a sign that read “No dogs and Chinese allowed” to motivate the young Chinese to join the revolu­tion (according to historians there were no such sign).

Even when Chairman Mao was able to tell the foreigners to pack their bags and leave China and reenter only when they accept­ed China’s terms, this was not enough to avenge the humiliation. How exactly China would gain its rightful place and respect was still a dilemma.

Angry isolation from the world or friendly engagement with it without sacrificing the goal of making the world take China seriously was a question that Chairman Mao dealt with right up to his deathbed. During his reign, China was dealing with foreigners on its own terms and some degree of national pride was restored, but it was still poor. Moreover, the Cultural Revolution of the 1960s had turned it into an even bigger mess.

The Chinese leaders includ­ing Chairman Mao realized that there was no pride in poverty. A radically new approach had to be explored. A plan was made in the early 1970s but it would take some time before a strong leader emerged to improvise it and avenge the humiliation and restore China’s rightful place in the world

 Provincial governments are running out of patience as the center delays promulgat­ing necessary laws to operation­alize the devolution of power. But none have been as vocal as the government of Province 2, large­ly because six of the seven chief ministers belong to the same par­ty. For that reason, securing the provincial autonomy as enshrined in the constitution now largely depends on the activism of lead­ers of the Madhes province. Last week the co-chair of the ruling Nepal Communist Party (NCP) Pushpa Kamal Dahal ‘Pra­chanda’ warned Province 2 Chief Minister Lal Babu Raut against trying to ‘overtake’ the center, suggesting that federalism would fail if the provinces tried to pre­empt the federal government. This response came after the pro­vincial government introduced legislation in the assembly to cre­ate its own police force.

For months chief ministers of all provinces have urged the cen­ter to expedite legislation in the federal parliament that clearly gives power to maintain a police force, hire civil servants and con­trol their finances. Yet the center has done very little to ease the inconveniences these subnational governments face in the absence of these laws. Currently the pro­vincial governments are in name only and they have very little authority on the ground to effect any change.

Prachanda should have nudged his co-chair and the prime minis­ter instead of issuing these omi­nous threats. Yes, the center lays the ground for the operational­ization of the federal structure. But nothing in the constitution prevents the provinces from legislating necessary laws so long as long as they do not contra­dict the provisions in the constitu­tion. So the fear that the Province 2 and its leaders are somehow trying to secede is nothing but paranoia, further compounded by the ignorance of constitutional provisions that the leaders them­selves signed on.

Some early conflict between the center and province is necessary to jumpstart forward momentum in the devolution of power. This is a conflict between those try­ing to find ways to preserve the status quo and those pushing for restructuring. Kathmandu’s polit­ical elite and their counterparts in the civil service aren’t quite ready to let go off the unitary system. Without the specter of some sort of constitutional crisis, the center seems unwilling to do its part.

In this case, the threat of pre­emptive action clearly worked: the Prime Minister’s Office (PMO) reached out to the Province 2 leaders, urging them to hold off certification of the legislation—promising swift action through an executive order on formation of provincial police force. The PMO is also said to have assured provin­cial leaders of required numbers of staff in next few weeks.

In an ideal world more provinc­es should take similar proactive actions on securing the autonomy the constitution has given them in governing their own affairs. But given the complete hold of NCP in six provinces and the reluctance of other chief minis­ters to challenge their party lead­ers at the center, that is unlike­ly. Chief Minister of Gandaki Province Prithivi Subba Gurung has already faced the ire of his party chief for having the nerve to organize a conclave of chief min­isters in September. The meeting that issued a nine-point decla­ration was perceived by prime minister as ‘ganging-up’ of the provincial leaders against him. Apparently, Gurung, who is con­sidered close to Oli, was threat­ened with a sacking, and other five chief ministers got the mes­sage loud and clear.

Against this backdrop, one would only hope that Province 2 leaders would be more proac­tive and rebellious in pushing our reluctant federalists to do their duty. And we in the media have a duty too. Instead of simply lapping up the narrative from Kathmandu, we need to do more to present a nuanced picture of this jurisdictional conflict.

