Nepali GenZ: The OG Rizzer

 

By Angela Mahapatra 

The term Gen Z captures a dynamic group of young individuals who are tech-savvy, entrepreneurial, and committed to genuine values. While often labelled as lazy, entitled, or overly sensitive, Nepal’s youth are breaking those stereotypes. They are stepping up as responsible citizens—politically aware, thought-provoking, and fearless in holding leaders accountable. This generation is not just scrolling through life; they’re actively engaging with the world and demanding change!

Stressy depressy

The drama kicked off on September 4, 2025, when the government decided to pull the plug on 26 major social media platforms, including heavy-hitters like Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, YouTube, and Twitter/X. Their reason? They claimed it was all about making sure these platforms registered with the Ministry of Communication and Information Technology for some supposed regulatory compliance and to shield us from the menace of fake accounts spreading misleading info. But honestly, this feels like a major ‘delulu’ moment for Gen Z in Nepal.

 

The real story behind this social media ban isn’t about protecting the mass; it’s a smokescreen for the rampant corruption, nepotism, and political frustrations simmering beneath the surface due to the lack of accountability. Lately, the “Nepo kid” trend has been lighting up TikTok, showcasing the lavish lifestyles of the children of powerful political figures. It raises the question: how are they living so large on government salaries? This spotlight on deep-rooted corruption resonates with the masses, especially when they’re juggling unemployment, poor governance, and a stagnant system. It's a wake-up call that can't be ignored!

Democracy isn’t democracying

Democracy is often celebrated as a governance system where power lies with the people, enabling them to engage in political matters directly or through chosen representatives. This model champions transparency and encourages public involvement, ensuring that the government reflects the will and interests of its citizens.

The post-World War era marked a significant victory for democracy, particularly after the defeat of Nazism and Fascism. The establishment of the United Nations helped solidify democratic principles globally. Following the collapse of the USSR in 1991, liberal democracy gained traction around the world. As we moved into the 21st century, democracy emerged as the dominant ideology, embraced by many established powers, with notable exceptions being Russia and China.

In South Asia, countries like Sri Lanka and Bangladesh (2022 & 2024) have grappled with the decline of democratic governance, plagued by civil liberties issues and rampant human rights violations, often exacerbated by military and bureaucratic influence, particularly in Pakistan. Deep-seated corruption and cronyism continue to undermine government transparency, along with challenges such as population pressures and majoritarianism.

Post-2008, democracy played a crucial role in shaping Nepal, but by 2015, authoritarian tendencies began to emerge, leading to the politicisation of institutions, a fragile rule of law, and parliamentary dissolutions that hindered press freedom. This erosion of trust in political entities sparked public discontent and civil unrest, culminating in the dissolution of parliament amid frustrations over corruption and unemployment.

India, the world’s largest democracy, now finds itself amidst neighbouring nations experiencing democratic declines, raising concerns for border security. The potential shift towards authoritarianism in Nepal, particularly if it leans towards Chinese influence, could disrupt diplomatic relations and create regional instability. This shift poses risks to India’s projects in Nepal, especially those focused on infrastructure, threatening bilateral agreements and trade.

The shared historical, religious, and cultural ties between India and Nepal are at risk, as the decline of democracy in Nepal could portray India as an intrusive neighbour. This narrative may empower Hindu nationalist sentiments within Nepal, complicating their relationship with India, despite their common heritage. Furthermore, regional collaborations through initiatives like SAARC and BBIN might falter in the face of this civic instability, hindering cooperation on critical issues such as climate, trade, and security. Hence, the trajectory of democracy in South Asia, especially in Nepal, holds significant implications not only for the countries involved but also for regional dynamics on a broader scale.

Rebel kids

Social movements have evolved significantly over time, adapting to the context and technology of their eras. In the pre and mid-20th century, movements like the abolition, suffrage, labour, and anti-colonial movements were often spearheaded by charismatic leaders, relying on traditional methods such as petitions, marches, strikes, and boycotts. Communication was primarily through radio, newspapers, and pamphlets, which served to promote their causes, albeit in a more understated manner.

Today’s movements, such as #BlackLivesMatter, the #MeToo movement, Climate Strikes (Fridays for Future), and the Arab Spring, take on a different nature. They often lack a central leadership, feature decentralised structures, and employ horizontal decision-making processes. This allows such movements to emerge spontaneously, spreading rapidly across networks.

A striking example is the Gen Z uprising in Nepal, characterised by its digital activism and youthful mobilisation. This generation, often labelled as “reel addicts,” not only scrolls through social media but also critically analyses content, calling out issues like nepotism. During protests, Gen Z members voiced their concerns over the stark disparities among the youth within their nation, driven by corruption, negligence, and a lack of accountability in their government. This reluctance to accept the status quo transformed them from feeling “saddie” to becoming “baddies” who fight for change.

The movement is notably documented on social media, which fuels its momentum and spreads awareness of the underlying truths. Unlike earlier protests that relied on traditional media—which sometimes distorted information—today’s activism benefits from an opportunity to reveal authentic narratives directly to the masses. The fearless spirit of Gen Z is so potent that it compelled the resignation of the prime minister and led the finance minister to flee. Even in the wake of tragic events, such as the military's killing of 19 protesters, their determination remains unshaken as they stand resolutely for their beliefs.

Vibe Check

The Nepali Gen Z is stepping up as a powerful force, making waves not just in Nepal but resonating with youth around the globe. They're blending their rich Nepali cultural values with global ideals like equality, justice, innovation, and freedom. This generation's heightened social awareness is captivating attention worldwide, as movements like #enoughisenough and other digital protests across South Asia highlight that issues such as gender equality, mental health stigma, corruption, and poor governance resonate universally.

