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On July 23, the International Court of Justice issued a groundbreaking Advisory Opinion clarifying that states have an obligation to tackle climate warming. The ruling, while not binding, also affirmed, in an unequivocal way, the duties and responsibilities of nations who have been historically responsible for the emission of carbon fossils. The AO is certainly charting a new phase both in the field of climate negotiation and in the realm of climate litigation, with the latter set to expand and scale in ways that are difficult to imagine.

At the same time, it might be useful to reflect about the trajectory, the pathway that led to the Hague where the ICJ is located. We should not forget that it all started with a group of law students at the University of South Pacific in Suva, Fiji. They were the ones, emboldened with sheer confidence and ambition, who had started working on the rationale, the legal case for which the ICJ should step in. It was because of their irreverence and perhaps recklessness that we have reached this turning point in the fight to uphold the Paris Agreement. Their stories have been celebrated worldwide and rightly so and by now, there have been many articles, videos about them.

However, let us not forget that, it is also worth remembering another part of the story. It was because of the Government of Vanuatu that the case for an AO could be brought to the General Assembly of the United Nations, an indispensable step to reach the ICJ. A small island nation of approximately 320.000 people was able to gather the required support from other member-states and convince them of the urgency of approaching the ICJ. It was a long and complex journey that started in 2019.

When I first heard this story, I could not stop thinking about the following question: if the students that had dared to start this process were from Nepal, a nation much bigger and powerful than Vanuatu, would they have received the same level of support from their own government? Well, this is an inescapable question.

While it is true that the federal government in Kathmandu embraced the case during the hearings at the Hague, I have been wondering if Nepal would have been able to garner the 105 co-sponsor nations at the General Assembly without whom the resolution would have never passed. Perhaps the key question is not really about the diplomatic capacities of Nepal at the UN. Probably it would not have been unimaginable for Kathmandu to bring together enough co-sponsors like Vanuatu did, ensuring that the resolution paving the way for ICJ’s intervention would pass through consensus at the General Assembly.

The real question to ask ourselves is another one: would, at first, the government have listened and backed a group of its own law students? This is a fundamental aspect to discuss. It is also important to remember that Nepali youths were also very active in supporting the cause globally. Some of them have been taking the lead at national and regional level through the World’s Youth For Climate Justice, the global movement that was initially spearheaded by the students at the University of South Pacific.

The same group of youths played an important leadership role in ensuring that the Government of Nepal could have a strong representation when the country defended the need for an AO during the official hearings at the ICJ in December last year. It is probably safe to say that without their involvement, Arzu Rana Deuba, the Foreign Minister of Nepal, would not have given a strong and convincing statement at the Hague.

Therefore, it is appropriate now to think about the future months when the AO’s principles will start reverberating in the international community and yes in the court of justice around the world. While it is impossible to summarize here through a few lines some of the legal principles and substantive statements from the ICJ, it is worthy to remember that the justices also expressed their opinion on the states’ responsibilities to prepare the Nationally Determined Contributions (NDCs). These are the commitments that all the parties to the Paris Agreement have pledged to implement in order to reduce (in jargon, “mitigate”) their carbon emissions.

According to the AO, the preparation and implementation of NDCs are not entirely discretionary for the governments. In practice, it means that these documents must be ambitious and each respective country must have concrete plans to effectively implement them so that they can scale back their emissions. Only in this way, the entire international community can collectively be able to limit global warming to 1.5°C as per the Paris Agreement.

Even more far bridging is the fact that parties to the Paris Agreement not drafting or not doing enough to implement the NDCs, can be found in breach of international law and their action or omission can be considered an internationally wrongful act. This is a very important aspect of the AO that perhaps has not received adequate attention as most of the commentary has been on the duties and responsibilities of industrialized nations’ responsible for anthropogenically-induced climate change.

For developing and emerging nations, the part of the AO on the NDCs requires utmost attention. Preparing an ambitious NDC is a complex task and Nepal has been showing leadership when it recently finalized its latest version, the third overall since the approval of the Paris Agreement. It also means that the country needs to introspect and reflect on the tools and policies at disposal to ensure that it can do whatever it can to implement the NDC. While many of its components will depend on foreign assistance on the part of the polluting industrialized nations, a lot of its implementation will rely on effective and transparent governance at both national and local levels.

And here another question: does Nepal have in place effective mechanisms to ensure that those parts of the NDCs under its direct control, the ones implementable without any form of foreign aid including funding for loss and damage or even possible future compensation, can be achieved? Even in the case of Nepal being able to receive the much-needed climate finance from outside, will the country be able to use these resources effectively and transparently? That’s why it is appropriate for the nation to brainstorm on the most effective tools and mechanisms to ensure that Nepal does whatever is possible to implement the NDCs parts where it has a direct control on the outcomes.

