In the long history of our land, women like Bhrikuti and Sita were among our earliest messengers of peace. When they crossed mountains and borders, they didn’t go as silent objects; they carried the heart of Nepal with them, building bridges of culture and spirit that lasted for centuries. They were the threads that tied us to the world with dignity and love. But today, that warmth has turned into something cold and hard. The threads of love have been replaced by the steel crates of a mechanical transaction. We are now packing up our living heritage—the very soul of our forests—and sending them away to the scorching sands.

Where Bhrikuti and Sita travelled to weave spirits together, elephants Rudrakali and Khagendra Prasad are forced into the dark belly of a giant metal plane as ‘diplomatic currency’. The screeches of these gentle creatures have been ignored by labelling them as mere biological reactions. By treating our rarest wildlife as assets to be bartered away for geopolitical favours, the state has effectively alienated the sacred trust of our natural heritage. We have moved from a nation that exported culture and peace to a state that exports its soul to settle unspoken debts.

On the night of December 17, 2025, this heavy change felt final. Rudrakali and Khagendra Prasad, born in the lush green heart of Chitwan, landed in Doha. While the state holds ceremonies to celebrate this Wildlife Diplomacy, those who watched the calves being forced into steel crates felt a deep ache. To the people, this didn’t look like a gift of friendship; it felt like a mechanical Kanyadan.

An elephant’s brain is a sanctuary of memory, containing a hippocampus (the part of the brain that processes emotions and long-term memory) so developed that it rivals the human capacity for grief. When the calves were moved, they left a sensory home. While we are told they will adapt to the climate-controlled enclosures of Doha, no machine can replicate the deep, vibrating social rumbles of a matriarchal herd or the specific scent of a Chitwan monsoon. For an animal that remembers for decades, displacement is a lifelong exile.

Legal trapdoor and procedural void

On paper, Nepal’s promise to protect its wildlife is strong and unbreakable. The National Parks and Wildlife Conservation Act (1973) and the CITES Act (2017) list the Asian Elephant as a ‘Schedule I’ species, granting them the highest level of legal protection. Under these laws, the state is their custodian, a guardian trusted to keep them safe. Despite their strength, these provisions remain susceptible to administrative circumvention. Animal welfare experts have long pointed out a legal trapdoor in the Fifth Amendment of the Wildlife Rules. This allows the government to bypass the very protections meant to keep elephants in their natural homes. The most troubling part is how these choices are made. Decisions to send elephants abroad often happen behind closed doors of the Council of Ministers, away from public discussion or expert debate.

The jumbo gift leaves us a haunting question: Is this really about conservation, or are these living, breathing beings just a form of ‘diplomatic currency’ used to buy favours? Where is the comprehensive Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA)? The Environment Protection Act (2019) requires a rigorous study for any project or action that significantly disrupts environmentally sensitive areas or protected species. While the government may point to a technical feasibility report conducted by ministerial committees, a true EIA is a public-facing, multidisciplinary document that predicts long-term ecological and psychological impacts. In this case, the assessment appeared to be a post-hoc justification for a political decision already made, rather than a prerequisite for it. A legitimate biological welfare report would have weighed the trauma of separation against the perceived diplomatic gains.

Breach of public trust doctrine

This procedural shortcut is a direct violation of the Public Trust Doctrine, which emphasises that certain natural resources, such as our forests, waters and endangered species are held in a sacred trust for the collective welfare of the people. They are not the private property of the ruling government to be bartered away for favours. Our judiciary has been clear on this. In the landmark case of Padam Bahadur Shrestha v. Government of Nepal, the Supreme Court of Nepal elevated environmental protection to a fundamental right, linking the Right to a Clean and Healthy Environment (Article 30) directly to the Right to Life (Article 16). The ruling established that the state has a mandatory duty to protect the environment. Diplomacy cannot be used as a pretext to bypass the state’s fiduciary responsibility to its natural heritage. By treating Rudrakali and Khagendra Prasad as diplomatic assets, the state has effectively alienated a public trust asset.

A tale of two boxes

There is a biting irony in sending these calves to Qatar. Every day, the bodies of young Nepali migrant workers return from the Gulf in wooden boxes; yet, on December 17, we sent two of our most sacred animals to the same destination in steel ones. One could view Rudrakali and Khagendra Prasad as Nepal’s newest labourers. Just as millions of Nepalis go abroad to support the family back home, these elephants appear to have been sent to support the ‘family’ of the state. While the public is shown a ‘gift of friendship,’ we must wonder if such gestures are silently exchanged for invisible favours. If a gift is used to settle an unspoken debt, is it still a gift, or is it a transaction?

True diplomacy does not require the surrender of one’s heritage to maintain an alliance. It would mean standing before a powerful partner and asserting: Our fifty-year bond is invaluable, but our wildlife is not a diplomatic asset. Scaling up our diplomacy means moving away from the symbolic sacrifice of animals and towards a relationship built on skills, culture and professional exchange. If our diplomatic foundations were strong enough, we would not need to use the tears of a calf to cement a treaty. Let this be the final Kanyadan of its kind. Let our future diplomacy be written in ink, not in the displacement of those who cannot speak for themselves, but who will never, ever forget.