People are eager for leaders who reflect diverse backgrounds. Sushila Karki, the former chief justice of Nepal's Supreme Court, could potentially become the first female prime minister. Then there's Balendra “Balen” Shah, the young mayor of Kathmandu, who transitioned from being an engineer and rapper to a politician. His rise signifies a refreshing move away from traditional political elites, advocating for principles and visibility in local governance. Kulman Ghising, the former managing director of the Nepal Electricity Authority, is well-known for his role in ending long power outages and is celebrated as a popular technocrat.

The diverse leadership emerging in Nepal emphasises a shift away from monarchical or elite dominance. Thus, Nepal stands out as a democratic hero among South Asian nations, except for India, already recognised as the world's largest democracy.

@ The author is an independent scholar.

 

From Ban to Bloodshed: Nepal’s Gen Z and the Unfinished Republic

 The Gen Z uprising in Nepal reveals not confusion but clarity: democracy without delivery is no democracy at all.

Asis Mistry

In the past few days, Nepal has witnessed the most intense civil unrest in years. The death toll has climbed to thirty, with over a thousand injured — figures that far exceed earlier counts. The streets of Kathmandu and other cities bore witness to torched government offices, burning hotels, and smoke rising beside landmarks of power. In response to mounting pressure, the military and Gen Z protesters have entered into negotiations for an interim government. The youth movement has nominated former Chief Justice Sushila Karki, who has accepted, as the interim prime minister. Though curfews remain, the reopening of Kathmandu’s international airport and easing of some restrictions signal a fragile, uneasy return to order. Yet beneath the calm, the demand is louder: this is not about restoring social media access alone — it is about dignity, accountability, and transformation.

Yet to read this as a dispute over social media would be to mistake the symptom for the cause. The protests were not simply about access to platforms but about the structural failures of Nepal’s post-monarchy democracy. They expose the profound disillusionment of a generation—Nepal’s so-called Gen Z—who have come of age amid insurgency, corruption, and the hollowness of political promises. Four arguments illustrate why this revolt matters, not just for Nepal, but as part of a global crisis of democratic legitimacy.

In Nepal, as in many parts of the world, governments today are being overthrown less through electoral contests than through mass protests. The Arab Spring in 2011, Sri Lanka’s Aragalaya in 2022, and Pakistan’s youth-driven rallies in support of Imran Khan, the overthrow of the Awami League government in Bangladesh—all highlight this pattern: elected regimes lose legitimacy not at the ballot box but in the streets.

Nepal’s September uprising fits this mould. The Oli government, facing no immediate electoral challenge, suddenly confronted a legitimacy crisis it could not manage. Hashtags became battle cries, online discontent spilt onto the streets, and the state’s reflex was repression. In the end, the ballot mattered less than the body—youth occupying squares, clashing with police, and refusing to be silenced.

The deeper crisis lies in Nepal’s post-monarchy state-building. The 2015 Constitution was meant to consolidate the republic after a decade of insurgency and transition. Yet it has failed to secure the loyalty or trust of citizens. Formally, Nepal has all the trappings of a federal democratic republic. Substantively, the “nerve system” of politics—institutions that connect citizens with the state—remains weak.

This is partly because political elites are embedded in networks of patronage, corruption, and party cartelisation. Instead of investing in responsive governance, they have treated the Constitution as an end in itself. The state exists on paper but struggles to mediate conflicts, deliver services, or generate affective attachment. The result is a hollow democracy: legal structures without legitimacy, institutions without credibility.

If the Constitution has been hollow, so too have Nepal’s political parties. Once vibrant with ideological struggle, they have, over the past two decades, withered into clientelist machines. The Maoists, who once fought for radical transformation, now resemble a managerial party concerned with office-sharing. The communists have diluted their ideological commitments, while centrist parties trade in promises they cannot keep.

This erosion of ideology has profound consequences. Political parties no longer provide citizens with a grammar of meaning; they no longer connect everyday life to broader visions of justice, equality, or sovereignty. Instead, citizens encounter only the cynicism of power-brokers. The alienation is not just political but existential: ordinary people no longer see themselves reflected in the symbolic order of politics.

For Gen Z, this vacuum has been particularly stark. Growing up amid the disintegration of ideological politics, they have been left with a sense of betrayal—promised democracy, they encounter only dysfunction.

Perhaps the most striking feature of Nepal’s Gen Z is their emergence as what might be called “organic radicals.” Unlike earlier generations, their childhood was marked not by stability but by insurgency (1996–2006). Violence, displacement, and uncertainty were part of the texture of their formative years. As they matured, they faced unemployment, mass migration, and shrinking opportunities.

At the same time, they have lived under a state characterised by too much government and too little governance: rules, restrictions, and bureaucratic control, but little delivery of justice, employment, or services. In this context, protest becomes not simply an option but the default mode of political expression. For a generation disenchanted with electoral promises, the streets are the only space where voice feels possible.

The September uprising is thus not an accident. It is the logical outcome of a generation raised amid insurgency, betrayed by elites, and abandoned by institutions.

The state’s response to this youth mobilisation reveals its own anxieties. Prime Minister Oli described the unrest as a result of “ambiguity in thinking” among young people—a telling phrase that casts dissent as immaturity. In effect, the state views youth as unruly children: familiar yet alien, its own citizens yet strangers to its order. Psychoanalytically, this is a displacement of the state’s own failure onto the figure of the disorderly youth.