One way to start rethinking the national climate governance is to have solid mechanisms to engage members of the civil society. We could imagine a National Climate and Biodiversity Council consisting of members of civil society, including representatives of academia. It is important to also include the area of biodiversity because, as we know, we are talking about two sides of the same coin even if then, at the international level, nations have the burdensome duty of dealing with two completely different negotiation mechanisms.

Half of the seats available in the Council should be assigned to local youths who would represent the whole diversity of the nation, therefore also ensuring the participation of youths from historically marginalized communities that, so far, have been less involved and engaged on climate work. The Council should not be just a sounding board for the government but a platform that can, on one hand, propose ideas and solutions, while, on the other, keep a check on the government’s implementation of the NDC.

The central level body at the federal level could work in partnership with similar mechanisms at provincial levels with some sort of loose and light coordination between the two levels. Memberships could come through consensus and ensure that certain criteria are met in order for someone to be able to claim a seat. I am talking about a voluntary role that, if obtained, will only be for a limited amount of time, perhaps one year or maximum two years with the possibility to renew it for another year.

Another option would be to have a body that is exclusively composed of youths, a Youth Climate and Biodiversity Council but I am afraid such an approach would only invite tokenistic results and its work might not be taken seriously. Remembering how the international community got this trailblazing AO is paramount. A small group of law students were able to initiate a global movement and, with the right support, they made history. Then, why not entrust more policymaking responsibilities, including some forms of decision making to them in implementing the Paris Agreement at the national level? After all, who can better ensure that AO will be literally upheld and put into practice?

When former President Bidya Devi Bhandari attempted to re-enter active politics through the CPN-UML—the very party she helped build—she was blocked by a decision that hides behind constitutional dignity while exposing a deeper problem in Nepal’s political culture. The move to sideline her isn’t just a power play—it is an act of political exclusion steeped in patriarchy, internal insecurity and disregard for constitutional freedoms.

The CPN-UML’s Central Committee, led by KP Sharma Oli, denied Bhandari’s return, arguing that a former president must remain above party politics to preserve the sanctity of the office. Yet this rationale collapses under scrutiny—legally, politically and morally. This is not simply about Bhandari’s personal ambitions. This is about how we define democracy in Nepal. Are we a system that allows experienced leaders—regardless of gender—to remain engaged in shaping the country’s future? Or do we selectively retire people when their political presence becomes inconvenient?

Both Dev Gurung of the CPN (Maoist Center) and Tank Karki of the UML itself have forcefully challenged the party’s decision, calling it unconstitutional and unjustified. Gurung points out that the move violates Article 17 of Nepal’s Constitution, which guarantees political freedom and fundamental rights to all citizens, including former officeholders. Once a president steps down, they are no longer bound by the symbolic or ceremonial obligations of that office. The Constitution does not categorize former presidents as non-citizens. Any restriction on their political participation would require strong legal justification—such as actions threatening national sovereignty—which clearly does not apply in Bhandari’s case.

What is more surprising is Gurung warns that political parties registered under the constitution cannot make internal rules or take decisions that override or undermine constitutionally-protected individual rights. In this case, the UML’s action amounts to a political overreach with no constitutional basis.

Tank Karki echoes these concerns from within the party. He questions how any political organization can assume the authority to limit a citizen’s right to participate in politics, especially when no such restriction is mandated by the Constitution. Karki invokes multiple precedents to dismantle the UML leadership’s justification: Ramchandra Paudel returned to Nepali Congress after serving as Speaker, Subash Nembang resumed active roles within UML post-speakership, Khilaraj Regmi became Prime Minister while serving as Chief Justice and Nanda Bahadur Pun held a senior Maoist position while serving as Vice-president. These examples make it abundantly clear that returning to politics after holding high office is not new, nor is it constitutionally inappropriate. Karki rightly asks: “Are we truly democratic if we restrict political participation for someone who is no longer in office?” His question reveals the core contradiction of the UML’s decision—it is less about constitutional dignity and more about political control.

Indeed, Bhandari’s assertiveness and her public hint at contesting leadership within the party were likely perceived as a direct threat by Oli, who has ruled UML unchallenged for years. But attempting to eliminate opposition through procedural justifications is not leadership—it’s suppression. And suppressing a leader like Bhandari, especially after her decades-long contribution to Nepal’s democratic movement, is not just unfair—it’s self-defeating for a party that claims to represent democratic ideals.

