Technofeudalism with Nepali characteristics

There is a story Deng Xiaoping used to tell, or at least attributed to him so often it became a policy: it does not matter whether the cat is black or white, as long as it catches mice. The Chinese Communist Party ran with that logic for four decades, building capitalism so ferocious it would make a Gilded Age robber baron blush, while maintaining the branding, the party apparatus, and the reassuring red flag overhead. They called it socialism with Chinese characteristics. The world called it a miracle. Historians are still arguing over what to call it.

Nepal, watching from the roof of the world, seems to have found its own version of the formula. Only here, the cat is not catching mice. The cat is building a personal brand, ordering army personnel into neighborhoods to collect data on the landless poor, bulldozing settlements before the rains come, postponing parliament so it does not slow down the governing, arresting a journalist for a YouTube video, and on the occasion of Buddha Jayanti, posting a philosophical message about how a true revolution begins with knowledge than compassion. The crowd, exhausted by a generation of spectacular failure from the people who came before, is calling most of this progress. Some of it is. The rest deserves a harder look.

Call it technofeudalism with Nepali characteristics.

What technofeudalism actually means

The term comes from the Greek economist Yanis Varoufakis, who argued in his book Technofeudalism: What killed capitalism, that capitalism, the system that replaced feudalism by making markets the central organising principle of society, has itself been replaced. Not by socialism. By something stranger. In the old feudal order, lords owned the land and extracted rent from those who farmed it. 

In the new digital order, a handful of platforms own the cloud, the algorithm, the interface, and command the attention of billions of people worldwide, extracting what Varoufakis calls "cloud rent." You do not buy from Amazon. You pay tribute to a fiefdom. You do not post on Facebook. You till the algorithmic soil and surrender the harvest.

The really unsettling part of the argument is not the diagnosis of Silicon Valley. It is the political consequence. When rent extraction replaces market competition as the engine of accumulation, democratic institutions lose their leverage. You cannot tax what you cannot see. You cannot regulate what has already captured the regulator. The state becomes a subcontractor for the platform, not the other way around.

In Nepal, this dynamic wears different clothes. The platforms are not Amazon or Meta. But the logic is already here, speaking the language of meritocracy and clean government. And it has arrived in the most effective disguise possible: a man the internet genuinely loves.

From rapper to Prime Minister: The arc that explains most of it

Balendra Shah is a structural engineer and rapper serving as Nepal’s Prime Minister since 2026, following his party's landslide victory in the March election. At 36, he is the world's youngest serving head of state, and the first rapper to ever lead a national government. This introduction, which appears repeatedly in media coverage, serves a great deal of political branding for Shah.

The protests that opened the path to his rise began on September 8, 2025, sparked initially by the government's decision to block 26 social media platforms in case they don’t register in Nepal. What began as peaceful gatherings in Kathmandu quickly escalated into widespread unrest after police opened fire, leading to arson attacks on government buildings. More than 76 people died. The parliament building burned. And a political class that had cycled through prime ministers with the reliability of bad weather was finally, comprehensively, overthrown.

In the election that ensued, the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP) won 182 of 275 seats in the lower house, far outpacing the political forces that had dominated parliament for almost two decades. The Nepali Congress won 38 seats, the CPN-UML 25, and the Nepali Communist Party (NCP) won 17.

The scale of the mandate deserves a moment of attention. Shah won the Jhapa-5 constituency by securing more than three times the votes of his opponent, four-time former Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli. Oli congratulated Shah in a social media post, wishing him a smooth and successful term. On the campaign trail across the country, voters said they did not know who their local candidate was but would vote for Shah. "Ab ki baar, Balen sarkar" (this time, Balen's government), an intentional echo of Narendra Modi's 2014 campaign refrain, was the popular chant.

This is an important context. The mandate was not just large. It was emotional. It was carried by people who had watched the state fail them for long enough that they were prepared to vote for a face rather than a platform, a biography rather than a program. That kind of mandate is enormously powerful. It is also, when you look at history carefully, a particular kind of danger.

The first thirty-five days: Speed, symbolism, and cracks

The first month of the new government was marked by an unusual combination of speed, symbolism, and controversy. On its very first day, the cabinet unveiled a 100-point governance reform agenda focused on bureaucratic efficiency, digital public services, anti-corruption enforcement, and long-promised structural reforms. Investigations were opened into former high-ranking office bearers, a commission was formed to scrutinise the assets of public officials who assumed offices over two decades, illegal betting platforms were blocked, and middlemen in transport and land revenue offices were targeted.

Some of these were genuinely overdue. 