But repression does not resolve the crisis. It repeats it. Nepal’s resort to curfews, bullets, and bans echoes a long pattern—from the monarchy’s suppression of the Jana Andolan to the state’s violent handling of the Madhes uprisings. Violence becomes a compulsion, a symptom of a state unable to generate legitimacy through inclusion.

Nepal’s Gen Z protest is not only a national crisis. It speaks to global anxieties about the future of democracy. Across contexts, youth who are digitally networked, borderless in aspiration, and impatient with institutional decay are challenging the state in unprecedented ways. For states, their presence is uncanny: simultaneously intimate and alien, both the children of the nation and its most disruptive challengers.

What Nepal reveals is that censorship, repression, and moralising rhetoric cannot contain this generational force. Even after the ban was lifted, protests continued, signalling that the wound runs deeper than social media. It is about corruption, legitimacy, and the demand for dignity.

The Gen Z protests should, therefore, be read as more than an episodic outburst. They are a warning: Nepal’s democracy cannot survive on empty constitutionalism, hollow party politics, and elite patronage networks. Unless it can address corruption, deliver governance, and restore ideological meaning to politics, it will continue to face eruptions from below.

Gen Z’s revolt is the return of the repressed future: the demand of a generation that refuses to be silenced, infantilised, or excluded. Nepal’s challenge is not simply to lift bans or reshuffle ministers but to confront this generational discontent head-on. Otherwise, the cycle of repression and revolt will persist, with ever greater costs for a fragile democracy still searching for its nerve system.

The author is Faculty of Political Science, University of Calcutta.

Between Pride and Prejudice: The Dilemmas of Bengal’s Cultural Populism

 

Bengal’s resistance to Hindutva has taken the shape of a proud cultural revival. But can a politics based on symbols, affect, and regional identity offer a real alternative—or does it risk becoming a mirror of the populism it opposes?

 

Asis Mistry

When Mamata Banerjee launched the ‘Bhasha Andolan’ from Bolpur, she signalled more than just solidarity with Bengali-speaking migrant workers allegedly harassed in BJP-ruled states. Her words—“Bengali is our pride, our asset, the backbone of our identity”—framed language as a rallying cry, elevating cultural belonging into a political imperative. This was not merely a reaction to isolated incidents, but the intensification of a broader narrative: that Bengali identity is under siege in an increasingly centralised and culturally homogenised republic. Yet beneath this fervent defence lies an unresolved dilemma: Can a populism anchored in regional pride and affective symbolism meaningfully respond to the everyday vulnerabilities of those very Bengalis—migrant workers, linguistic minorities, economically precarious citizens—whose struggles remain largely outside the spotlight of symbolic politics?

In the politically charged aftermath of the 2021 West Bengal Assembly elections, this narrative had already begun to take shape. The Trinamool Congress (TMC), under Banerjee’s leadership, triumphed not just electorally but symbolically—projecting itself as the custodian of Bengal’s cultural soul against what it portrayed as the homogenising thrust of the Bharatiya Janata Party’s (BJP) Hindutva. Three years on, the cultural idioms of that resistance—Durga, matri-bhasha, Biswa Bangla, and the image of “Banglar Meye”—continue to resonate. But so too does a central question: is this a genuine expression of pluralist regionalism, or merely a regionalised variant of affective populism?

This is a moment that demands reflection more than celebration. The renewed articulation of Bengali identity may offer a language of resistance, but it also raises uncomfortable questions about its limits. Can symbolic sub-nationalism address the structural realities of migration, marginalisation, and inequality? Or is it destined to remain a politics of performance—emotionally potent but materially inadequate?

Culture as Resistance

The TMC’s campaign in 2021 was striking in its strategic repurposing of Bengali culture. Facing a BJP that sought to export its Hindi-Hindu-Ram template to Bengal, the TMC countered with a rich tapestry of local idioms—celebrating Durga over Ram, invoking Jagannath as an eastern deity, and grounding its appeal in mother-tongue politics. This was not a rejection of Hindu identity but a reconfiguration—positioning Bengal’s spiritual traditions as plural, feminised, and distinct.

In doing so, the TMC engaged in what political theorists call “vernacular populism”—a mobilisation strategy that connects deeply with local emotion, memory, and identity. From slogans like “Bangla nijer meyekei chay” (Bengal wants her own daughter) to campaign posters evoking goddess Durga, it created a moral geography where Bengal was framed as under threat, and its salvation lay in defending its cultural soul.

To its credit, this symbolic resistance created a powerful electoral shield against Hindutva’s centralising appeal. It reaffirmed that Indian federalism is not just about administrative devolution, but also about cultural sovereignty.

Populism’s Pitfalls

And yet, the reliance on cultural symbolism has its dangers. Populism, by its nature, draws boundaries—between “us” and “them,” “authentic” and “foreign,” “insiders” and “outsiders.” In Bengal’s case, this logic has often turned inward: defining non-Bengali speakers, Hindi-speaking migrants, or even political dissenters as culturally alien.

The BJP’s weaponisation of the “infiltrator” trope, particularly targeting Bengali-speaking Muslims from border districts, is well documented. But what receives less attention is how the TMC’s regional populism can sometimes echo this logic—defining belonging through language, emotion, and nativist pride. The politics of “Bangaliana” (Bengaliness), if unexamined, can become a vehicle not for inclusion but for soft exclusion.

Moreover, when identity becomes the primary terrain of politics, questions of inequality, mobility, and justice often take a backseat. The emotional charge of culture masks the material contradictions of everyday life.