What’s more troubling is the gendered nature of this exclusion. When men return to active politics after high office, they are often hailed for their experience. When a woman does the same, she is told it undermines her dignity. This is a classic patriarchal double standard. It elevates women only when they are silent, symbolic and submissive—but excludes them when they seek actual power.

The logic used to bar Bhandari, wrapped in notions of “respect,” “republican values,” and “national unity,” is in fact a tool of silencing. It offers ceremonial honor in exchange for political irrelevance. But true dignity for women in politics lies in allowing them to lead, compete and challenge—just as their male counterparts do.

This sends a deeply discouraging message to Nepal’s women: that the presidency is not a platform for further leadership but a dead-end. That political achievements are valid only until they challenge existing male authority. That even after reaching the highest office, women must gracefully disappear from the political stage.

Nepal’s democracy cannot afford to send such a message.

Bhandari is not asking for favors. She is asserting a right she has earned through decades of political struggle—from student activism in the late 1970s to her contributions in constitutional processes and women’s representation. She remains one of the few women in Nepal with both national recognition and grassroots political experience. Silencing her does not protect democracy—it weakens it.

At a time when Nepal’s political environment is marked by fragmentation, volatility and declining public trust, the exclusion of a credible and experienced leader like Bhandari is a strategic blunder. Her return could help stabilize internal party conflicts, promote left unity and offer a counterbalance to male-dominated power blocs. Her leadership represents continuity, not disruption. Moreover, allowing her back into politics could rejuvenate faith among Nepal’s younger generation—especially women—that political space is open to all, not just a privileged male few.

Let’s also set the legal record straight: there is no constitutional clause that prevents a former president from joining a political party. The arguments being made in UML’s decision—the so-called “spirit” of Article 61—are interpretive at best. The same “spirit” was never invoked for male figures returning from constitutional positions. Why now?

Some claim that Bhandari’s political re-entry might damage the symbolic sanctity of the presidential office. But symbols don’t build nations—leaders do. And leaders must be allowed to evolve, contribute and contest. The presidency was a chapter in Bhandari’s political journey—not the conclusion. Letting her rejoin politics is not an attack on the republic—it is a celebration of its openness. Her participation will not break the system. In fact, excluding her weakens the very democratic spirit the UML claims to be protecting.

Democracies do not function by freezing capable leaders into statues of respect. They thrive when voices—especially those of women—are free to speak, challenge and lead. Nepal cannot claim to support women's empowerment while pushing its most experienced female politician into a corner. Ultimately, this is not just about Bidya Devi Bhandari. This is about what kind of republic we want to be. One that fears women’s power or one that embraces it?

Let her lead again—not as a symbol, but as a politician, a woman, and a citizen. Because the strength of Nepal’s democracy will be measured not by how well it confines women, but by how freely it lets them rise.

The author is a political observer and advocate for inclusive democratic processes

Although the use of generative AI has significantly improved efficiency and productivity in the creative industry, it has also raised concerns about reinforcing biased worldviews related to gender, caste, ethnicity, geography and other social dimensions. Against this backdrop, this article begins by presenting findings from this writer’s experiments that reveal how generative AI responds to key gender-related prompts. It then reviews past research to explore whether generative AI perpetuates traditional notions of gender inequality and stereotypes, or whether it represents a more progressive shift. The article then analyzes the root causes of biased outputs, and proposes pathways for more equitable, inclusive and socially responsible AI development.

To examine gender bias in generative AI, I conducted a series of prompt-based experiments using a widely-used generative AI tool. When I asked the tool to write a hypothetical story about a nurse, it immediately assigned a female name and used the pronoun “she.” This pattern continued across other professions. Scientist, engineer, and security guard, Army, Police, were consistently given male names and pronouns, while kitchen helpers, dancers and Early Childhood Development (ECD) teachers were presented as female. Even in the health sector, roles like gynecologist were portrayed as female, whereas doctors were more often assigned male or mixed-gender identities.

Next, I tested how the AI assigned roles in hierarchical professional settings. When prompted to generate hypothetical names of CEOs and their secretaries, the AI consistently provided male names for CEOs and female names for secretaries, reinforcing traditional occupational gender roles. And when asked to list 20 fictional nurses, it provided all female names. A prompt for 20 ECD teachers also resulted in exclusively female names. In contrast, prompts for teachers and head teachers produced a mix of male and female names, though still reflecting gendered assumptions depending on the level of authority or setting.

