Old habits of speech-driven politics are being challenged by a new style of governance that prioritises action over rhetoric
In recent weeks, Nepal's political discourse has been dominated by a single, polarising question: Why is Prime Minister Balen Shah so silent in Parliament? His persistent refusal to engage in parliamentary debates has drawn fierce criticism from opposition parties, who accuse him of shirking his constitutional responsibilities and becoming unaccountable to the very voters who elevated him to the nation's highest executive office. In a political culture where fiery speeches, witty epithets, and performative outrage have long been the norm, a reticent prime minister feels not only unusual but almost unsettling. Yet the rush to condemn Shah's silence may overlook deeper political, psychological, and constitutional dynamics. Instead of interpreting his quietness as incompetence or evasion, it may be more productive to examine it empathetically and analytically. Doing so opens a new space for political reflection-one that challenges our assumptions about leadership, communication, and accountability in Nepal's evolving democracy.
To understand Shah's silence today, one must recall his political persona during the election campaign. Unlike traditional Nepali politicians, he did not rely on marathon speeches, poetic metaphors, or emotionally charged rhetoric. He presented himself as a man of action rather than a master of words. His speeches were brief, direct, and often awkward. He did not attempt to hypnotise crowds with flowery language or dramatic promises. In fact, his communication style revealed a simple truth: he is not a naturally gifted public speaker. This matters because not all leaders are built from the same mold. Some excel at oratory; others excel at execution. Some thrive in debate; others thrive in administration. A leader who is straightforward, unembellished, and unskilled in political theatrics may actually be more honest-less inclined to exaggerate achievements or conceal failures behind rhetorical flourishes. In this sense, it may be the silence of someone who refuses to pretend to be what he is not.
Silence is not always passive. In politics, it can be a deliberate and strategic choice. Nepal's media environment has become increasingly sensational, with "media trials" shaping public opinion long before facts are verified. Two ministers in Shah's own government resigned after intense media scrutiny, even before formal investigations concluded. Against this backdrop, Shah may be wary of entering the parliamentary arena, where heated exchanges often generate more controversy than clarity. His priority, as he has repeatedly stated, is to restore good governance in a country long plagued by corruption, nepotism, and administrative decay. From this perspective, parliamentary debates, often dominated by personal attacks, partisan theatrics, and unproductive shouting, may seem like distractions rather than democratic necessities. Shah may fear that participating in such debates could entangle him in controversies that derail his reform agenda. Silence, then, becomes a shield: a way to avoid unnecessary political traps and media distortions while concentrating on governance.
Another dimension of Shah's silence relates to foreign policy-particularly the sensitive border issues involving Lipulekh, Limpiyadhura, and Kalapani. These disputes have long strained Nepal's relations with both India and China. Any statement by the prime minister carries institutional authority and can influence diplomatic negotiations. Speaking prematurely, without comprehensive surveys, historical verification, or national consensus, could escalate tensions and complicate diplomatic efforts. In such contexts, silence is not indecision; it is restraint. It allows time for consultation with experts, diplomats, and neighbouring governments. It prevents misinterpretation and avoids locking the country into positions that may later prove untenable. In international relations, silence can be a form of strategic ambiguity, preserving flexibility while signaling seriousness.
Shah is a new prime minister navigating a complex political landscape. Unlike many of his predecessors, who often spoke impulsively or made promises without considering feasibility, Shah appears cautious about the weight of his words. He seems to understand that public statements from the prime minister are not mere opinions; they are commitments. They shape expectations, influence markets, and carry legal and diplomatic implications. By remaining silent until facts are verified, Shah may be attempting to establish a new political ethic: that leaders should speak responsibly, not performatively.
Critics often equate silence with weakness, but in parliamentary systems, silence can be a constitutional necessity. A prime minister must maintain the confidence of the Parliament, the unity of the cabinet, and the stability of the government. Speaking too often-or too carelessly-can jeopardise all three. Silence can prevent unnecessary conflicts, avoid alienating coalition partners, and preserve political capital. Moreover, silence can be a form of listening. It can signal humility, reflection, and respect for institutional processes. It can create space for others to speak, for debates to unfold, and for decisions to mature. In a democracy, leadership is not measured by the volume of one's voice but by the wisdom of one's actions.
None of this means that silence is always virtuous. A prime minister must remain accountable, transparent, and responsive to the public. Excessive silence can indeed become a form of evasion. But the current debate risks oversimplifying a complex issue. Instead of assuming that Shah's silence reflects incompetence or authoritarian tendencies, it may be more constructive to interpret it as a strategic, ethical, and constitutional choice.
Nepal is undergoing a political transition. Old habits of speech-driven politics are being challenged by a new style of governance that prioritises action over rhetoric. Whether this experiment succeeds remains to be seen.
In the end, strategic silence is not weakness. It is a political skill-one that, when used responsibly, can strengthen governance, protect national interests, and promote stability. In a parliamentary system where survival depends on confidence, unity, and restraint, silence may not only be defensible but necessary.
Koirala is a Ph.D. scholar at the University of Texas at El Paso and an assistant professor at Shankerdev Campus