The Silence Around Migrant Labour

Nowhere is this contradiction more visible than in the plight of Bengali migrant workers. Every year, lakhs of workers from districts like Malda, Murshidabad, and Cooch Behar travel to Gujarat, Maharashtra, Karnataka, and Delhi for informal, low-wage work. They are the invisible engine of India’s economy—yet their Bengali identity, far from being a shield, often becomes a source of profiling and vulnerability.

In states ruled by the BJP, these migrants are routinely harassed, labelled as illegal, or subject to sudden evictions. The lines between “Bengali” and “Bangladeshi” are deliberately blurred, turning internal migrants into internal outsiders.

And what of the TMC? While it celebrates Bengali pride within the state, it remains conspicuously silent about the challenges Bengali workers face beyond its borders. There is little interstate advocacy, no robust legal assistance, and virtually no pan-Indian coalition-building around migrant rights.

This reveals a fundamental limit of symbolic sub-nationalism: it rarely travels. Rooted in territory and election cycles, it often fails to protect those who move—economically, socially, and physically.

Towards a Politics Beyond Symbols

Bengal’s current cultural mobilisation stands at a crossroads. It can either deepen into a genuinely pluralist regionalism—one that embraces linguistic diversity, safeguards migrant rights, and links subnational pride with social justice—or it can remain a decorative populism, rich in aesthetics but thin in substance.

To move forward, we must ask: what kind of federalism does Bengal really need? One that is merely defensive, drawing tight boundaries of identity and pride? Or one that is expansive—asserting cultural dignity while also building solidarity across class, caste, and linguistic lines?

There is precedent. The Left Front era in Bengal, for all its flaws, grounded Bengali identity in questions of redistribution, land rights, and anti-centrist governance. It fused regional pride with structural critique. Today’s politics could learn from that balance—replacing affective binaries with relational belonging.

The Role of the Centre

Of course, the burden does not lie with Bengal alone. The Centre’s current trajectory—marked by linguistic imposition, religious homogenisation, and a narrowing of democratic space—has compelled many regions to assert themselves. In this sense, Bengal’s cultural pushback is not exceptional but symptomatic of a deeper federal unease across India.

From Tamil Nadu’s resistance to NEET and Hindi, to Punjab’s reassertion of Sikh identity, or even Maharashtra’s Marathi pride campaigns, regional assertion has become a language of federal survival. But for this language to flourish democratically, it must remain open, plural, and inclusive—not fall into the trap of majoritarian mimicry.

Between Resistance and Renewal

Bengal’s cultural populism reflects both strength and anxiety. It is a refusal to be culturally colonised—but also a struggle to define itself in the shadow of an assertive national project. The danger lies in confusing resistance with reversal—in thinking that Hindutva’s grammar can be countered merely by inverting its symbols.

The real task ahead is not just symbolic but structural: to link the pride of identity with the politics of dignity. To make sure that Bengali workers in Bengaluru, Ahmedabad, or Surat feel as politically protected as voters in Murshidabad or Bankura. And to ensure that Bengal’s cultural soul is not narrowed into an aesthetic performance but expanded into a democratic promise.

The future of Indian federalism may, therefore, well depend on whether its regions can speak not just for themselves, but also for each other.

@ Author is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of Calcutta, email- asismistry.cu@gmail.com.

 

Pacemaker, Not Peacemaker: How Trump’s Foreign Policy Reignites the Fires of War

Asis Mistry 

Donald Trump once promised to end America’s “forever wars.” “Great nations do not fight endless wars,” he declared. Yet six months into his second term, Trump has stoked not one but two major geopolitical flashpoints—Iran and Ukraine—pushing the world closer to systemic conflict, not peace.

On June 22, U.S. bombers and submarines struck Iran’s most fortified nuclear sites—Fordow, Natanz, and Isfahan—even as Tehran remained engaged in backchannel diplomacy. Trump initially denied involvement, then justified the strikes as “peace through strength.” When Israel’s defences faltered under Iranian retaliation, Trump intervened directly, transforming a regional skirmish into a U.S.-led escalation.

This episode eviscerates the myth of Trump as a restrained realist. As in the lead-up to the 2003 Iraq war, his move was unilateral, poorly coordinated, and based on vague intelligence—this time, the disputed claim that Iran was just days from a nuclear breakout, a claim his own intelligence services had walked back earlier this year.

Far from calming tensions, Trump has become a pacemaker in the most dangerous sense—artificially accelerating global crises. His posture has reignited the flames of great-power rivalry and blurred red lines everywhere: from Tehran and Tel Aviv to Kyiv and Moscow. On June 24, Trump announced a “complete and total ceasefire” between Iran and Israel, calling an end to what he described as a “12-day war” that, he claims, could have dragged on for years. Yet this ceasefire is less an act of peace-making than a strategic intermission. Trump appears to be deliberately managing the pace of conflict—escalating it to showcase strength, then pausing it theatrically to claim diplomatic success.

This modulation serves multiple ends: it fuels his long-standing ambition for a Nobel Peace Prize, projects leadership during election cycles, and, crucially, sustains the U.S. arms economy. Netanyahu’s July 2025 nomination of Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize, citing his “pivotal role” in expanding Arab–Israeli normalization, encapsulates this contradiction. That Trump was simultaneously bombing Iran while being nominated for peace underscores the Orwellian theater of contemporary geopolitics. Critics have rightly pointed out that the nomination appears more a political gesture than a recognition of any substantive peacebuilding. Indeed, as Trump floats dreams of Middle East “Rivieras” built on the rubble of Gaza, his diplomacy takes on the contours of imperial spectacle rather than reconciliation.

