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Nepal’s School Education Bill, long awaited to operationalize Article 31(2) of the Constitution—which guarantees every citizen the right to free and compulsory education up to secondary level—is now mired in conflict and controversy. Initially introduced to provide equitable, quality education, the Bill’s process has become a battlefield of political interests, pressure groups, and conflicting ideologies. Instead of upholding learners’ rights, the Bill now appears to be tilting toward protecting vested interests.

On April 30, the Nepal Teachers’ Federation reached a deal with the chief whips of the Nepali Congress and CPN-UML, halting its month-long protest on the understanding that the Bill would be endorsed by June 29. The Education, Health, and Information Technology Committee had initially agreed to a provision allowing permanent appointment of temporary, relief, and contract-based teachers through a 60 percent internal and 40 percent open competition model. Earlier, this was adjusted to a 50–50 ratio while presenting in parliament. However, the Federation insisted that 100 percent of permanent appointments be reserved for internal candidates, arguing they had “sacrificed” long enough.

In response to this demand, Education Minister Raghuji Panta requested the committee to withhold the Bill. This action drew sharp criticism and revived public distrust, evoking memories of the controversial cooling-off period in the Civil Service Bill. The credibility of the Parliament’s legislative sovereignty is now under scrutiny, as it appears increasingly vulnerable to organized lobbying. The key issue at stake is whether sacrifice can override constitutional principles such as fairness, competition, and inclusivity in public service. Can the Parliament remain accountable to the wider public—students, parents, and future educators—or will it continue to serve organized interest groups?

Reflections on the purpose of education

Meanwhile, the core idea of education itself is being missed in this debate. The Latin root educare means “to draw out” or “to lead from darkness to light.” In the words of the Upanishads: Asato ma sadgamaya, tamaso ma jyotirgamaya—“From falsehood to truth, from darkness to light.” However, when education becomes limited to securing permanent jobs for insiders, its transformative essence is lost. Education risks becoming a bureaucratic entitlement rather than a fundamental right.

Globally, education has often swung between these two poles: liberation and control. Caroline Veniero’s legal-historical research in the U.S. shows how the Freedmen’s Bureau (1865–1872) helped African Americans acquire literacy after slavery, reinforcing the connection between literacy and citizenship. In stark contrast, the Boarding Schools for Native Americans forcibly assimilated Indigenous children under the slogan “Kill the Indian, save the man.” These examples highlight how education can be used either to empower or to dominate.

Additionally, India’s legal evolution offers further insights. In Unnikrishnan v. State of Andhra Pradesh (1993), the Indian Supreme Court linked Article 45 (Directive Principle) with Article 21 (Right to Life), recognizing education as fundamental to human dignity. This marked a doctrinal shift by merging Directive Principles with enforceable Fundamental Rights. Literacy was seen not just as a skill but as a condition for democratic participation. Yet, as Anil Sadgopal argues, this principle was soon undermined. Sadgopal’s critique of India’s Right to Education Act (2009) reveals how it created a segmented system: elite private schools for the rich, under-resourced public schools for the poor. He described it as a “Fundamental Right to Unequal Education.” His alternative vision was a Common School System based on Neighbourhood Schools, where children from all backgrounds would study together in the same public institutions. Nepal could draw from this model as it reconsiders its own Bill.

Alongside domestic policy debates, international frameworks have shaped education’s trajectory. The Jomtien Declaration (1990) and the Dakar Framework (2000), both endorsed by the World Bank, promoted education reform through “basic” and “life skills,” encouraging public-private partnerships and reducing state responsibility. Education was recast as a service to meet market needs rather than a public good. In India, this led to an emphasis on voucher systems and minimum learning benchmarks, gradually disconnecting education from its democratic and egalitarian roots.

Moreover, these global and regional influences carry serious implications. Historian Badri Raina reminds us how access to education has historically been denied to preserve privilege. The stories of Eklavya, Karna, and Shambuka from epics show how caste and class boundaries were enforced through educational exclusion. Colonial policy continued this pattern. Lord Macaulay’s 1837 Minute on Indian Education proposed to create a class of intermediaries loyal to the colonial state by limiting education to the privileged few.

