Oli’s Nuclear Option?

Was he ruthless or reckless? Either way, conventional wisdom holds, the ordinance fiasco has seriously wounded Prime Minister Khadga Prasad Oli, perhaps irrecoverably.
On the face of it, why a prime minister of a party enjoying a near-two-thirds majority in parliament would use a medical-emergency-induced national lockdown to plot the division of his own or another political party remains inexplicable. Oli’s assurance that the ordinances he drew up with much abruptness and President Bidya Bhandari promulgated with much alacrity, was not aimed at splitting his already fractious Nepal Communist Party (NCP).
The premier’s party rivals, including Pushpa Kamal Dahal ‘Prachanda’, Madhav Kumar Nepal and Jhal Nath Khanal, seemed reconciled to the reality that the prime minister had reserved that right, for now. They found it easier to see the Samajbadi Party – a marginal player, at best – as the immediate target. Instead of suffering a devastating split, the Samajbadi Party ended up merging with the Rastriya Janata Party Nepal.
Subsequent revelations that Oli-inspired – if not entirely instigated – elements had used tactics barely distinguishable from kidnapping to engineer the defection of a group Samajbadi dissidents and ensure their integration into the government – and ultimately the NCP – added to the blow.
Predictably, Oli rivals have used the sordid and ignoble chain of events to question his judgment and even challenge his leadership. The pandemic having given our ailing prime minister a respite, Oli knew internal opposition against him was only bound to grow. External players, for their part, were not oblivious to the wider opportunities amid geostrategic shifts still under way.
India has been widely credited with engineering the midnight merger of the Madhes-centric parties. New Delhi ostensibly wanted a strong political force capable of standing up to Oli. That line of reasoning is premised on the belief that Oli is pro-China. Amid the convoluted logic of Nepali politics, couldn’t the opposite be equally true? Maybe the Chinese, not exactly assured by Oli’s postures, were wary of what a pandemic-bruised West might be up to in league with New Delhi.
After all, it was only after Beijing pulled the carpet from under King Gyanendra’s direct rule in March 2006 that New Delhi was able to provide momentum to the 12-Point Agreement. (No one accuses China of blatant interference in Nepal during those tumultuous weeks, do they?)
Dahal is palpably ebullient at this turn of events. Further recalcitrance on Oli’s part would set the stage for collaboration among the ex-Maoists, Madhesi parties and the main opposition Nepali Congress, with or without the former rebel-in-chief at the helm.
So, is it time for Oli to wave the white flag? Maybe not. Admittedly, President Bhandari, who has allied herself fully with Oli these past few years, has seen the writing on the wall. Yet how do we know she reads it the same way everyone else does?
Bhandari knows there is little she can redeem by switching to the anti-Oli camp so late in the day. She also knows that the mood in the NCP and the political class in general does not resemble that of the country.
Oli, for his part, is a pragmatist with sharp survival instincts. What if he were to come out publicly against the 12-Point Agreement, describing its character and content as the source of our national tribulations. He wasn’t a signatory and continued to make not-too-oblique noises against the deal for the first couple of years.
Would such audacity automatically brand Oli as a monarchist, say, in the league of Keshar Jung Rayamajhi. Perhaps not, considering the number of republicans who continue to rail against Delhi Compromise 2.0. If the monarchy ended up benefiting by default, well, it would be far-fetched to single out Oli for opprobrium.
And even if the royalist tag stuck, would it be that bad? It certainly would for a lot of Oli’s peers. Why would that be enough to make Oli feel the same way?