Like the recent India–Pakistan border ceasefire, the Iran–Israel accord is thin on structure and heavy on symbolism, more about optics than resolution. What emerges is not a roadmap to peace, but a choreography of war—calculated, commodified, and politically profitable.

In Ukraine, Trump’s rhetoric is equally destabilising. He boasts of ending the war in 24 hours—yet as the Lowy Institute notes, his fear of appearing weak may push him toward increased U.S. military support if negotiations fail. Ironically, a second Trump term could see him pivot against Putin, not out of principle but optics. His unpredictability—flirting with both appeasement and escalation—unsettles allies and emboldens adversaries.

Meanwhile, Republicans remain divided. According to Pew, nearly half of GOP voters believe the U.S. is giving too much aid to Ukraine, and support for NATO has significantly eroded among Trump’s base. Should this transactional approach define U.S. foreign policy, both Ukraine and Europe may be forced to reckon with strategic abandonment mid-conflict.

Behind Trump’s foreign policy rhetoric lies a deeper, structural engine: the political economy of American arms exports. As public support for overseas entanglements becomes more fractured, the defence industry provides continuity and momentum. According to the Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI), U.S. weapons exports to Europe surged by 233% between 2020 and 2024—driven largely by Ukraine-related military aid. For the first time in decades, Europe surpassed the Middle East as the largest destination for American arms, accounting for 35% of U.S. exports. Ukraine alone absorbed 26% of these shipments, with nearly three-quarters sourced directly from U.S. military stockpiles. This rapid flow of materiel has accelerated a new wave of militarisation across NATO countries, all under the legitimising narrative of allied support.

This is not incidental. As the Global Times analysis notes, the Ukraine war has sparked a massive rearmament drive among NATO states—many of which are now locked into long-term procurement contracts with U.S. defence firms. Over $81 billion in U.S. arms sales were recorded in 2023 alone, a 56% jump from the previous year. These deals don’t just project American power abroad; they anchor jobs and economic activity at home. The U.S. aerospace and defence sector supports over 2.1 million jobs, a figure that lends domestic economic justification to sustained overseas military engagement.

The entanglement of strategic objectives with industrial benefits turns global conflict into both a political and economic imperative. When Trump promotes “peace through strength,” what often follows is an arms pipeline that fuels instability under the guise of deterrence. This militarised economy makes withdrawal from war zones economically costly and politically fraught. It also means that regional flare-ups—in Ukraine, Iran, or potentially South Asia—can be seen as market opportunities rather than diplomatic failures. In such a context, foreign policy is no longer about strategic vision or conflict resolution; it is about sustaining a system in which peace becomes structurally unprofitable.

The Iran strikes, for their part, have shredded what remained of the nuclear non-proliferation order. The global message is stark: disarmament invites attack; deterrence ensures survival. Nowhere is this more dangerously internalised than in South Asia.

Pakistan, long defensive about its tactical nuclear posture in the face of India’s conventional military edge, now sees its strategy vindicated. Trump’s strike on Iran sends a stark message: adherence to international norms offers no shield against pre-emptive force. For Islamabad, this reinforces the belief that nuclear deterrence remains its only credible safeguard. For India—traditionally cast as a responsible nuclear actor and regional stabiliser—the collapse of trust in global diplomatic frameworks makes continued strategic restraint harder to justify, and potentially more costly. The precedent set in Iran reverberates across South Asia, casting a long shadow over its already fragile deterrence balance.

This shift has global implications. Trump’s style has turned preventive war into standard policy. Having dismantled the 2015 Iran nuclear deal, he moved from diplomacy to sanctions, and now to strikes. In Ukraine, he may soon pivot from “deal-maker” to war-expander. In both cases, the guiding logic is not de-escalation, but coercion.

The economic fallout has been swift. Oil prices soared 28% within days of the Iran strike. Energy markets remain on edge. Inflationary shocks ripple across Europe and Asia. With 40,000 U.S. troops deployed in West Asia, America is exposed—militarily, politically, and economically.

What Trump celebrates as “strength” is, in fact, a war on memory—a disregard for the hard lessons of Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya. Like before, there is no exit plan, no congressional authorisation, and no strategy beyond spectacle. The strike on Iran drew bipartisan concern, but Republican hawks cheered it as decisive leadership. The White House spun it as a triumph for global security. The truth is far murkier.

Meanwhile, Benjamin Netanyahu—facing domestic unrest—rides this moment to reassert Israeli hardline power. But in doing so, he and Trump risk dragging the U.S. into a protracted conflict it neither initiated nor fully controls.

The message to smaller states worldwide is chilling: negotiate and die, or arm and survive. Diplomacy becomes obsolete, and nuclear deterrence becomes a doctrine of despair. For South Asia—where a single misstep between India and Pakistan could lead to catastrophe—this unravelling is deeply ominous.

Trump did not end forever wars. He fractured them into episodic flashpoints, more dangerous for their unpredictability and lack of resolution. His foreign policy is not peace-making—it is pace-making, rushing the world toward chaos with no vision for peace.

This is not a strength. It is a spectacle. And it leaves the world—Tehran, Kyiv, New Delhi, and beyond—holding its breath for the next strike.

 @ The author is an Assistant Professor of Political Science, University of Calcutta.

 

Airport: a transition from cornerstone to rolling stone

 

By Angela Mahapatra

 Airports are an indicator of development. John D. Kasarda and others have demonstrated how airports support growth, contributing to urban growth and development. Improved regional connectivity has promoted migration as well as the international movement of people and goods. But it's not the same any more, airports have encouraged the growth of the population so much that it's scary for people in that residence.

