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In Nepal, as the nation prepares for parliamentary elections on March 5, the song has become a recurring soundtrack for a people caught in a cycle of “revolutionary disillusionment.” The parallels between George Orwell’s Manor Farm and the Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal are no longer just literary—they are a mirror reflecting a grim political reality.

The song of the golden future

The ‘animals of England’ in George Orwell’s world-famous novel ‘Animal Farm’ promised a world where “the ring will disappear from our noses.” What’s more, ‘fruit fields’ shared by all were also on its agenda. For Nepal, those ‘good tidings’ were sung in the revolutions for change of 1990, 2006, and 2015. Each change promised the end of the ‘tyrant’s man’—whether it was an absolute monarchy or an old-guard regime—and the dawn of ‘prosperous Nepal, happy Nepalis’. But these promises remained unfulfilled.

By 2026, however, the chit chatter in tea shops from Jhapa to Kanchanpur reflects the later, darker chapters of Orwell’s novel. Instead of the promised prosperity, the ‘musical chairs’ of leadership rotating between figures like KP Sharma Oli, Sher Bahadur Deuba, and Pushpa Kamal Dahal have created a sense of hopelessness among citizens.

The cast of the 2026 ‘farm’

Nepal’s political theater reflects Orwell’s “farm” in four forms. The supreme strategist uses nationalism to defend the stronghold of the loyalists, while a modernizing visionary fights to build a “reform windmill” with the machinery of the old guard. The architects of the past are fighting as the broken ghosts of a people-led rebellion. Finally, the new guard, born of the youth protests of 2025, bypasses propaganda via social media. The final question remains: once holding the keys to the farmhouse, will these new leaders serve the people or will they eventually learn to walk on two legs?

Squealer and the digital barn

In Orwell’s world, Squealer could turn ‘black into white’. In 2026 Nepal, Squealer isn’t a single pig; it is the digital landscape. TikTok warriors and partisan news portals are working overtime to explain why ‘unnatural’ alliances—like the recent sweep of the National Assembly by the NC-UML coalition—are actually ‘victories for stability’.

When the ‘Seven Commandments’ (the 2015 Constitution) are subtly ignored to suit the ruling elite, the digital Squealers are there to repaint the barn wall, convincing the public that “All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.”

The ‘boxers’ of the Tarai and the Gulf

The saddest figure in ‘Animal Farm’ is Boxer, the hardworking horse. In Nepal, Boxer is a migrant worker in Qatar, a farmer in Tarai, and a daily wage earner in Kathmandu. “I will work even harder,” says the modern Boxer, sending remittances home to build a ‘windmill’ (national economy) that never benefits his family. In 2026, the nation’s muscle—its youth—is still being shipped off to the ‘glue factories’ of foreign labor markets. The janitors inside the farmhouse are reaping the fruits of federalism.

The final scene: A mirror at Baluwatar

The 2025 GenZ protests led to an interim government, yet as the March 5 vote nears, the distinction between the ‘Old Guards’ and the ‘New Reformers’ is blurring. At high-level dinners, the revolutionary features of the newcomers seem to be softening into the satisfied jowls of the establishment.

As Nepal heads to the polls, the voters must ask: are we electing leaders to manage the farm for the benefit of all ‘beasts’, or are we simply choosing a new set of pigs to sit at the table? The song of the ‘golden future’ is still being sung; whether it remains a dream or becomes a reality depends on whether the singers can finally stop looking at the farmhouse and start looking at the fields.

In the high-stakes political theater of 2026, the 2015 Constitution of Nepal—once hailed as the ‘unalterable law’ of the new Republic—is undergoing a transformation that feels less like reform and more like a tactical rewrite. Much like the barn wall in Animal Farm, where the ink was subtly altered under the cover of night, the sacred text of Nepal’s democracy is being ‘refined’ by the ruling elite. To see this narrative in action, one must look at how the fundamental promises of the revolution are being adapted to fit the convenience of those currently in power.

From sovereignty to status quo

The rebellion was against the ‘Tyrant Man’, the absolute monarchy. which vests sovereignty and state authority in the Nepali people. In the early days, this was the first commandment: Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. But as we approach the March 2026 elections, critics argue that the political elite have become the very ‘two-legged’ masters they once overthrew. The sovereignty that was supposed to empower the street now seems to reside exclusively within the boardroom meetings of the major party alliances.