 It isn’t November yet, the time of the year when the Oscar season begins, and we already get to see big Hollywood studios and small independent production houses champion their films to make the cut for the Academy Awards or the Oscars, as they are popularly called. In case of international films vying for a spot for ‘Best Foreign Language Film’ category, the Oscar fever has already taken a strong hold. Most countries submitted their films in the last week of September to meet the October 1 deadline. Nepal’s submission this year is ‘Panchayat’, a coming-of-age film on menstrual taboo set in a rural village during the Panchayat period. The movie is directed by Shivam Adhikari and features veteran Nepali actor Saroj Khanal and Neeta Dhun­gana. Its chances of getting noticed and making it to the final shortlist look not only dim but pitch black.

The film released in March this year to lukewarm critical response and negligible commercial collec­tion. It had disappeared without a trace until it was announced as Nepal’s official entry to the Oscars. Surprisingly, Panchayat was one of only three films that actually applied to the Nepali selection committee. The other two were Samten Bhutia’s Maoist-insurgency based ‘Tandro’ and Japanese filmmaker Toshiaki Itoh’s ‘My Love: Promise for Kath­mandu’ that dealt with the 2015 Nepal Earthquake.

Just like Panchayat, the two films had no commercial or critical track record to be proud of. In the absence of real competition, the selection committee has the right not to submit a film for the year, but our committee nonetheless chose to hand a token victory to one film out of a tiny pool of mediocre films.

This is rather disappointing because the last two films to rep­resent Nepal—Min Bahadur Bham’s ‘Kalo Pothi’ (2016) and Deepak Rau­niyar’s ‘White Sun’ (2017)—at least had a visible presence at some of the world’s high-tier film festivals and enjoyed good coverage not only in national dailies but in international press as well. Both Bham and Rau­niyar had received various inter­national film funds to make their films and collaborated with foreign producers who hustled to help the directors get festival attention and crack international distribution deals. That still wasn’t enough.

Even when our films are in a slightly better position to compete, the Academy’s tricky and controver­sial selection process makes sure it trips us short of the final shortlist. At present the Academy picks its final nominations for Best Foreign Language Film through a two-phase filtration process.

In the first phase, all the eligi­ble submissions are viewed by the category specific award general committee members who cast a secret ballot. The top six choices are determined from these votes, while the executive committee of Foreign Language Film Award has been bestowed a special power to select three additional films, thus putting out a final shortlist of nine. In the second phase, the award com­mittee members view the films from the shortlist and votes are taken to determine the final five nominees for the category.

The general members of the Foreign Language Film committee have a history of favoring European films. Since 1958 European countries have swept the award 56 times while non-European ones have managed to win it only 14 times. As a response to the Euro-bias criticism, the afore­mentioned executive committee was formed in 2008 to help make an eclectic set of nominations. But the elbowing out of non-European films is still very much visible, as generally three out of five nominees are still films from France, Italy, Spain, Ger­many, Sweden or Hungary.

For small films coming from small countries like Nepal, European films will remain heavyweight con­tenders. And it’s not that European dominance has always hampered Nepal at the Oscars. Actually Nepal owes a lot to France for its only Oscar short-list, ‘Himalaya’ (which is popularly known here as ‘Cara­van’). ‘Himalaya’, directed by Eric Valli, was a French production and before 2005, countries were only allowed to submit films in their offi­cial language. This barred France from submitting the film, which had Tibetan and Nepali languages, as its own entry. So to apply for Oscars, the production company was forced to register it from Nepal—a country submitting a film for the first time. In 1999, Valli was already a reputed documentary filmmaker and had been nominated for an Oscar seven years before. That led to the film’s recognition during the voting and its eventual nomination.

Thus we don’t deserve to bask in the glory of ‘Himalaya’, and call it our nation’s cinematic achievement at the Oscars. We didn’t rightful­ly earn it and such luck won’t be repeated again. If Nepal wants a serious shot at the Oscars, our film development body must play an active role. It should grow up from its passive role of just submitting films. Our films need right amount of promotional funding to make them competitive. It will take tre­mendous amount of PR and theatri­cal screenings for the voting jury to actually value our film.

These goals are to be achieved in the long run. In the meantime we need a national film funding system that extends Nepali films’ global outreach and grooms filmmaking talent. There is no shortage of tal­ent here. Missing are programs that help local directors make art house movies and guide them to brand Nepali films in big league film fes­tivals like Venice (where White Sun premiered). Until and unless we have more Min Bahadur Bhams and Deepak Rauniyars, Oscars would remain a pipedream! o