Brinkmanship of development

Belgian researchers Taïs Grippa and Frédric Debruszkes have highlighted in their paper, "You’re surrounded! Measuring the interior of airports in urban areas", that there are significant risks linked to airports situated close to crowded neighbourhoods. Their study presents the idea of an "enclosure index," which evaluates the effects of population density within a 15 km radius of the airport. (Source -1) Mumbai, Ahmedabad among Indian airports facing heightened safety risk due to urban surroundings, published on Economic Times, 9th of July 2025, and

2) You’re surrounded by Grippa and Dobruszkes,2022 pub published in The Professional Geographer.

Mumbai's Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport and Delhi's Indira Gandhi International Airport are located in congested zones, posing important safety issues for residents. The location near slums and housing makes operations more difficult and narrows down safety margins. For instance, Chennai Airport has experienced safety problems due to impingement on the airport, leading authorities to caution against skyscrapers that might obstruct the flight paths.

Airport, a planned death trap

Airports are usually sentimental grounds for farewells, and here we don't only bid farewell to our loved ones but also sometimes to some part of ourselves. However, the unprecedented urban sprawl surrounding these airports has brought issues such as illegal construction and inadequate infrastructure.

This scenario causes land use conflicts, prevents airport expansion, and affects safety. For example, spontaneous and frequent uncontrolled development around Indira Gandhi International Airport complicates runway additions and infrastructure upliftment. Urban development around airports requires stricter regulation to safeguard buffer zones. Effective policies are necessary for safe aircraft operations and public security. Airports in densely populated regions have a greater danger of accidents during takeoff and landing, resulting in potential severe casualties.

For example, the devastating 2020 Air India Express Kozhikode crash happened when the plane overshot the runway and disintegrated on a tabletop runway, with concerns being raised about the proximity of the runway to surrounding residential areas. In the same way, the 2025 Air India Flight 171 incident while taking off from Patel International Airport ended in tragedy when the aircraft crashed in a residential neighborhood. It crashed into a housing building of medical personnel associated with Byramjee Jeejeebhoy Medical College and Civil Hospital in Ahmedabad, resulting in the horrific loss of 242 lives, including passengers, flight attendants, and family members of medical personnel. (source -1)"What we know so far about Air India crash investigation" by Jack Burgess, Maia Davies, and Anna Lamche, BBC News, published on 12th June 2025 and updated on 12th July 2025

2)Four MBBS students, four relatives of doctors died in the crash: JDA published in the Times of India on June 17th 2025.)

Aircraft noise pollution leads to severe health issues like stress, sleep disorders, hypertension, and heart disease. Residents near airports, such as Mumbai’s Vile Parle and Santa Cruz, have raised concerns about unbearable noise from late-night flights. This problem is compounded by engine noise, traffic, and construction, worsening air pollution and impacting children and the elderly. For example, despite Bangalore airport's distance from the city, rapid development nearby is increasing emissions and dust pollution, raising health concerns.

Overcrowding of residential complexes close to airports makes evacuation in times of crisis difficult, preventing easy access for emergency vehicles. For instance, the traffic congestion within Kolkata's international airport takes longer to respond, particularly during rush hour. This raises the risk of deaths from accidents and worsens noise and air pollution, which is dangerous to health and the environment. Moreover, compromised infrastructure growth and safety breaches have transformed airports from a dream of development into a nightmare.

Development, a mere eyewash

Airports are considered symbols of modernity, boosting local economies and international connectivity, especially in developing nations like India. The government gives airports high priority in regional development, adhering to global standards, like in the cases of GMR Delhi Airport and RGIA of Hyderabad. Yet, problems such as uncontrolled urban expansion, inadequate buffer zones, lack of security, and neglected social and environmental impacts continue to haunt. Airports represent elitism, with projects aiming for high-end developments as the airports kill the local businesses by taking away agricultural land, forcing farmers into debt. It is followed by delayed compensation and no skill development, as was the case with Navi Mumbai airport. Besides, airport expansions, such as those at Kolkata airport, pollute the environment and pose a danger to fish farming. Inefficient infrastructure planning increases traffic jams and pulls down productivity, as airports attract a lot of traffic. Such situations are witnessed at Bengaluru airport. Even though the airport creates employment opportunities, most are low-paying or contractual jobs with minimal career prospects. This begs the question: is the airport an elitist enabler or does it belong to the commoner?

United by clouds, divided by politics

The expansion and shifting of airports take huge land tracts, which in India creates political tensions, protests, and litigation.

The Jewar Airport project proposal has received major pushback against the acquisition of land, with the faltering of Navi Mumbai Airport due to aversion from local and tribal groups. The expansion of slums around airports accommodates a large number of people who serve as a vote bank, which results in the government not wanting to shift these groups for fear of losing their electoral backing. This erodes sound urban planning, as population demands conflict with long-term infrastructure aspirations and short-term political agendas. Politicians are prone to make promises not to disturb surrounding neighbourhoods, putting off difficult decisions in election years and hampering airport modernisation. Aviation is controlled by the central government, while land administration and laws are controlled by the state, leading to bureaucratic harassment and political tensions. The government of West Bengal shelved the Purulia Airport project because of this state-central accord, similar to Trivandrum airport privatisation, which was resisted at the state level despite central sanction. In addition, airport privatisation often gives rise to charges of cronyism and persistent capitalism that benefit political parties over their rivals.

