Last Thursday, Prime Minister Sushila Karki ‘addressed’ the nation, promising timely elections, relief and accountability. However, one speech cannot erase a deeper pattern: In Nepal, leaders rarely engage with the people they represent, especially during moments of uncertainty.

On September 11, 2001, terrified New Yorkers looked at the skyline that had forever changed. At such a moment, it would have been expected for the city’s leaders to retreat behind barricades, speak through layers of bureaucracy and rely on faceless communiqués. Yet Rudy Giuliani—then Mayor of New York—walked the streets himself, with his suit as covered in ash as the people around him—and spoke to his city in words that were human, natural and unadorned. Without downplaying the loss of lives and the towers, he projected calm, confidence and a steady determination that New York would not only endure but rebuild. His presence, visibility and unrelenting communication functioned almost like collective therapy, soothing a traumatised city and helping restore a fragile sense of order.

Psychologists later remarked that Giuliani’s press briefings and street appearances served as a kind of psychological first aid. While it didn’t provide direct solutions, it delivered reassurances that the city was not leaderless, that someone was present, and that the fear and grief of ordinary people had been recognised.

If only the Nepali people could say they had been given the same in their own moments of fear during, immediately after and in the aftermath of the Gen Z protests! These citizens weren’t just venting about a social media ban—they were expressing a deeper anxiety about freedom of expression and the government’s arbitrariness. In such a moment, the erstwhile prime minister KP Oli and communications minister Prithvi Subba Gurung could have chosen to appear before the public, explain the policy’s rationale, and, if necessary, concede its shortcomings. They could have organised town halls, faced the press and spoken to the nation with candour. Instead, Oli mocked the youth as restless and immature, and the minister, whose duty it was to communicate, delivered adamant statements. What the people encountered was not dialogue but decrees, not persuasion but mockery, and—when anger grew—not words but bullets.

The controversy over embossed number plates unfolded in much the same way. The idea itself was not devoid of merit—a modernised registration system could have made roads safer and strengthened law enforcement. But rather than explaining this to citizens and persuading them of its value—or negotiating practical compromises such as allowing plates in Devanagari script—the government issued an ultimatum to install the plates by Ashoj 1 or face consequences. Such communications resembled the firmans of imperial governors than the voice of elected representatives.

These are not isolated failures but part of a larger pattern in which Nepali leaders consistently mistake command for communication. In democracies, policies rarely collapse solely because of technical unsoundness—they fail because they are poorly explained to affected people, yet they feel excluded. A government that does not talk to its citizens creates the very instability it seeks to suppress.

This absence of voice is not limited to the present crisis. During the 2015 earthquake, when the ground shook, Nepali people searched for their leaders in much the same way New Yorkers did in 2001. They saw the army and the police heroically pulling out people from the rubble, yet complained that the “government was absent”. Sure, army and police represented (and were mobilised by) the same government, but citizens missed ‘seeing’ the government because the representatives they had elected were not standing among them in moments of fear, let alone speaking to them with words of solidarity or hope. Nobody expected ministers to dig through rubble. People longed instead for a reassuring presence of someone to acknowledge their loss and assure rebuilding, not the unempathetic silence.

After the Christchurch Mosque shootings in New Zealand, PM Jacinda Ardern comforted her grieving nation not only by announcing measures but by embracing victims’ families, adding symbolic gestures like wearing a headscarf and calling those murdered “our people” to give them a sense of belonging in a majority-Christian country. During the Covid-19 pandemic, too, she spoke directly to citizens from her living room, answering questions online, in plain, empathetic language. What these leaders understood—but their Nepalese counterparts forget—is that empathetic communication is the soul of politics, not a decoration to it. In Nepal, on rare occasions when leaders talk, it often turns into political gimmickry rather than genuine empathy.

PM Karki’s Thursday address was no different. Delivered from behind cameras, it carried the overly formal tone of a scripted statement and failed to convincingly explain why constitutional amendments must wait until after the elections, leaving many hopeful citizens disappointed. Nor did she show openness to acknowledging the challenges of holding presidential-style elections for a directly-elected PM or a referendum on core issues—an idea which might even have been possible had the citizens at least been given the chance to offer their inputs. It also risks being a one-off gesture when what Nepal truly needs is regular, empathetic communication from its leaders in both words and actions.

The new government, to its credit, had begun with gestures conveying a warmer spirit. PM Karki herself visited hospitals, comforting the injured. Finance Minister Rameshore Khanal—in addition to inviting email inputs on good governance issues—has also made small but meaningful gestures like not using VIP lounges at airports. Education Minister Mahabir Pun’s candid reply to questions about free education further reflects this more realistic and honest tone. These steps contrast the oft-repeated yet unfulfillable rhetorics of past leaders who promised that Nepal would soon become the “next Singapore”, which sounded inspiring in the moment but deepened cynicism and anger as realities disappointed. However, apart from these exceptions, the contrast in inspiring and reassuring citizens has not been as encouraging.

Nepal does not need leaders who reduce politics to pre-scripted press statements or commands enforced by law enforcement. What it needs is human-esque leaders willing to stand visibly in Maitighar Mandala (and on citizens’ mobile screens) to explain policies in plain words, admit uncertainty when necessary, and above all, speak with empathy. The interim government might not be mandated to fulfil larger aspirations of the populace, but they must immediately project empathy alongside continued visibility. Presence is not measured by how often one appears in carefully scripted television spots, but is measured by whether, in trying times, people feel their leaders are with them.

The lost art of talking to the people is not a western luxury but a universal necessity. It is a foundation on which trust between citizens and leaders is built. On 9/11, New Yorkers found solace in the imperfect yet present figure of a mayor who walked with them through ash and ruin. Two decades later, Nepalis—with fragile mental health amidst the current crises—continue their search for a Giuliani to reassure, persuade and inspire. The current government—and more importantly, the less unpopular leaders of the old regime—must rediscover this lost art, rebuild the eroded trust and inspire confidence. Recent inactions of the current government—and worse, the unapologetic statements from leaders of the old regime—hardly signify anything like that, but one cannot stop hoping.