Janardan Subedi
“Those who quietly witness atrocity are more criminal than those who commit it.”
This assertion may sound severe—perhaps even unfair. Isn’t the thief who loots state coffers, the politician who peddles influence, or the powerbroker who silences truth the real villain? But in the theater of Nepali politics, where corruption has become routine and injustice normalized, the deeper betrayal lies elsewhere—in the silence of those who know better, but choose not to speak or act.
The Nepali phrase “chaldai chha” (चलिरहेको छ)—literally, “it is going on”—captures this collective resignation. A simple phrase, yet soaked in meaning. It is a sigh, a shrug, a culturally embedded mechanism of coping with dysfunction. But it’s also something far more insidious: a moral anesthetic that dulls our outrage, defers responsibility, and quietly enables the very forces we claim to abhor.
The Passive Crisis
Nepal today stands at a crossroads where the most dangerous enemy may no longer be overt tyranny but passive complicity. Political parties, once vanguards of hope, have decayed into vehicles of patronage and personal gain. Institutions that ought to safeguard public trust—courts, commissions, the civil service—appear increasingly compromised or indifferent. Yet, rather than rise in protest, we retreat into private conversations, cynicism, or exile.
This widespread inaction is not simply a failure of courage—it is a socio-psychological phenomenon. The bystander effect, a well-studied concept in social psychology, tells us that individuals are less likely to take responsibility in the presence of others. In Nepal, millions recognize the rot, but each assumes someone else—activists, journalists, NGOs—will confront it. The result? No one does.
Worse still is pluralistic ignorance, where we misread the silence of others as contentment. When our friends, colleagues, or neighbors fail to speak out, we suppress our own doubts, assuming we are alone in our concern. In reality, many feel the same unease but are waiting for someone else to act first.
This psychological web traps even the well-meaning. Evaluation apprehension—the fear of being judged or punished—runs deep in societies where challenging authority carries risk. People hesitate to protest, fearing loss of job, status, or safety. Over time, this hesitation becomes habit. We retreat into our routines and rationalize inaction with “chaldai chha.”
But make no mistake: silence is not neutral. It’s a stance. And when exercised in the face of wrongdoing, it becomes an endorsement.
The Ethics of Omission
From a philosophical lens, the ethics of omission holds that we are morally responsible not only for what we do, but for what we fail to do. If we can prevent harm—without incurring equivalent harm to ourselves—and we choose not to, then we are culpable.
Consider a neighbor abusing a child. If you witness it and say nothing, your silence is complicity. Now scale that to a nation: when politicians divert earthquake funds, when fake refugee scams thrive, when health systems collapse under corruption, and we say nothing, we aren’t bystanders—we’re silent accomplices.
The rot of inaction isn’t just external. As virtue ethics suggests, it degrades our character. Moral character is built through repeated choices. A society that consistently chooses silence over protest, comfort over justice, cultivates cowardice. The decay becomes internalized. Eventually, we no longer notice the smell.
Kathmandu’s Conscience in Retreat
Perhaps the most disappointing silence comes from Nepal’s most privileged: urban elites, academics, civil society leaders, and members of the international-facing middle class. These are the people with platforms, networks, and relative security—those who could afford to speak.
Yet many do not. Some are disengaged, buffered from the nation’s decay by foreign bank accounts, foreign-educated children, and air-conditioned escapes. Others are cautious, unwilling to rock the boat that floats their careers. Either way, their silence is conspicuous—and corrosive.
One wonders: is Nepal, for them, merely a milking cow? A passport convenience? A place to own property, hold investments, and fly through—but not build, not fight for? Their retreat from civic responsibility is not just disappointing; it is a betrayal. Because those with the most to offer are often those doing the least.
The Politics of Disillusionment
“Chaldai chha” is not just about personal passivity—it is also a collective sigh. A culture-wide coping mechanism for broken promises and political betrayal. Voters elect with hope, only to watch that hope squandered. Scandals erupt, but fade. Protests flare, but fizzle. And the wheels of dysfunction keep turning.
This produces a deeper, more tragic effect: moral fatigue. Many no longer believe change is possible. The result is disengagement: we retreat into private life, pursue foreign dreams, or shield our families from the public sphere altogether.
Nepal’s youth exodus is perhaps the starkest expression of this disillusionment. Young people are not just leaving for better jobs—they are fleeing a country that feels beyond redemption. Their departure is not just economic migration; it is a vote of no confidence in the system.
Yet their absence further weakens the capacity for reform. The best minds, the boldest spirits, the most capable organizers—gone. What remains is a louder echo of “chaldai chha” in the silence they leave behind.
Breaking the Spell
But all is not lost. The first step in resisting this culture of complicity is to recognize our role in it. Change begins not in parliaments, but in conversations, classrooms, and communities. It begins by refusing to normalize dysfunction, by rejecting “chaldai chha” as an acceptable response.
It means calling out injustice—not just in headlines, but in homes and tea shops. It means standing up, even when it’s inconvenient. It means teaching children that silence is not safety, but surrender.
We must also reclaim faith in collective action. When isolated voices join, silence loses its grip. Whether through civic groups, local activism, professional networks, or digital platforms, change happens when people speak—together.
The Greater Crime
Yes, the corruption of those in power is real and rampant. But it is not self-sustaining. It persists because we allow it to. Our silence grants them license. Our resignation grants them continuity.
In a democracy, power ultimately resides with the people. But a passive citizenry is a dictator’s best friend. When we trade accountability for convenience, when we excuse failure as inevitable, we enable the very forces we claim to despise.
The greater crime, then, is not only in the act—but in the acquiescence. The nation does not die when villains rise. It dies when good people say nothing.
Nepal deserves more than weary acceptance. It demands awakening—moral, civic, and collective. It demands we replace “chaldai chha” with “aba yasto hudaina”—not anymore.
The question is not whether others will rise. The question is: will we?
(Dr. Janardan Subedi is a Professor of Sociology at Miami University, Ohio, USA.)