In brief, Indian cities' congested airports point towards planning failures in cities, political indecision, attempts to please the underprivileged, issues with land acquisition, and disputes between governments. Airport management, new constructions, or expansions involve reconciling development objectives with political agendas. Enhancements can encompass compensation and resettlement for ousted communities, skill development facilities in localities for airport employment, affordable housing and commercial units for locals, and zoning, followed by inclusive infrastructure planning

 

@ The author is an independent researcher.

Un-imagining the Nation: How the Idea of India Turned on Its People

 

By Asis Mistry

The idea of India was imagined through structures that excluded its margins from the start, and to move forward, we must un-imagine the nation to reimagine belonging through justice and civilizational plurality.

There has been a compelling and timely exchange of ideas on the meaning, memory, and crisis of Indian nationalism — a conversation shaped by Yogendra Yadav (“The nationalism we forgot,” Indian Express, May 27, and “The rediscovery of nationalism,” IE, June 5), Suhas Palshikar (“Who stole my nationalism?”, IE, May 31), Akeel Bilgrami (“An alternative nationalism,” IE, June 16), and G. N. Devy (“Tale of Two Nationalisms,” IE, June 30). These interventions attempt to recover what they see as a richer, more inclusive tradition of Indian nationalism — one rooted in the freedom struggle, constitutional morality, and cultural pluralism. Devy draws a sharp contrast between constitutional nationalism and the Hindutva project, while Yadav and Palshikar debate the historical omissions and contemporary distortions of the nationalist ideal. Yet, taken together, these reflections remain tethered to a foundational narrative — that Indian nationalism was, or could have been, inherently integrative. What remains insufficiently examined is whether this idea was ever structurally capable of delivering justice, or whether the exclusions and silences that mark today’s authoritarian turn were always latent within it.

Let us offer a critical intervention in the ongoing debate on Indian nationalism. It contends that the “idea of India,” long eulogised for its pluralist and democratic aspirations, has always rested on a brittle foundation — one undergirded by caste hierarchies, epistemic violence, and a statist rationality that was fundamentally hostile to radical plurality. The present turn toward an exclusionary, Hindutva-inflected nationalism is not simply a break from the past; it is a brutal intensification of latent tendencies, if not structural, in the postcolonial national project itself.

Yogendra Yadav retrieves a vision of Indian nationalism that was distinctively integrative — one that eschewed the homogenising impulses of European models and celebrated a capacious unity-in-diversity. Suhas Palshikar, more cautiously, acknowledges the aspirations of this tradition while confronting the silences and exclusions embedded within it. Both thinkers attempt to reclaim an inclusive nationalism from the wreckage of the present. Yet in doing so, they betray a nostalgia for a pluralist nationalism that, arguably, never fully existed. Their recovery of the past often obscures the deeper question: who was permitted to belong in the first place?

For all its rhetorical inclusivity, Indian nationalism has historically failed to include caste, tribe, and indigeneity in any meaningful way. The frequently invoked ideal of “belonging without othering” was never realised — not because of momentary lapses or policy failures, but because it was structurally unviable within a nation-state built on upper-caste consensus. As Ambedkar warned, political democracy without social democracy is nothing but a shell. What the nationalist movement achieved was not inclusion, but a fragile consensus curated by elites — a consensus that depended on the suppression of deep-seated inequalities and dissent. These exclusions were not accidental. They were foundational.

G. N. Devy’s distinction between constitutional nationalism and Hindutva nationalism is helpful in mapping the ideological terrain, but it ultimately flattens the complexity of India’s civilizational past. Bharat, as a civilizational entity, cannot be reduced to either of these poles. Unlike the modernist logic of nation-states that seek homogeneity, Bharat’s coherence emerged from shared difference — a continuity of layered identities, moral universes, and spiritual traditions. The current nationalist crisis, then, is not simply the clash of two opposing visions. It is the culmination of a longer historical dismemberment — a process by which colonial and postcolonial elites steadily replaced a plural civilizational consciousness with a narrow, bureaucratised, and homogenising model of statehood.

In both its Nehruvian and Hindutva iterations, the Indian state has failed to acknowledge this deeper plurality. Where Nehruvian nationalism instrumentalised diversity under the banner of unity, Hindutva nationalism weaponizes it under the banner of purity. Both have relied on the coercive apparatus of the state to discipline difference — through language policy, citizenship regimes, national security laws, and the criminalisation of dissent. In this context, Benedict Anderson’s theory of the nation as an “imagined community” requires reconsideration. Bharat was not imagined into being through print capitalism or modernist allegiances. It was lived, remembered, contested, and practised across millennia. What has been imagined — and violently enforced — is the nation-state itself: a bounded, majoritarian, and ultimately brittle political form.

While Palshikar is right to draw attention to the failures of nationalism before 2014, he still retains faith in its redeemability — in the possibility of a democratic nationalism that could correct its course. But what if that possibility was never structurally feasible? Postcolonial theorists like Partha Chatterjee have framed Indian nationalism as a derivative discourse, modelled on Western ideals. Yet this critique often stops short of interrogating how caste and upper-caste modernity shaped the very contours of nationalist imagination — in its pedagogy, its vocabulary, and its exclusions.

The violences of the present — the targeting of Muslims, the silencing of caste-based resistance, the criminalisation of protest — are not a new aberrations. They are the logical outcome of a state form that never accounted for the margins. From Kashmir to Bastar, from Dalit student suicides to the disenfranchisement of Adivasi communities, the postcolonial nation-state has failed to include. For too long, nationalism in India has depended on forgetting — forgetting caste, forgetting tribe, forgetting women, forgetting dissent.