Similarly, the promise of equality was the bedrock of the 2015 spirit: Whatever goes upon four legs is a friend. It guaranteed that no citizen would be discriminated against based on caste, religion, or origin. However, the current ‘Great Barn Coalition’ between the Nepali Congress and CPN-UML has created a political environment where some ‘friends’ are clearly more equal than others. Independent voices and GenZ activists find themselves marginalized by a system that prioritizes party loyalty over the inclusive ideals of the Preamble.

The federal bed and the secular cloth

The debate over the structure of the state mirrors the shifting rules in Orwell’s farmhouse. Federalism was the revolution’s hard-won ‘bed’—a place of rest for the diverse ethnic groups of Nepal. Yet, the cost of this bed has become a point of contention. Leaders now argue for centralizing control and reducing the number of provinces, essentially adding ‘sheets’ of bureaucratic convenience to a system that was meant to empower the grassroots.

Even the secular nature of the state is being challenged. Orwell’s animals were forbidden from wearing clothes, symbolizing a break from human vanity. In Nepal, ‘secularism’ was the rejection of the old Hindu Kingdom’s ‘garments’. But in the 2026 campaign, some factions are pushing to return to religious identity, arguing that the "secular cloth" doesn't fit the national character. Like Moses the Raven returning with tales of "Sugarcandy Mountain," these movements offer a nostalgic vision of the past to distract from the economic struggles of the present.

The threshold of equality

In Animal Farm, the rule “No animal shall kill any other animal” was eventually qualified with the words ‘without cause’. In 2026 Nepal, the ‘Right to Live with Dignity’ is being strained by the use of state machinery to stifle dissent. The most subtle edit, however, is the ‘Three percent threshold’ for proportional representation. This is the modern version of the final commandment. While the Preamble still shouts that ‘All animals are equal’, the electoral laws effectively ensure that only the biggest, most established ‘beasts’ can reach the grain silo of parliament. As the 2026 elections draw near, the people are left staring at a barn wall where the original revolutionary paint is fading, replaced by a new set of rules that look remarkably like the ones they fought to erase.

Kathmandu, like many other South Asian cities, can be classified as a motorcycle-dependent city, with motorcycles accounting for over 75 percent of the total vehicle composition. Powered two-wheelers (PTWs) are not just another mode of transport in Kathmandu; they are a cultural phenomenon and a growing planning dilemma. PTWs have become both the backbone of urban mobility and the source of some enduring problems.

Kathmandu’s urban form is a blend of ancient settlements, closely knit neighborhoods, and haphazard modern expansion. Development attempted to fit modern demands into an ancient spatial structure, often without careful planning. The old city was never designed for large vehicles. Narrow pathways, dense settlements, and limited right of way made bigger vehicles impractical. Two-wheelers, being compact and flexible, emerged as a natural solution. For many families, a two-wheeler is also the first major asset they acquire, offering independence in a city where public transport is unreliable and often uncomfortable.

Buses are overcrowded, routes are poorly planned, and schedules are unpredictable. Tempos, once the lifeline of the valley, have gradually declined without being replaced by a modern alternative. In this vacuum, PTWs became the default mode of transport not because Kathmandu planned for them, but because the city failed to plan for anything else.

The promise

Two-wheelers have democratized mobility in ways cars never could. A motorcycle allows students living in Bhaktapur to attend college in Kathmandu, jobholders to commute from Tokha to Thamel, and delivery riders to navigate narrow alleys with an efficiency no four-wheeler can match.

They have also supported Kathmandu’s evolving economy. Two-wheelers have enabled the growth of start-ups in e-commerce, food delivery, courier services, and ride-sharing platforms. Thousands of young people now rely on ride-sharing services powered by motorcycles. For many, riding a two-wheeler has become a livelihood.

The price

The rise of two-wheelers has now reached an apex. What was once a solution has become a source of systemic tension. Demand has grown so rapidly that the city’s infrastructure can no longer accommodate it reasonably. The very compactness that made two-wheelers ideal for narrow streets has also become a source of disorder. Riders weave between lanes, encroach on pedestrian spaces, and occupy footpaths, making traffic management increasingly difficult.

Two-wheelers have added to existing congestion. Major intersections during peak hours resemble a transportation system on the verge of collapse.