Across multiple attempts, the results were consistent: generative AI tools tend to reflect and reproduce entrenched gender stereotypes. While they may occasionally offer mixed or neutral outputs, the overall trend favors traditional associations between gender and profession. 

The outcome of the experiment aligns closely with findings from a 2024 UNESCO study titled “Challenging Systematic Prejudices: An Investigation into Bias Against Women and Girls in Large Language Models.” The report reveals that generative AI systems consistently exhibit pervasive biases related to gender, sexuality and race. These systems often associate female names with traditional domestic roles, generate negative or harmful content about LGBTIQA+ individuals, and assign stereotypical professions based on gender and ethnicity.

According to the research report entitled  Gender and Ethnicity Representation of University Academics by Generative Artificial Intelligence Using DALL-E 3 by Currie, Hewis and Wheat (2025), published in the Journal of Further and Higher Education, generative AI tools continue to reproduce systemic biases in visual representation. The analysis revealed that 82.2 percent of AI-generated academic characters were male and 94.2 percent were light-skinned. Women, people with darker skin tones and individuals with disabilities were significantly underrepresented.

This apart,  a recent study in Australia titled Gender Bias in Generative Artificial Intelligence Text-to-Image Depiction of Medical Students by Currie, G, Currie, J, Anderson, S, and Hewis, J (2024), published in the Health Education Journal, examined how DALL-E 3 generates images of medical students. Although more than half of Australia’s actual medical students are women, as claimed by the research report, the AI overwhelmingly portrayed men being 92 percent. 

Another study, which asked large language models like ChatGPT and Alpaca to generate recommendation letters for hypothetical employees, found clear gender bias in the language used. Men were often described as “experts” and “thinkers,” while women were labeled with terms like “beauty” and “emotional, the study revealed. These patterns highlight deep-rooted gender stereotypes embedded in AI systems.

A 2025 study published in Computers in Human Behavior: Artificial Humans offers how AI wrongly represents females in healthcare.  The research, conducted by Ho, Hartanto, Koh, and Majeed, revealed that women’s heart disease symptoms are often misdiagnosed or wrongly linked to other conditions, despite being identical to men’s. Diagnostic AI tools also consistently performed better for male patients, resulting in more frequent underdiagnosis and misdiagnosis for women.

Why biased outputs?

The AI and tech industries remain overwhelmingly male-dominated, with women occupying only a small fraction of development roles. This gender imbalance directly influences how AI systems are conceived and built. As a consequence of this, male-centered perspectives and assumptions into the architecture of artificial intelligence are dominant. This apart, there is the lack of robust fairness testing in many AI tools, especially across gender, race and cultural dimensions. 

Another reason is the quality of the data these systems are trained on. Many AI tools, particularly text-to-image models, rely on massive datasets like LAION-5B—scraped from the internet, where misinformation, sexism and xenophobia are widespread. Without meaningful filtering and oversight, these flawed inputs lead to the replication and amplification of harmful stereotypes and discriminatory narratives.

The digital gender divide further deepens these inequities. Women globally—and in countries like Nepal—have less access to digital tools. They are underrepresented in online spaces, and face disproportionate levels of online hate, algorithmic discrimination, and exclusion from the tech workforce. Cultural and social barriers continue to restrict women’s access to AI education and mentorship, limiting their participation in shaping the technology. As of 2018, only 10–15 percent of AI developers in major tech firms were women; by 2022, over 90 percent of developers remained male. Generative AI tools not only inherit these biases from their training data but also reinforce them through constant user interactions. For example, when prompted about leadership, these systems often emphasize male figures and valorize stereotypically masculine traits like dominance and risk-taking. This happens because the AI reflects dominant cultural narratives found in the training data. Furthermore,  user prompts and feedback—often unconsciously reinforcing existing norms—create a feedback loop that hardens these gendered patterns over time.

The way forward 

In conclusion, as generative AI becomes more powerful and widespread, it is essential that we shape its development in ways that promote fairness, inclusion and accountability. This means going beyond technical solutions and embracing a people-centered approach using diverse and representative data, ensuring transparency in how AI systems work, and involving voices from historically marginalized communities in every stage of design and decision-making. Strong ethical and human rights standards must guide AI governance, with clear oversight and accountability mechanisms in place. If developed responsibly, AI has the potential not only to avoid reinforcing existing inequalities, but also to help build a more just and equitable digital future for all.