Then came the arrest of former Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli over his alleged role in the September 2025 crackdown, which carried a symbolism of accountability that Nepal had not seen in its post-monarchy history.

But the government's continuous crackdown-driven approach unsettled the private sector. Arrests and detentions of major industrialists under money laundering investigations generated concern over due process, while raid-style arrests of corporate figures without established proof of guilt has further shaken private sector confidence g and the investment climate. Analysts said this indicated that one arm of RSP did not know what the other was doing, with different arms working at cross-purposes.

This was the paradox of the government’s first five weeks. It moved quickly enough creating an impression of change, yet carelessly enough to raise questions about whether the change had any clear direction, or just a velocity.

The bulldozer as governing philosophy

One month into office, Shah demonstrated what governing in his image would look like at its most visceral. Under his directive, bulldozers rolled in on April 25, with a heavy police presence to clear squatter settlements along the banks of the Bagmati River and its tributaries, which crisscross the Kathmandu Valley. Squatters had been living for decades in these informal settlements, many in flimsy shelters of wood and sheet metal.

Over 1,200 houses, shacks and other structures were demolished in three days alone in Kathmandu's Thapathali, Gairigaun, Manohara, and Sinamangal. According to the Land Problem Settlement Commission, some 450,000 households are landless. Other reports suggest higher figures. This is in a country with about 6.7 million households. The problem is real. No serious observer disputes it. What got disputed, loudly and with growing force, was the process.

Reports indicate that the Prime Minister had directly instructed security agency heads to begin eviction operations without formal Cabinet-level discussion. Critics noted there were no prior consultations with the Ministry of Land Management, Cooperatives and Poverty Alleviation. Analyst Ashutosh Tiwari framed it plainly: "The ethos of this government seems to be to move fast and break things, but that's not how an elected government works."

By early May, the government had been forced into a partial retreat. Following widespread protests and the removal of 3,500 families from Kathmandu's riverbanks, the government announced it would stop further evictions until “genuine” landless squatters are identified and resettled. The Ministry of Federal Affairs and General Administration directed local levels to create solid management plans first. 

Meanwhile, an additional 280 families displaced in Balkhu, Banshighat, Shankhamul, and Manohara registered for relocation assistance, bringing the total number of families seeking help to 1,494, with many still living on cold concrete floors in temporary holding centers as the pre-monsoon rains began.

The pause was welcome. It was also a concession that the initial drive had been launched without the plans required to make it humane. Many raised serious concerns over the timing of the displacement of a large number of people while the monsoon season approached, which could expose them to severe weather conditions and increased health risks.

Amnesty International said the forced evictions reflected “a dangerous erosion of lawful governance and signal an increasingly authoritarian approach.” It is a striking assessment of a government barely a month old.

Military in your neighborhood

Armies belong elsewhere but in April the Nepali Army began collecting data on squatters and unorganised dwellers across the country, with military units in different districts sending letters to the Land Issues Resolution Commission and various local governments requesting updated information. The Bajradal Battalion in Banke wrote to all local units on April 25, asking for updated details on informal settlements within 48 hours.

Local governments across several districts pushed back immediately. Shyam Prasad Rajbanshi, mayor of Sunbarshi Municipality in Morang, said the army's move runs counter to constitutional practice and the spirit of federalism. “The management of landless people is the responsibility of local governments. Why is the army involved?” A meeting of mayors from several Bardiya municipalities issued a joint statement saying their serious attention had been drawn to "the move which was taken, bypassing due procedures and legal process."

There is a long tradition of scrutinising such initiatives under political theory. Max Weber defined the state as the entity with a monopoly on legitimate violence. The operative word is legitimate. The legitimacy is supposed to come from civilian oversight,  rule of law, sequencing of institutions that keeps coercive power separate from administrative function. When you use the military to conduct what is essentially a bureaucratic survey, you are not just cutting corners. Instead citizens are being trained to experience the state as a uniformed, armed presence in their daily lives, with collection of information about them,. and the military is being trained to normalise that function.

In the twenty-first century, data is infrastructure. Whoever controls the database of Nepal's 1.2 million landless households controls the patronage map, the surveillance capacity, and ultimately the conditions under which people can be removed from land or classified as legitimate versus illegitimate. The question of who owns that national database, under what legal framework, with what auditing mechanism, is not a technical question. It is a constitutional one. And it is being decided by army letterhead with 48-hour deadlines.

Parliament as inconvenience

On April 27, 2026, barely one month after a historic electoral mandate, the Shah cabinet made a decision that illuminates the government’s understanding of its authority. It chose to suspend a parliamentary session it had itself recommended and proceeded to issue several ordinances.