Road safety is another growing concern. Overspeeding and risky overtaking are common, particularly among young riders. Two-wheelers were involved in around 53 percent of road crashes in the Kathmandu Valley in the last fiscal year. Hospitals routinely treat motorcycle-related trauma, a silent epidemic that rarely makes headlines but affects countless families.

Environmental impacts are mounting as well. Older motorcycles emit high levels of pollutants, worsening Kathmandu’s already poor air quality. Noise pollution from thousands of engines creates a constant urban hum—one residents have learned to tolerate, but should not have to.

Urban sprawl

Urban sprawl has been the invisible force behind the two-wheeler explosion. Over the past two decades, the Kathmandu Valley has expanded outward at an unprecedented pace. Rising land prices in the urban core have pushed settlements toward the periphery—around Bhaktapur, Tokha, Lubhu, and beyond. Residential plots and colonies have emerged faster than infrastructure could follow. Roads were built, but public transport routes were not extended. Services remained centralized, forcing long commutes for work, education, and healthcare.

In this sprawling landscape, two-wheelers became the only practical way to bridge distance. A bus journey from Bhaktapur to Patan can take more than an hour, involve multiple transfers, and suffer unpredictable delays, while a two-wheeler can make the same trip in nearly half the time.

Urban sprawl has also created a negative feedback loop. As more people rely on two-wheelers, the incentive for authorities to invest in public transport diminishes. The result is an urban mobility system shaped not by planning, but by individual necessity.

The path forward

The interventions made today will determine whether Kathmandu becomes more livable or more chaotic in the decades ahead. A sustainable mobility future demands a visionary approach.

Unchecked urban sprawl must be addressed through integrated land-use and mobility planning. Decentralization of services and mixed-use development are no longer optional. When people live closer to workplaces, schools, markets, and healthcare, the need for long commutes declines.

It is also time to seriously invest in public transportation. Mass transit systems such as metro rail and bus rapid transit are not luxuries; they are necessities. Without a strong mass-transit backbone, a city cannot meaningfully reduce its dependence on private vehicles.

Equally important is the development of non-motorized transport. Safe footpaths, cycling lanes, and pedestrian zones can significantly reduce reliance on two-wheelers for short trips.

Two-wheelers are deeply embedded in Kathmandu’s daily life and will remain part of its mobility landscape for years to come. But they should not remain the backbone of the system. The city must evolve from a place where motorcycles are the only practical choice to one where they are simply one option among many.

Kathmandu’s mobility crisis is not a failure of its people, but a failure of planning. By reimagining transportation, the city can become cleaner, safer, and more equitable. The question is whether Kathmandu is ready to shift gears.

The author is a civil/transportation engineer working on transportation planning and management

It seems like the GenZ protests of Sept 8-9 happened a long time ago, but the effects they caused in our nation’s foundation remain. As Nepal gears toward the general election, we find ourselves in a fragile normalcy. While the immediate crisis—the collapse of the Oli-Deuba coalition, which held a nearly two-thirds majority, and the tragic loss of citizens’ lives is behind us—the real danger is only just beginning.

For decades, politicians have defined national security solely through the lens of sovereignty, limiting it to borders and geopolitics. Often, the public conversation is about the threat of foreign interference and balancing India and China. But the events of September have laid bare a harsh truth: Nepal’s most potent national security threat is not external aggression, but internal institutional decay.

The broken social contract

Under the social contract, and indeed under our own Constitution, the state’s primary obligation is the protection of the life and liberty of its citizens. On Sept 8 and 9, the Nepali state did not just fail operationally; it abdicated its constitutional duty. The security apparatus collapsed under the weight of the people’s rage.

The intensity of the protests was not a sudden event; it was a whole political climate developed over the years that resulted in it. As our intelligence agencies failed to assess the situation, in the resulting chaos the security forces used excessive force. This resulted in the largest single-day killing in the history of Nepali protests, which was followed by widespread destruction of public and private property the next day. As the government, including the security apparatus, failed to secure the safety of its citizens and protect their property, it has undermined its moral authority as well as cast doubt on the capacity of the Nepali State.

