Every time we in Nepal think things can’t get worse, they do.
In 2001, as our Maoist insurgency intensified and casualties soared, almost the entire royal family – including King Birendra – were massacred by one of Nepal’s princes. The next year, parliament was dissolved and local elected bodies were disbanded. As political parties bickered, King Gyanendra, who succeeded his murdered brother, sacked the prime minister in 2002 and ruled through an appointed cabinet.
Last week, King Gyanendra sacked his prime minister again, declared a state of emergency, and suspended civil liberties. Nepal’s 15-year experiment with democracy now seems over. Since February 1, the Nepali media have been subjected to absolute censorship. Nothing that goes against the “letter and spirit” of the king’s dismissal of his government is allowed to be printed and broadcast, and “action will be taken against anyone violating the notice.”
Armed soldiers now sit in newsrooms, vetting the galleys before they go off to press. Sometimes, they change headlines that they think are critical of the royal move. Nepal’s vibrant FM radio stations – once models for decentralized public-service broadcasting and community radio – have been prohibited from broadcasting current affairs. Some FM stations have been locked down and are silent.
The BBC’s Nepalese service, which used to be relayed through a network of 12 FM stations all over the country, has been stopped. All Indian news channels have been dropped from cable networks. On Saturday, two senior journalists were detained for issuing statements critical of the crackdowns.
Newspapers and magazines are blandly reproducing official pronouncements and reports from the state-run news agency. Some have taken the risk of resorting to metaphors and allegory, while others poke fun at the whole thing by writing editorials on ballet or bee-keeping. At least one newspaper came out with its news pages completely blank.
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Most young journalists, especially those in radio, have been shocked by the censorship. The freedoms that they were so accustomed to, and maybe even took for granted, have now been snatched away. But, for older journalists like me, there is a strong sense of déjà vu—the controls hark back to the times of the partyless absolute monarchy that existed here before 1990, when self-censorship was the order of the day.
Back then, irrational news decisions, sycophancy, and propaganda were passed off as journalism. In those days, editors, reporters, and columnists played a cat-and-mouse game with the authorities, resorting to satire, humor, or metaphor.
But punishment could be harsh. Many journalists spent time behind bars, and there was a price to be paid when the morning newspapers contained even accidental typos, such as occurred when a headline concerning a royal birthday read “suspicious” instead of “auspicious.”
Old jokes from the pre-1990 days have returned, like this one: a man was walking down a Kathmandu street, shouting, “Down with dictatorship in Pakistan.” A policeman grabbed him and took him in. At the police station, he asked the protestor, “Why are you denouncing dictatorship in Pakistan when it exists here?”
To be sure, many Nepalis have welcomed King Gyanendra’s move this week. Much of the public is disenchanted by the instability caused by fractious and corrupt parliamentary leaders and by the Maoist insurgency, which has cost 12,000 lives in nine years. If this is what the king had to do to restore peace, they say, so be it. After all, the king has staked all and gambled his own throne by taking over power.
They have a point. Many expect the king to pull a rabbit out of his hat, to restore peace and start raising the living standards of Nepal’s 25 million people, most of whom live below the poverty line. In his speech on February 1, King Gyanendra said the Nepali people would have to temporarily give up democracy in order to save democracy, and many Nepalese will go along with that, at least for a while. The king has a window of opportunity to deliver on his promises.
Perhaps King Gyanendra does have something up his sleeves. In the long run, however, the answer to Maoist totalitarianism is greater and more inclusive democracy, a vibrant free press, and civil liberties. Curtailing freedom merely polarizes society. Indeed, even as a short-term strategy against the Maoists, it may well prove counterproductive.
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Every time we in Nepal think things can’t get worse, they do.
In 2001, as our Maoist insurgency intensified and casualties soared, almost the entire royal family – including King Birendra – were massacred by one of Nepal’s princes. The next year, parliament was dissolved and local elected bodies were disbanded. As political parties bickered, King Gyanendra, who succeeded his murdered brother, sacked the prime minister in 2002 and ruled through an appointed cabinet.
Last week, King Gyanendra sacked his prime minister again, declared a state of emergency, and suspended civil liberties. Nepal’s 15-year experiment with democracy now seems over. Since February 1, the Nepali media have been subjected to absolute censorship. Nothing that goes against the “letter and spirit” of the king’s dismissal of his government is allowed to be printed and broadcast, and “action will be taken against anyone violating the notice.”
Armed soldiers now sit in newsrooms, vetting the galleys before they go off to press. Sometimes, they change headlines that they think are critical of the royal move. Nepal’s vibrant FM radio stations – once models for decentralized public-service broadcasting and community radio – have been prohibited from broadcasting current affairs. Some FM stations have been locked down and are silent.
The BBC’s Nepalese service, which used to be relayed through a network of 12 FM stations all over the country, has been stopped. All Indian news channels have been dropped from cable networks. On Saturday, two senior journalists were detained for issuing statements critical of the crackdowns.
Newspapers and magazines are blandly reproducing official pronouncements and reports from the state-run news agency. Some have taken the risk of resorting to metaphors and allegory, while others poke fun at the whole thing by writing editorials on ballet or bee-keeping. At least one newspaper came out with its news pages completely blank.
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Project Syndicate is returning to Climate Week NYC with an even more expansive program. Join us live on September 22 as we welcome speakers from around the world at our studio in Manhattan to address critical dimensions of the climate debate.
Register Now
Most young journalists, especially those in radio, have been shocked by the censorship. The freedoms that they were so accustomed to, and maybe even took for granted, have now been snatched away. But, for older journalists like me, there is a strong sense of déjà vu—the controls hark back to the times of the partyless absolute monarchy that existed here before 1990, when self-censorship was the order of the day.
Back then, irrational news decisions, sycophancy, and propaganda were passed off as journalism. In those days, editors, reporters, and columnists played a cat-and-mouse game with the authorities, resorting to satire, humor, or metaphor.
But punishment could be harsh. Many journalists spent time behind bars, and there was a price to be paid when the morning newspapers contained even accidental typos, such as occurred when a headline concerning a royal birthday read “suspicious” instead of “auspicious.”
Old jokes from the pre-1990 days have returned, like this one: a man was walking down a Kathmandu street, shouting, “Down with dictatorship in Pakistan.” A policeman grabbed him and took him in. At the police station, he asked the protestor, “Why are you denouncing dictatorship in Pakistan when it exists here?”
To be sure, many Nepalis have welcomed King Gyanendra’s move this week. Much of the public is disenchanted by the instability caused by fractious and corrupt parliamentary leaders and by the Maoist insurgency, which has cost 12,000 lives in nine years. If this is what the king had to do to restore peace, they say, so be it. After all, the king has staked all and gambled his own throne by taking over power.
They have a point. Many expect the king to pull a rabbit out of his hat, to restore peace and start raising the living standards of Nepal’s 25 million people, most of whom live below the poverty line. In his speech on February 1, King Gyanendra said the Nepali people would have to temporarily give up democracy in order to save democracy, and many Nepalese will go along with that, at least for a while. The king has a window of opportunity to deliver on his promises.
Perhaps King Gyanendra does have something up his sleeves. In the long run, however, the answer to Maoist totalitarianism is greater and more inclusive democracy, a vibrant free press, and civil liberties. Curtailing freedom merely polarizes society. Indeed, even as a short-term strategy against the Maoists, it may well prove counterproductive.