Raina argues that postcolonial policies like the National Education Policy (1986) also reproduced inequality by assuming poverty as permanent and designing education around that assumption. If Nepal’s School Education Bill moves in the direction of institutionalizing privilege by excluding open competition and undermining local autonomy, it may replicate these unjust patterns.

A call for rights-based and inclusive education reform

Further, this risk becomes even more pronounced when education is evaluated against four international standards of rights-based provision: availability, accessibility, acceptability, and adaptability. A meaningful education system must provide sufficient infrastructure and qualified teachers (availability), ensure non-discriminatory access (accessibility), uphold quality and relevance (acceptability), and remain responsive to diverse learner needs (adaptability). Without addressing all four pillars, any reform risks being incomplete.

The current proposal, as shaped by union demands, fails on all four counts. It limits access for new and future educators, prioritizes job security over learner outcomes, resists decentralization, and risks undermining the constitutional authority of local governments. By shifting decision-making back to central and freezing competitive recruitment, the Bill sets a precedent for political capture over public accountability.

If passed in its current form, the law will likely protect the system but not the students. It will reward seniority over merit, representation over performance, and status quo over innovation and departure. It risks becoming what one might call a “School Staff Bill” rather than a “School Education Bill.”

In this context, the haunting phrase from US history—“Kill the Indian, save the man”—becomes relevant once more. It shows how education, if misused, can erase identities, suppress change, and maintain control. Nepal must choose another path. It must adopt a law that empowers rather than protects, that includes rather than excludes, and that looks ahead rather than backwards.

Nepal’s School Education Bill was introduced to fulfill the constitutional right to free, equitable education. But under political and institutional pressure, it risks becoming an instrument of exclusion rather than inclusion. The demands for 100 percent internal recruitment, the delay in committee meetings, and the withdrawal of agreed provisions all point to a system more concerned with safeguarding employment than delivering justice.

Conclusion

This is the moment for the Parliament to show courage. It must listen to students, parents, and prospective teachers—not only to organized interest groups. The Bill must be reframed to center education as a public good, grounded in constitutional ethics, democratic participation, and equity. Ultimately, the choice is clear: a law that leads Nepal from darkness to light, or one that leaves it circling in the shadows of inequality. Let this Bill become a beacon of justice—not a symbol of another missed opportunity.

Nepal is facing a growing crisis of trust in government. Recent protests by teachers demanding reform in education law and doctors calling for enforcement of prior agreements have disrupted essential services. High-profile resignations—including the Education Minister, state minister and the Vice Chancellor of Tribhuvan University—reflect a political culture marred by interference and disillusionment. Statements by former Governor Vijayanath Bhattarai, who criticized the influence of middlemen in public appointments, underline a widening gap between citizens and institutions.

This disillusionment is not exclusive to Nepal. As Chris Eccles explains in his essay Restoring Trust in Government, public confidence in democratic institutions has declined across many countries over the past several decades. His insights are especially timely for Nepal as it navigates its own democratic transition and seeks to restore public legitimacy.

Eccles begins by highlighting how trust in government has eroded steadily since the 1960s, citing surveys in countries like the United States and New Zealand. This decline cannot be attributed to isolated events or leadership failures. It reflects a deeper, structural shift in how citizens perceive and interact with democratic institutions.

In Nepal, trust remains low despite constitutional reforms and federal restructuring. Political institutions are often viewed as self-serving and unresponsive. Eccles argues that declining trust is not just a result of poor performance but of a changing political culture where citizens demand more than material benefits—they seek fairness, dignity, and voice.

For decades, governments believed that delivering roads, schools, and jobs would be enough to earn public support. Eccles refers to this belief as “performance legitimacy.” However, his research shows that service delivery alone is no longer sufficient to maintain trust. Citizens increasingly judge governments by how decisions are made, who is included, and whether processes are fair.

In Nepal, development initiatives often fail to improve legitimacy when implemented without transparency or local participation. Even when services are delivered, communities may feel excluded or manipulated. Eccles’ insight is clear: trust is not just about output, but about justice and accountability.