This failure has inflicted deep psychological scars on the nation. The immediate economic fallout is visible, but the long-term cost will be invisible and devastating: a quiet exodus of capital. If the state cannot guarantee the safety of assets, the desire for holding assets abroad will become irresistible. We are staring at a future where people are not just leaving the nation for a better future abroad but also parking wealth abroad, leaving behind a prospect of an economy unable to fund its own development. 

Therefore, it is imperative that the nation undertake major reforms in three critical spheres: security, institutions, and the economy.

Overhauling security agencies

This catastrophe was manufactured by years of politicization. The Nepal Police, which should be the bedrock of law and order, has been reduced to a political tool. Transfers, promotions, and postings are guided not by merit or security needs, but by proximity to power centers. When officers look to party headquarters for orders rather than their chain of command, the result is paralysis. Equally alarming is the failure of our intelligence mechanisms. The anger was clear in digital spaces and on the streets. Yet, the intelligence apparatus failed to anticipate the scale of the rage.

The immediate task for the government formed post-general election should be to radically overhaul the law enforcement agency and the information gathering mechanism, specially removing political interference and rebuilding them on professionalism and capability.

Army: A force for the future

Amidst the civilian institution’s collapse, the Nepali Army stood as the only functioning pillar, helping to restore normalcy, in the difficult time. However, resting on this success would be a strategic mistake.

As the global security landscape is shifting and we are entering an era of cheap drone warfare, cyber-attacks, information operations, the Nepali Army must rapidly modernize to build itself to meet the challenges of the future. This means investing in cyber security and understanding the threats of modern technology.  

With the return of the realist politics and increasing willingness to use force unilaterally by the global power reflect a challenging global environment. To remain a force of capability and trust, the army must also strengthen its internal research capabilities, including investing in internal think-tanks and research agencies that can anticipate and prepare for future challenges.

Economic reform as security strategy

It is time to recognize that unemployment has ceased to be just an economic statistic, it is a critical national security challenge. When the state fails to create an environment for growth, it creates an environment for unrest. The mass migration of our youth is a direct result of this failure.

To fix this, we need systematic deregulation to tear down the barriers that stifle business. We must unlock internal economic growth not just to create wealth, but to create stability. If we do not treat job creation as a security priority, the anger on the streets will never truly subside.

Rot in the bureaucracy

Perhaps the biggest security challenge lies in our civilian institutions. The bureaucracy, constitutional commissions and judiciary have stopped functioning as checks and balances. Instead, they often act as partisan cadres. When the judiciary is seen as biased and the bureaucracy as an obstacle, people’s frustration spills onto the streets.

The collapse of the coalition government happened because these State institutions failed to address public grievances. Reforming these bodies is no longer just about ‘good governance’ agenda but a vital national security necessity. A corrupt bureaucracy is a national security risk because it erodes the state’s legitimacy as seen in last September where all civilian institutions collapsed within a matter of two days.

Conclusion

As we head toward the general election, we must not mistake silence for stability. True national security will only come from deep structural reform. We need a police force that serves the law, an intelligence agency that sees the truth, and civilian institutions that are loyal to the constitution rather than a political party, and an overall state mechanism that inspires hope and prosperity.

The September shock was a warning. If we do not heed it and fix our state architecture, the next crisis, and potentially deeper, is inevitable.

The author is a lawyer and strategic advisor based in Kathmandu. He runs an organization called ‘Robin Law and Policy Associates’

At a neonatal ward in Kathmandu, a doctor studies retinal images from a premature baby. To most people, the images look ordinary. To that doctor, they carry the weight of a lifetime. If early signs of abnormal brain and blood vessel development are missed, the child may grow up with permanent vision loss, learning difficulties, or both. In Nepal, where trained specialists are few and unevenly distributed, such decisions are often made under intense pressure, with limited support and little room for error. This is exactly where artificial intelligence should no longer be treated as a futuristic luxury, but as a public health necessity.

Artificial intelligence is already reshaping how neuroscience is practiced around the world. The real question for Nepal is not whether AI belongs in brain and neurological care, but whether we are willing to adopt it thoughtfully or allow preventable disability to continue simply because systems have not evolved.

At its core, neuroscience is about understanding how the brain develops, adapts, and sometimes fails. Artificial intelligence, on the other hand, is built to recognize patterns in vast and complex information. When these two fields come together, AI does not replace doctors or neuroscientists. Instead, it acts as a powerful assistant, helping humans see patterns that are difficult to detect consistently, especially when time, expertise, or resources are limited. For a country like Nepal, this partnership is not optional. It is strategic, practical, and necessary.