Hardiness And Foolhardiness Amid A Contagion

Well before the onset of coronavirus pandemic, Nepalis were searching for ways of doing things differently. Socio-cultural stoicism may have played a part, but pollution, curfews, shutdowns, blockades and shortages had prepared us for a transition other parts of the world are finding hard to cope with.
How the Nepali state is functioning today depends on your outlook that was well entrenched before the onset of the global emergency. The international system may have proven to be a house of cards; we knew ours was one from the moment it was manufactured. That’s why we may be more resilient now.
The leadership rift in the ruling Nepal Communist Party (NCP) in the midst of an international emergency becomes explicable, if not entirely palatable. Outrageous as the continuation of state-sanctioned corruption is, it is nevertheless understandable. Leaders who built a career in police lockups are more inured to lockdowns. Those who emerged from subterranean existence might not relish the return to distancing, but they are certainly capable of enduring it.
Prime Minister K.P. Sharma Oli has thrown the gauntlet. Unspoken but evident is his warning. This government will have to become more highhanded or simply hand over power to an institution that is innately so. NCP co-chair Pushpa Kamal Dahal must have a lot on his mind. A sweeping Oli clampdown could encompass a postponement of the NCP general convention scheduled for April next year – a major roadblock to Dahal’s quest to attain sole leadership of the party.
Dahal might have relied on the main opposition Nepali Congress to thwart Oli’s authoritarian instincts, but party president Sher Bahadur Deuba has been looking for his own excuse to put off that organization’s convention. The smaller parties are still too busy searching for relevance to make a difference. Individual leaders like Baburam Bhattarai and Kamal Thapa are speaking from all sides of their mouths to see if anything sticks in the public imagination. Critics contend the former monarch is playing politics with his till and tweets. They should cut him some slack: he is, after all, the most aggrieved party in our hopey-changey reverie.
Geopolitically, things should have been clearer, especially with the Chinese having come out on the top for the moment. The mandarins, however, seem to be in a dilemma of their own. While they recognize that ideological affinity hasn’t exactly bolstered trust and confidence between the two communist parties, they also realize that the monarchy has tended to take Chinese support for granted.
Ultimately, the Chinese must decide, preferably with the Indians. Even then, the immediate task for Beijing and New Delhi would be to assuage the diminished Americans and Europeans who have barely recouped their investments in Nepal.
Much of the country is left rooting for the military – out of choice or compulsion. Yet we forget – or are forced to overlook – the fact that the institution couldn’t handle things when they were far simpler circa 2005-2006. (If anything, the generals were consistent then. In their confidence, they egged on the king to take full executive power. When things got out of hand, they nudged him to step down.) Is the transfer of the supreme commandership to a president from a king supposed to make such a big difference?

Decency, How Distant Hast Thou Becomest!

It turns out distance does make the political heart grow fonder.
Bereft of allies, disgraced former communications minister Gokul Banskota has reached back to two luminaries of the much-maligned partyless Panchayat system in order to build an image of morality and rectitude.
Claiming that he had resigned on the basis of corruption allegations made by one individual, Banskota insisted he had done so to facilitate the official investigation. In doing so, he compared himself to former prime minister Kirti Nidhi Bista and education minister Kesar Bahadur Bista.
To recapitulate, Kirti Nidhi Bista had resigned after a massive fire engulfed Singha Durbar in 1973, laying waste to the government secretariat. Keshar Bahadur Bista of sports had quit his post in 1988 after a hailstorm triggered a stampede during a football match at Dasharath Stadium, claiming dozens of lives. “Has anyone else set such an example,” Banskota asked in a tweet the other day.
Kirti Nidhi Bista wasn’t caught on tape conspiring to set the secretariat on fire. Nor was Keshar Bista ever heard imploring Mother Nature to invoke her fury on football fans. But that’s not the point.
Insulted and humiliated, Banskota has recovered enough to seek retribution. He probably realizes that what he’s been accused of doing is unprecedented in its boldness and biliousness. But he also knows that he’s not the only one who’s been doing it.
With unfeigned acerbity and straight-faced misrepresentations – if not outright fabrications – Banskota quickly established himself as Prime Minister Khadga Prasad Oli’s attack dog. Unlike other members of the Oli coterie, Banskota didn’t feel he had been catapulted to that place. He won the election with a respectable margin and undertook his government responsibilities with loyalty and vigor. More importantly, from his perspective, he did so in the full public glare as the official government spokesperson, not from an obscure advisory perch.
The allegation that Banskota demanded a commission of Rs.700 million in the procurement of security printing press has several shades of gray. The audio leaked concerned an old meeting about a deal that did not go through. It may have been a conspiracy to commit a crime, but it certainly wasn’t one.
Moreover, the ‘we’ that was heard repeatedly suggests a wider cast of characters. If corruption has been institutionalized as the lifeblood of a moribund political system – something more and more people do feel these days – why should Banskota take the fall?
And what about the proximity of the case to the exoneration of former speaker Krishna Bahadur Mahara of rape allegations the alleged victim subsequently recanted but no one was ready to entertain? Establishing allegations of moral turpitude as a regular component of politics risks diverting attention from real crimes. Banskota isn’t a credible messenger of these legitimate concerns. But Twitter does tend to work in marvelous ways.
Banskota probably feels Oli has tried to reciprocate loyalty – as much as a beleaguered prime minister could. Oli stood by his communication minister as long as he could and has let him use his private residence. So, it’s not the prime minister who’s in his crosshairs.
Yet the weird thing is that Banskota felt compelled to reach back to a political era he personally has spent much ink denigrating for its depravity and dissoluteness. Could he really not find more recent examples, or was he just lazy? Keep thinking.