If the nation as currently imagined is exhausted, then what comes next? The answer does not lie in recovering a lost golden age of pluralism or reinventing a softer version of nationalism. Rather, it lies in reimagining the political community itself. The civilizational idea of Bharat offers a different grammar — one that is not reducible to statehood, territory, or majoritarian culture. It gestures toward a space of overlapping moral frameworks, non-statist affiliations, and lived pluralities. But such a turn must be made without mythologising or romanticising the past. A civilizational politics is only meaningful if it is a politics of justice — if it reckons honestly with structural exclusions, rather than subsuming them under heritage or cultural pride.

This is not an academic diversion. It is a moral and political reckoning. In an era where the state has turned its power inward — criminalising citizenship, militarising campuses, and transforming nationalism into an instrument of fear — rethinking the nation is an urgent imperative. The challenge is not to rescue Indian nationalism from its present distortions, but to un-imagine the very exclusions that enabled its construction.

We must imagine anew — a community grounded not in uniformity, but in solidarity; not in fear, but in mutual recognition; not in myth, but in ethical co-existence. In that reimagining may lie the possibility of a Bharat that was never fully realised, but is still waiting to be claimed.

The author is a faculty of Political Science at the University of Calcutta

The organised mass: Mosca’s categorisation calls into question the ruling class

Angela Mahapatra

The mass has been accused of being passive and disorganised as a group, which limits their ability to lead.  Mosca, an elite theorist, has stressed the majority's lack of organising abilities, allowing the strong, powerful, economically boosted, and, finally, the organised minority, the 'elites,' to reign.  This hasty assumption about the governing class is not appropriate for decolonised countries like India.

Elite, a forgotten past

India has experienced nearly half a century of monopolistic governance by the Indian National Congress. Throughout this extensive period, the Congress has transformed from a catch-all nationalist party into a secular organisation. The elite of that era were once activists themselves. The ruling minority, the British Raj, was overthrown by the Indian National Congress. The current government is led by representatives of the “common man.” The transition of power from the “raja” to its “praja” was a lengthy process.

Why is it so simple for the state's elites to govern?  The authority in politics?  The financial support?  - Yes, all of these things combined with societal and cultural acceptability.  The unquestionable trust that everything is great, that there is no other option, that there is no reason to expect more, and finally, that it will last for survival is all bolstered by this social acceptance of the ruling minority.

As time goes on, the decline of trust and political instability among the elite gives way to the emergence of the ordinary individual.

Organisational skills, a gift to the masses

It is often claimed that the masses lack organisational skills, but in truth, they are at their strongest when they come together.

Marxist theorists have carefully articulated how working-class individuals will band together to resist exploitation by the capitalist class. Likewise, during the struggle for independence, the oppressed, mistreated, and colonised populations fought collectively for their freedom. Shared experiences of suffering, the challenges of poverty, and the burden of forced servitude fostered a sense of unity among the diverse individuals within a nation. This is what has brought the masses together.

The masses possess superior organisational abilities compared to the elites, stemming from their psychological bond of equality.

Is Mass the new class?

Democracy as a concept allows everyone the opportunity to select a leader or to become one themselves. Mosca’s categorisation of the ruling class fails to recognise the democratic principles of governance. As a concept, democracy empowers the removal of authoritarian elite control supported by the military, business sectors, and bureaucrats. Democracy serves as a motivation for all those traditional ruling ideologies that silence the voices of the populace. The events of World War I illustrated this, beginning with the emergence of Serbian nationalism that led to the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

The relationship between the ruling system is determined by the majority. The masses are emerging as a new class, resonating more with their fellow citizens; this feeling of representation fosters the advancement of the masses. However, the elite are not content merely to act as elected leaders. Instances such as military coups, state emergencies, and presidential rule illustrate how the elite seek to disrupt the unity of the masses. Government forces attempt to fragment the solidarity of the populace. Upon closer inspection, it is evident that the citizens are the true holders of authority and the ones seeking power.

Ultimately, nothing exists outside of the majority's approval and recognition.

The perception of the elite as superior, coupled with their condescension towards the majority, promotes solidarity among the people. By viewing themselves as the exclusive benefactor and protector of the populace, they contribute to dismantling the elite's dominance and empowering ordinary individuals.

Common man, an underdog: अब राजा का बेटा राजा नहीं बनेगा!!

Encircled by countries grappling with political turmoil, military coups, civil conflicts, and autocratic governance, India stands strong as the democratic master of Asia. Emerging from a lengthy period dominated by a single political party and precariousness in the governance, the ascent of the Bharatiya Janata Party symbolises the empowerment of the ordinary citizen.

Currently, the world views India as a nation governed by the common man, for the common man, and of the common man. Since its inception, India has experienced changes in governance. Oppression has played a significant role in shifting power dynamics in this land.

Violence has been a crucial element in bringing the masses together throughout different historical periods. The quest for freedom has served as a rallying cry for an end to suffering, as Franz Fanon also advocates for violence after a certain threshold of endurance is reached in order to regain peace, stability, and emancipation. Violence presents a contradiction, as both the elite and the masses engage in it similarly. The elite wield violence to fracture the solidarity of the masses, while the masses resort to violence to fortify their cohesion. In modern times, violence has become an inherent aspect of any rebellion.

Unfortunately, the state of every democratic country is significantly troubled, as the ‘common man’ also exhibits certain elitist characteristics, which enhance their organisational abilities that serve as a link between those in power and the power givers.

 

@ The author is an independent researcher.