The evidence for this is no longer theoretical. A study published in Ophthalmology Science evaluated a deep learning system used to screen premature infants in Nepal for retinopathy of prematurity. The system performed with near-perfect accuracy, achieving an area-under-the-curve value of 0.999, using retinal imaging devices already available in Nepali hospitals. This was not an experiment in a high-income country with ideal conditions. It was tested in real hospitals, with real patients, and real constraints. The researchers concluded that AI could dramatically expand screening capacity, reduce pressure on scarce specialists, and enable earlier interventions, where delays often cost children in their futures.

This matters because retinopathy of prematurity is not just an eye disease. It reflects disrupted development of the brain’s blood vessels during a critical window of early life. Preventing severe disease is not only about saving vision; it is about protecting long-term neurological development. When artificial intelligence can reliably identify subtle warning signs earlier than the human eye, choosing not to use it becomes more than a missed opportunity. It raises serious ethical concerns.

The stakes extend far beyond neonatal care. Nepal is undergoing a demographic and epidemiological transition. As deaths from infectious diseases decline and life expectancy increases, neurological and mental health conditions are becoming more common. Conditions such as stroke, dementia, epilepsy, depression, and Parkinson’s disease now account for a growing share of disability. Data from the Global Burden of Disease study make this trend clear. Yet neurologists, psychiatrists, and advanced diagnostic facilities remain concentrated in a few urban centers. Expecting this system to meet future demand without technological support is simply unrealistic.

Public health researchers writing in the Nepal Journal of Epidemiology have pointed out that artificial intelligence could help improve diagnosis, predict risk, and guide population-level planning. But they also offer important warnings. If Nepal relies entirely on imported algorithms trained on foreign populations, it risks reinforcing inequity rather than reducing it. Health data reflect genetics, language, culture, and environment. AI tools must be validated locally, governed ethically, and paired with investment in Nepali expertise, not treated as black boxes delivered from abroad.

Encouragingly, Nepali scholars themselves have emphasized this balance. A 2025 article in the Journal of Universal College of Medical Sciences compared artificial intelligence and human brain function from a physiological perspective. Their conclusion was refreshingly grounded. AI is faster and more precise when handling large amounts of data. Humans remain superior in judgment, ethics, emotional understanding, and contextual decision-making. In healthcare, the goal is not competition, but collaboration. Machines should manage repetitive and data-heavy tasks so clinicians can focus on care, compassion, and responsibility.

Still, enthusiasm without caution is dangerous. Generative AI tools are now entering medical education and research, including in Nepal. A 2024 review in the Journal of Institute of Medicine Nepal highlighted both their promise and their risks. Issues such as data privacy, security, and confidently incorrect outputs are real concerns, particularly when dealing with sensitive brain and health information. These tools are powerful, but without training and oversight, they can mislead just as easily as they can assist. This is why education matters as much as technology. Studies on AI adoption in Nepal show that while awareness is increasing, access and digital literacy remain uneven, especially outside major cities. If clinicians are expected to rely on AI tools without understanding their strengths and limitations, the result will be mistrust or misuse.

Nepal now stands at a crossroads. Artificial intelligence in neuroscience is no longer a distant idea discussed only in conferences and journals. It is already helping detect disease earlier, analyze complex brain data, and support clinical decisions in resource-limited settings. The real danger lies not in adopting AI, but in doing so passively, without local data, ethical safeguards, and human oversight. The path forward is clear. Nepal must invest in digital health infrastructure, encourage collaboration between engineers, clinicians, and neuroscientists, and develop national guidelines that place ethics and equity at the center of AI use. Artificial intelligence should be treated as a public good, not a private experiment or a marketing slogan.

Used wisely, AI can help a general doctor in a district hospital recognize a neurological emergency before it is too late. It can help a premature child avoid a lifetime of preventable disability. Choosing not to act is itself a decision, one that disproportionately harms those with the least access to care. The future of neuroscience in Nepal will not be written by machines alone. It will be shaped by whether we choose to use these tools responsibly, locally, and humanely. The technology is ready. The evidence is strong. What remains is the collective will to act.

The author is a PhD candidate in the Department of Neurosciences and Neurological Disorders at the University of Toledo