COVID-19 Narratives, Callous And Calculated

Would members of a government enjoying a massive popular mandate really try to profit off of a people crushed by one of the cruelest global challenges? Could those in power actually be so callous? The question may be icy enough to send chills down the spine, but we need an answer to know who and what the collective ‘we’ are.
Deputy Prime Minister Ishwar Pokharel and Health Minister Bhanubhakta Dhakal may be many things, but they certainly don’t look like coldhearted crooks. Let’s hope that these alleged emblems of the downright degeneration of our shared existence are guilty of – if they are of anything at all – mere acts of omission.
True, the whole controversy surrounding the deal over the procurement of medical supplies from China reeks of the crony capitalism our communists have excelled in. It’s easy to believe a business entity enjoying proximity with the people around the prime minister got the contract for unspecified considerations. If anything, the sordidness is matched by its routineness, which enhances the plausibility of the storyline.
Once the sleaziness of that deal became apparent, the government annulled the deal. As the relevant agencies of the bureaucracy were preparing to invite fresh bids, the Nepal Army ended up with responsibility for the procurement of the medical supplies. A few cabinet members attending the pertinent meeting have expressed their cluelessness. Before we got to know if and how the meeting minutes were corrected, the storyline changed from the government’s greed to its weakness. Why not surrender executive power to the military, then?
Perhaps it’s a sign of our times. After all, the world’s sole superpower, facing the brunt of the pandemic, is reduced to blaming the tardiness of its response to an officially communist state’s concealment of the origin, extent and impact of the outbreak. (This, let’s not forget, after complaining for years about how the US’s former Cold War adversary has been seeking to interfere in American elections.) Demands to sue China for the pandemic are being made with little regard to the ghosts that might revive (Iraq, Hiroshima/Nagasaki, the Opium Wars, imperialism being the tamer ones).
Together with best and worst, the pandemic has brought out the inane in us. It is easy to get entangled in all kinds of narratives, motivated and otherwise. Regardless of whether the government – and the system it represents – was about to collapse under its contradictions before COVID-19, the outbreak has certainly given it a new lease on life. Thus, the temptation to use a controversy of this scale is to undermine the status quo becomes quite irresistible.
Still, what do we know about what really happened? If people were actually involved in fleecing the country, let must face the consequences, but only after the facts are established. If other people are focused on fishing in troubled waters, we must show our ability to tell the difference.
We are already paying the price of having acquired an alternative based on a predetermined narrative that turned out to be far removed from the reality prevailing in the spring of 2006. An international emergency may be the time for many things, but it certainly isn’t one to lose our national cool.