Eccles draws on Ronald Inglehart’s theory of social modernization to explain how rising education and global exposure have changed citizen behavior. As societies modernize, people expect governments to respect their rights, engage in dialogue, and share decision-making. They no longer accept top-down rules without explanation or consultation.

Nepal is experiencing this shift. Civic protests, youth-led campaigns, and digital activism reflect a political environment where citizens—especially young people—demand transparency, equality, and ethical conduct. Trust must now be earned through relationships and engagement, not merely promised in speeches.

A defining feature of Eccles’ argument is the idea of a new civic culture. Citizens want more than services—they want institutions to act with honesty, competence, and respect. Trust today is not an automatic result of governance; it is a public value that must be cultivated.

Nepal’s participatory frameworks provide an opportunity to build this culture. Local governments hold public hearings and consultations, but these often fail to influence actual decisions. To restore credibility, these mechanisms must go beyond ritual and become meaningful platforms for collaboration.

Eccles notes that repeated political scandals deepen public cynicism. While the media plays a vital role in uncovering wrongdoing, constant negativity without resolution can damage morale and weaken democratic engagement. In Nepal, headlines about corruption, impunity, and political manipulation are common, yet few are followed by accountability.

Citizens begin to believe that change is impossible. Eccles calls for a shift in narrative—one that includes not only critique but also examples of reform, ethical leadership, and citizen participation that rebuild hope and confidence.

Eccles presents several reforms introduced in New South Wales, including a Public Service Commission, a Customer Service Commissioner, and Infrastructure NSW. These bodies aimed to strengthen professionalism, prioritize public needs, and insulate planning from political interference.

Nepal can adopt similar reforms. Independent commissions, long-term planning authorities, and citizen feedback mechanisms can improve integrity and transparency. These changes must be supported by a public service culture that values competence and service over patronage.

To guide institutional behavior, Eccles introduces the ITARI framework: Integrity, Transparency, Accountability, Responsiveness, and Inclusiveness. Each principle addresses a key dimension of democratic trust.

Nepal’s constitution and laws already reference these values, but implementation is inconsistent. Merit is often compromised by political interests. Public data is not always accessible. Marginalized communities are still underrepresented in key decisions. Restoring trust means turning these values from ideals into lived practice at every level of governance.

Eccles outlines an “engagement continuum” with five levels: networking, coordination, cooperation, collaboration, and partnering. Many governments promise partnership but deliver only limited consultation. This gap between promise and practice damages trust.

Nepal’s experience reflects this challenge. Community members may be invited to meetings, but decisions often remain top-down. True engagement requires that citizens help define problems, shape solutions, and share responsibility for implementation. Community forestry and school management models offer practical examples of deeper participation already at work in Nepal.

Eccles critiques overly strict administrative rules—called probity frameworks—that were meant to prevent corruption but often block innovation. In many systems, civil servants become afraid to take initiative, slowing progress and avoiding responsibility.

This is a serious issue in Nepal. Delays and inaction are often driven by fear of audits or political retribution. Eccles proposes a fit-for-purpose approach, where rules are tailored to the size and risk of each project. Such flexibility can encourage problem-solving while maintaining integrity.

A vital solution offered by Eccles is co-production. This means that the government does not act alone but works with citizens to design and deliver public services. Trust grows when people see themselves as contributors, not just recipients.

Nepal has strong traditions of cooperative action, from community-managed forests to disaster response. These approaches show that when citizens are trusted, they help solve complex problems. Expanding co-production can make governance more inclusive and more effective.

Eccles ends his essay with a powerful revision of a common phrase: instead of saying, “I’m from the government and I’m here to help,” public servants should say, “I’m from the government and I need—and want—your help.” This simple change reflects a deeper transformation—one that centers humility, partnership, and mutual respect.

In Nepal, this message is more urgent than ever. Trust cannot be rebuilt with slogans or plans alone. It requires institutional courage, ethical leadership, and daily practices that honor the voice and dignity of every citizen.