This was not a one-off. The government sent an omnibus ordinance to the President's office proposing amendments to 20 different laws, covering 16 universities and seven health science academies. Among the most contentious provisions: existing law provides a four-year term for vice-chancellors and other senior university officials, but the new ordinance removes their tenure without specifying a replacement term. A source confirmed bluntly that the ordinance was designed to end the tenure of current officials and make way for new appointments.

Four opposition parties, including the NC, CPN-UML, the NCP and the Rastriya Prajatantra Party, held a joint meeting and urged President Poudel not to approve the ordinances. The President appeared uncomfortable too, and sought consultation from constitutional experts before deciding, given his previous position that decisions should reflect the full membership of the Constitutional Council.

Political commentator Indra Adhikari puts it plainly: “Withdrawing a summoned House to bring an ordinance does not align with constitutional morality. Even if the government truly lacked preparation, doing this makes people lose trust in even the most formal government proceedings. This is particularly concerning for a government that has made good governance its primary agenda.”

The deepest irony is  RSP Chair Rabi Lamichhane had publicly condemned the rule-by-ordinance tactics of previous governments. “The ordinances are tied to how Oli operated, and now that the government is using Oli's playbook, the public that gave the party the mandate have questions,” said analyst Ashutosh Tiwari.

A government with a near-supermajority that still treats parliament as an inconvenience should give everyone pause.

Two ministers down, a journalist arrested, the clock still running

There is another pattern worth examining. Labour Minister Deepak Kumar Sah was dismissed after the RSP's disciplinary commission found he misused his position to keep his spouse as a board member at the Health Insurance Board. Later, Home Minister Sudan Gurung resigned, the second exit in one month, amid questions about his financial transactions and links to Deepak Bhatta, a money-laundering accused businessman.

The dismissals were celebrated by Shah's supporters as proof of accountability. There is something real in that. Previous governments let ministers ride out scandals that would have ended careers elsewhere. But a pointed question kept being asked: sacking controversial ministers is an exercise in good governance, but why were they appointed in the first place? Shah himself had insisted on Gurung's appointment as Home Minister, reportedly overriding objections from RSP chair Rabi Lamichhane during cabinet formation. The man who appointed them is now being praised for removing them under pressure. This is not accountability. It is reactive management in the costume of integrity.

Then there was Roshan Pokharel. A YouTuber journalist was arrested for criticising Prime Minister Shah, released only after protests erupted. The case was brief and the release relatively quick. But the fact of the arrest, the fact that someone's first instinct was to reach for handcuffs when a camera pointed in the wrong direction, tells you something about the institutional culture forming around this government. Repressive reflexes do not usually announce themselves. They show up in the first month as small episodes that get walked back. They show up in the fifth year as policy.

A Kantipur Daily reporter was physically stopped from documenting evicted squatter families at a relocation center, with police demanding the deletion of his footage. When he asked for the legal basis, he received the response that has become the hallmark of the administration: orders from above. The Nepali Army also issued a warning against what it labeled “misleading content and fabricated narratives,” announcing it was actively monitoring media and threatening legal action, effectively demanding the public rely solely on official press releases for information on the squatter situation.

Nepal has the freest media environment in South Asia. That distinction is now being tested in real time.

The Gen Z front speaks back

Something significant happened on Buddha Jayanti, May 1, 2026. Prime Minister Shah posted a philosophical message on social media saying a “true revolution begins with knowledge.” Rakshya Bam, coordinator of the Nepal Gen Z Front, one of the protest groups that made his rise possible, issued a sharp public response: a “true revolution begins with compassion.” Bam is a vocal critic of the government's demolition drive, and urged the Prime Minister to show more empathy toward displaced families.

This moment matters. The youth of the country are still demanding new politics. It is not a sign of ingratitude. It is democracy functioning as it should. The question is whether this government will listen to the feedback or fall back on the same toolkit its predecessors used when inconvenient voices got louder.

Political scientist Bishnu Biswokarma had warned before the election that “populist politics don't bring real sociopolitical reform, but turn certain individuals who ride on public sentiment into leaders. When that person's ambition gains public legitimacy, it can turn into autocracy. It doesn't seem Nepal is headed toward outright autocracy, yet if populist politics becomes dominant, the danger remains.” Such warnings deserve to be read carefully.

The Rabi Lamichhane problem nobody wants to discuss

Shah joined the RSP only weeks before the election and was nominated as its prime ministerial candidate, while Rabi Lamichhane, the television presenter-turned-politician who founded RSP, remains its chairman. Lamichhane is a controversial figure facing allegations of fraud, organised crime, and money laundering. He has previously served jail sentences and is currently out on bail.