My trip to Muktinath, a sacred temple in Nepal’s Mustang district, began as a spiritual  pilgrimage. I expected silence, mountains and maybe some personal clarity. What I didn’t  expect was that the road itself—the actual journey—would teach me something deeper: why nations like Nepal struggle, not because of poverty or geography, but because of  broken systems. The Himalayas were everything I hoped for. Vast, ancient, silent. The  mountains don’t speak, but they say everything. In that silence, something inside you  wakes up. You feel tiny—but not in a diminished way. You feel connected, humbled, part of  something timeless. 

And then, the road reminds you: you’re still in Nepal. 

At first, everything was smooth. Well-paved stretches give you a sense of order, of progress.  Then suddenly—no warning—dust, potholes, mud, cliffs. No signs. No explanation. Just a sharp jolt. That’s when it hit me: this road is Nepal. Not just physically, but politically and  economically. It reflects how the country moves. Or fails to move. 

Economists Daron Acemoglu and James A Robinson, in their book Why Nations Fail, say  that nations don’t collapse because they’re poor or small—they fall when their institutions  become extractive. That means systems designed not to serve everyone, but to benefit a  small elite. When power is centralized, unaccountable and unresponsive to the people,  things fall apart. Just like the road. That road had moments of beauty—and then chaos. Like  when a traffic jam would appear out of nowhere. No rules, no traffic police. Just honking,  pushing and disorder. Yet somehow, people moved. It was dysfunctional, but it  functioned. That’s Nepal. A country where people no longer expect the system to help—but  find ways to survive anyway. 

Our driver embodied that spirit. He was fearless, navigating landslides and blind turns like a local James Bond. I was terrified. “Why are you scared?” he said. “There’s nothing to be  scared of.” It wasn’t bravery, it was normal for him. Because in Nepal, danger isn’t an  emergency. It’s routine. At one point, we passed a fresh landslide where the road had  barely been cleared. No warning signs. Just a man standing in the dust, motioning to  drivers. No uniform, no authority, just someone stepping in where the state had stepped  out. That moment stuck with me. In a nation where public services falter, ordinary people fill the void. Not because they have to—but because they must. 

And this is the tragedy: people become excellent at surviving systems that should have  protected them in the first place. 

Nepal’s economy feels just like that road. It’s moving—but always at risk. You can plan but never predict. And yet, life continues. People open shops, raise families, guide tourists, offer tea to strangers. They trust not in government, but in each other. That kind of social  capital is rare—and powerful. On those roads, I saw something remarkable: trust among  strangers. No road signs. No clear rules. But still, drivers cooperated. Because they had to.  That trust wasn’t built by policy. It came from culture. From the deep understanding that if people don’t care for each other, no one else will. 

But culture isn’t enough to build a country. Why Nations Fail makes it clear: without inclusive institutions—where opportunity is open to all, leadership is accountable, and  policies are shaped by participation—no amount of individual effort can fix systemic collapse. When policies are made by people who never walk the road, they forget where it  leads. I couldn’t help but ask: how often do our leaders walk these roads themselves? Do they feel the same jolts? Do they see the villagers’ patching holes with rocks? Or the  mothers selling noodles near construction dust while their kids play in broken corners of  concrete? Or do they see only blueprints and budgets? 

Nepal’s institutions feel just like those road bumps—sudden, unexplained and dangerous.  Too often, leaders govern without grounding. They change policies without clarity. They  promise without delivery. And still, people adapt. They move forward because it’s the only direction available. 

At Muktinath, I finally reached stillness again. Cold wind, ancient stones, sacred silence. You don’t need to understand everything to feel something shift inside. You just breathe.  And for a moment, it’s enough. But when I looked back at the journey, the literal road and  the metaphor it became, I couldn’t ignore the deeper lesson. Nepal doesn’t lack potential. It doesn’t lack spirit, creativity or community. What it lacks is leadership that walks the same road the people do. Institutions that work for everyone. Roads that are built not just  to impress, but to endure. 

Acemoglu and Robinson remind us that even countries that start the same—like North and South Korea—can end up in vastly different places if one builds extractive institutions and  the other builds inclusive ones. One stagnates, the other grows. It’s not fate. It’s a choice. Still, I believe change is possible. I see it in the eyes of young Nepalis—those who question, who leave and return, who imagine something better. I see it in those who fix what isn’t  their job to fix. In communities that cooperate even when the state fails. 

So yes, the mountains healed me. But the road taught me the truth. 

Nations don’t fail because their people are weak. They fail when their systems are weak. And  unless we rebuild those systems—with inclusion, accountability, and connection—we’ll  keep driving blind, hoping to avoid the next collapse. 

And still, despite it all, Nepal moves forward. Bumpy. Risky. Beautiful. Still going.