I am on a gap year after high school, and I refuse to study in Nepal. Before you dismiss this as privilege or unpatriotic, understand: I don’t want to leave because I want to, I am leaving because staying means accepting mediocrity.
Former Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli claimed Nepali students choose foreign universities “by will, not necessity.” This is a comfortable lie. Last year, 112,593 students received government permission to study abroad. Fewer than 1,000 attended top-ranked universities. The remaining 111,593 aren’t chasing Ivy League dreams—they’re fleeing a system that has abandoned them, packing their entire lives into suitcases because survival, not ambition, demands it.
Ask the right questions: Why do parents sacrifice decades of savings not for elite education, but for basic opportunity? Why do students choose debt in foreign countries over ‘free’ education at home? Why do education consultancies occupy Kathmandu’s most expensive real estate while government schools lack benches? The answer isn’t student choice. It’s a system failure. And this election, we must vote like our futures depend on it, because they do.
The trust deficit in Nepali education
When 112,593 Nepali students received government permission to study abroad in FY 2023/24, nearly half the country’s entire university enrollment, they weren't chasing prestige. They were fleeing dysfunction. Surveys reveal the core problems: outdated curricula focused on rote memorization rather than problem-solving, chronic faculty shortages driven by political appointments over merit, campuses closed for union strikes more often than exams, and infrastructure so weak that science students lack functioning laboratories. A telling statistic: 65 percent of study-abroad aspirants cite “better academic facilities” as their primary reason, but the deeper issue is trust. Nepali employers themselves view local degrees skeptically, placing even high-scoring MBA graduates in entry-level roles because they know what the credential represents.
When your own universities cannot vouch for their graduates, when political parties control student unions and hiring decisions, when classrooms teach students to “crack tests, not solve real-world problems,” education becomes a charade. Students aren’t abandoning Nepal because foreign universities are slightly better. They’re leaving because staying means accepting a degree the market doesn’t respect, taught by faculty hired through connections rather than competence, in institutions that close for political rallies more than they open for research. This isn’t brain drain. It’s a rational escape from institutional collapse.
While India sends over 1m students abroad annually, its 0.07 percent per capita rate suggests most return with skills. Nepal’s 0.37 percent rate is the highest among comparable nations. We’re losing proportionally five times more educated youth than India, nearly double Vietnam (0.20 percent), and six times more than the Philippines (0.06 percent).
China, despite 1.41bn people, maintains just 0.03 percent outflow because domestic universities now rival Western institutions. Bangladesh (0.05 percent) leveraged its garment industry into upward mobility. Their students return as entrepreneurs. Sri Lanka (0.15 percent), despite economic collapse, maintains stronger public universities. Even Pakistan (0.06 percent), facing political instability, invested in engineering schools that retain talent.
The pattern is clear. Countries investing in domestic education see lower outflow. Those that neglect it watch their brightest queue at consultancies. Our 110,000 annual departures from the 30m population means every extended family has someone abroad. When nearly two out of every 1,000 Nepalis leave annually (19 percent of tertiary-age cohort), we’re not experiencing brain drain. We’re witnessing structural collapse of faith in national institutions.
South Korea transformed from aid recipient to developed nation in one generation by making education the national obsession. If they could do it, why can’t we?
South Korea’s education miracle
South Korea’s transformation from $158 GDP per capita in 1960 to $33,000 by 2023 wasn’t luck. It was political will. Post-Korean War leaders made education the national obsession. They standardized a 6-3-3-4 schooling system, enforced compulsory middle school by 1985, and used lottery-based school assignments to eliminate inequality. When private tutoring threatened equity, they regulated it while maintaining universal access. By 2023, 71 percent of young Koreans held tertiary degrees, the OECD’s highest rate.
The lesson isn’t just policy. It’s leadership. Park Chung-hee, despite authoritarian flaws, treated education as infrastructure, not charity. He built 20,000 classrooms by 1967 because he understood that factories need educated workers. Singapore followed the same playbook, spending 4.5 percent of GDP on merit-based streaming systems, achieving 100 percent secondary enrollment and $82,000 GDP per capita. Taiwan focused on vocational training post-1960, creating the semiconductor talent pool that now powers global tech.
Nepal spends 4.2 percent of GDP on education, below UNESCO’s six percent standard, yet no major party has released a comprehensive education manifesto this election. South Korea proved education delivers 10-15 percent ROI in development. Their leaders chose textbooks over rhetoric. Ours choose highways over human capital. The question isn’t whether Nepal can replicate Korea’s miracle. It’s whether our politicians have the courage to try.
Before you vote, look at your younger sibling studying for SLC. Look at your nephew who dreams of engineering but whose school lacks lab equipment. Ask yourself: what do they actually need?
They need universities where politics stays outside. They need education as public service, not private business. They need research funding so students don’t flee Nepal to run experiments. They need startup culture as normalized as ragging is in medical colleges, as common as alcohol seems in engineering hostels.
Right now, entrepreneurship is a hobby. Research is a luxury. Education is a transaction. Politics controls every hiring decision. Bring one question to rallies: “What is your education plan, and how will you fund it?” Don’t accept “we prioritize youth.” Demand specifics. Will you increase spending to six percent? Remove political appointments? Fund research? Build labs? When?
Post their answers. Vote for plans, not slogans. South Korea’s leaders chose textbooks over rhetoric. If we demand it, ours can too. Your vote decides whether your siblings build futures here or pack them in suitcases.