Political scientist Gehendra Lal Malla described the alliance between the two as “a marriage of convenience.” Balen needed a party to contest the election. Rabi needed Balen's validation.

This matters significantly and is discussed far too little. A government that came to power on an anti-corruption mandate is structurally intertwined with a party chairman facing serious criminal allegations. Lamichhane has so far been careful not to publicly disagree with the prime minister's decisions. The silence is interesting. The question of what it eventually costs is more interesting still.

The international precedent, and why it should worry you

The playbook is not unique to Nepal.

In the Philippines, Rodrigo Duterte weaponised exactly the same anti-establishment energy: public’s growing disgust with elite corruption and its  appetite for a man who gets things done. He used it to build a culture of executive impunity that outlasted his own presidency. 

Emmanuel Macron built En Marche with the promise of being neither left nor right, simply competent and modern, only to govern a France that felt increasingly talked at rather than listened to. In India, the language of digital governance, decisive leadership, and national cleanup has coexisted with the systematic weakening of independent institutions over a decade. In Bangladesh, the youth protests of 2024 that initially ousted a corrupt government produced a new order that has already shown its own authoritarian reflexes. The real test for Nepal is whether what they voted for is genuinely different, or simply more efficient at exercising power. 

In late April, Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, and the International Commission of Jurists jointly wrote to Shah, saying that the forced eviction of landless people and an ordinance that would dilute the independence of the constitutional council “appear to violate housing rights and due process protections and show an alarming disregard for procedure and the rule of law.” Three of the most credible human rights organisations in the world and five weeks into the new government. That is not a diplomatic formality, but a fire alarm.

Finger pointing all the way down

What holds all of this together, or rather what prevents it from being held together accountably, is Nepal's spectacular tradition of political whataboutism. Raise concerns about the haphazard demolition,  someone will remind you of the corruption of the previous government. Question the ordinances, someone will point to the obstruction in the previous parliament. Criticise the role of the army in collecting data, and someone will ask why there was silence when Oli was doing worse. Point to the journalist’s arrest, and someone will note he was released in a few days.

Each of these responses contains an element of truth. But each one of them is also deployed to prevent accountability from landing anywhere. The result is a political culture in which criticism is always whataboutery, accountability is always somebody else's problem first, and the present is eternally in conversation with the failures of the past rather than forward looking.

This is what gives Nepali technofeudalism its Nepali character. The powers do not need to suppress accountability on their own anymore; a public conditioned by decades of disappointment and partisan tribalism often does the work. Balen, RSP and Rabi's social media army does today what the party youth wings did in the 1990s. The medium has changed. The mechanism is strikingly identical.

The mandate and what it demands

The honest conclusion is not that Balen Shah is a villain, nor that the RSP government is simply the old order with better Instagram aesthetics. Nepal's structural problems: captured institutions, rent-seeking political economy, accountability deficit, are not products of any single administration. They are the accumulated output of decades of elite bargaining that excluded most Nepalis from meaningful governance.

The government has done some things right. The anti-corruption investigations, however imperfect in process, have reached figures once considered untouchable. Crackdowns of illegal gambling were long overdue. The 100-point reform agenda, whatever its implementation gaps, is at least an agenda rather than a rhetorical posture. The old order deserved to fall.

But the question worth asking, five weeks in, is whether the new order is being built around institutions or around figures. 

Deng Xiaoping's cat did catch some mice. China's poverty reduction was real, extraordinary even. But the same logic that produced the miracle also produced Tiananmen, the surveillance state, and a country where the party is now synonymous with the nation in ways that make dissent structurally impossible. Socialism with Chinese characteristics turned out to have a shadow its architects preferred not to photograph.

Nepal is a much smaller country, with a much more chaotic democracy, and a much more genuinely plural society. The feudal tendencies have not yet calcified into permanence. The ordinances can still be challenged in court. The demolitions have already been partially paused under public pressure. The Gen Z Front is speaking back to the Prime Minister in the language he used to speak to power. The elections will come again.

But the window for building actual institutions does not stay open indefinitely. Technofeudalism, whether in Silicon Valley or South Asia, succeeds not through coups but through normalisation. Through the slow habituation to the idea that this is just how things work, that the lord knows best, that efficiency matters more than process, that the person who gets things done should be trusted to decide what gets done first, and how and for whom.

The moment that idea becomes common sense is the moment the castle is finished and the drawbridge goes up.

Nepal deserves better than a smaller, darker, more photogenic version of what it already had. The generation that watched the parliament burn in the hope of a new political future deserves a government that asks, every single morning, whether it is actually building one.