By Janardan Subedi
As I write this, about twenty-eight hours are remaining before 2026 arrives — as if changing the digits could somehow influence reality. Time advances with quiet confidence. Deadlines emerge. Resolutions are drafted. And suddenly, everyone becomes philosophical. I’m no different.
Reflecting on 2025, I feel like I spent the year on an escalator that sometimes moved backward, while experts nearby explained that this was good for “overall efficiency.” Yet this was also the year I made an unlikely discovery: that adversaries are among the hardest-working people on earth. They coordinate, strategize, and persist. They see obstruction as a civic duty. And strangely enough, I find myself grateful.
So, with the year nearly over, let me offer an unusual thank you — not to family, friends, mentors, or institutions — but to my enemies, skeptics, silent gatekeepers, and masters of bureaucratic choreography. Their whispered campaigns and disciplined delays might have broken my resolve. Instead, they became my teachers. Without them, 2025 would have been forgettable — like overcooked “maasubhaat,” memorable only because it disappointed.
Here’s the paradox: they tried to weaken me but ended up sharpening me. Suspicion called for clarity. Delays required creativity. Every stalled file, every ambiguous “we will see,” and every polite attempt to deter became a hidden lesson in resilience. If life is a university, they were my accidental teachers — unpaid but incredibly dedicated.
Had they stayed quiet, I might have spent the year circling comfortable mediocrity, sipping imported coffee and debating “innovation” that never risked reality. Instead, I was pushed into the unpredictable terrain where Nepalis live every day: traffic without lanes during rush hour, justice without clocks, promises without precise expiration dates.
And at that point, the personal merges into the national.
Nepal remains a compact laboratory of contradictions. We live among giants, continuously absorbing global ideas and turning them into local performances. Our institutions shake like tired ceiling fans—noisy, unpredictable, sometimes threatening—yet somehow still circulate enough air to pretend everything is fine. This resilience and discipline inspire hope and pride among Nepali citizens.
I remember visiting a government office where a simple civic proposal had been quietly stored — peacefully — in a cabinet. The officer told me the file lacked “momentum.” When I asked what momentum meant, he said, “The document is not feeling inspired.” Over tea, he discussed modernization at length while gently suggesting that inspiration, like most things, could be nurtured. At that moment, physics turned into political theory, and gravity seemed to have a supervisor.
This is our national curriculum. Queues teach patience. Power outages teach metaphysics. Accountability disappears like a magician’s coin. Enemies accelerate the lesson.
Then comes our favorite public ritual: conferences, workshops, “leadership summits.” Hotel ballrooms transform into laboratories of motivational chemistry. Banners promise TRANSFORMATION NOW—the microphone crackles. The projector hesitates. A visiting expert, buoyant with confidence, explains how countries rise and citizens “unlock their true potential.”
This is not mockery. It is an honest diagnosis. Resilience isn’t built from slogans. It is developed through the daily choice to do tough things with integrity, even when no one is watching, like succeeding publicly while secretly working to survive behind the scenes.
My enemies helped sharpen this lesson. One group buried an idea in committees, another engaged in polite character erosion, rumor by rumor. A third waited for fatigue to take over. Ironically, they improved my thinking more than my supporters ever did. They didn’t defeat the argument; they disciplined the mind presenting it.
Our politics functions in a similar improvisational manner—coalitions form, fall apart, and reform, driven by philosophical ideas and moral certainty. The language changes in vocabulary but rarely in meaning. Citizens watch with practiced calm — skeptical, amused, quietly surviving.
But pure cynicism is too simple. Beneath the show, an intelligence shaped by hardship exists. Farmers adjust faster than policies. Students come up with solutions before committees approve the minutes. Mothers keep households afloat on budgets that insult basic math. Progress doesn’t move because the system forces it, but because people refuse to give up.
And now, with only hours remaining in the year, I embrace gratitude.
My enemies didn’t just oppose me. They enrolled me in an advanced seminar on civic endurance. They showed me how rumors outrun the truth, how procedures replace actual outcomes, and how caution can serve as a disguise for power. I didn’t respond with resentment. Instead, I studied, observed, and even laughed — not out of mockery, but as a tool for survival.
At one ceremony, officials proudly unveiled a “transparent digital future.” Speeches praised honesty and sunlight. Then the electricity vanished. Screens froze. The hall sat in a gentle, contemplative darkness. Someone whispered, “Transparency prefers low light.” We laughed — because a detailed critique would have been too inconvenient.
And so, standing at the doorway between two years, I sincerely say: continue. Keep doubting, obstructing, questioning. You serve as resistance training. What may seem like hostility often turns into discipline, and sometimes, an unexpected blessing.
This isn’t about romanticizing dysfunction. It’s about acknowledging reality. In Nepal, progress isn’t a straight road. It’s a mountain trail — steep, uneven, sometimes invisible — but always taking us somewhere if we keep moving. My enemies, unknowingly, taught me to keep moving.
Gratitude, therefore, is not just politeness. It is a strategy. I thank those who doubted because they demanded evidence. I thank those who slandered because they required integrity. I thank those who tried to silence, because they proved why speaking matters. This mindset fosters resilience and collective strength.
And if we must end with a thought — as editors often do — let it be this: adversity isn’t inherently noble, but it can be changed. Systems shake—people plot. Institutions waver. Yet, something still grows. In that delicate space between absurdity and persistence lies Nepal’s true story — and, in a humble way, my own.
With twenty-eight hours remaining, I am still listening and learning. And, inconveniently for my enemies, I am still rising.
(Dr. Janardan Subedi is Professor of Sociology at Miami University, Ohio. He writes on political ethics, democratic transitions, and institutional accountability in South Asia.)