When former President Bidya Devi Bhandari attempted to re-enter active politics through the CPN-UML—the very party she helped build—she was blocked by a decision that hides behind constitutional dignity while exposing a deeper problem in Nepal’s political culture. The move to sideline her isn’t just a power play—it is an act of political exclusion steeped in patriarchy, internal insecurity and disregard for constitutional freedoms.
The CPN-UML’s Central Committee, led by KP Sharma Oli, denied Bhandari’s return, arguing that a former president must remain above party politics to preserve the sanctity of the office. Yet this rationale collapses under scrutiny—legally, politically and morally. This is not simply about Bhandari’s personal ambitions. This is about how we define democracy in Nepal. Are we a system that allows experienced leaders—regardless of gender—to remain engaged in shaping the country’s future? Or do we selectively retire people when their political presence becomes inconvenient?
Both Dev Gurung of the CPN (Maoist Center) and Tank Karki of the UML itself have forcefully challenged the party’s decision, calling it unconstitutional and unjustified. Gurung points out that the move violates Article 17 of Nepal’s Constitution, which guarantees political freedom and fundamental rights to all citizens, including former officeholders. Once a president steps down, they are no longer bound by the symbolic or ceremonial obligations of that office. The Constitution does not categorize former presidents as non-citizens. Any restriction on their political participation would require strong legal justification—such as actions threatening national sovereignty—which clearly does not apply in Bhandari’s case.
What is more surprising is Gurung warns that political parties registered under the constitution cannot make internal rules or take decisions that override or undermine constitutionally-protected individual rights. In this case, the UML’s action amounts to a political overreach with no constitutional basis.
Tank Karki echoes these concerns from within the party. He questions how any political organization can assume the authority to limit a citizen’s right to participate in politics, especially when no such restriction is mandated by the Constitution. Karki invokes multiple precedents to dismantle the UML leadership’s justification: Ramchandra Paudel returned to Nepali Congress after serving as Speaker, Subash Nembang resumed active roles within UML post-speakership, Khilaraj Regmi became Prime Minister while serving as Chief Justice and Nanda Bahadur Pun held a senior Maoist position while serving as Vice-president. These examples make it abundantly clear that returning to politics after holding high office is not new, nor is it constitutionally inappropriate. Karki rightly asks: “Are we truly democratic if we restrict political participation for someone who is no longer in office?” His question reveals the core contradiction of the UML’s decision—it is less about constitutional dignity and more about political control.
Indeed, Bhandari’s assertiveness and her public hint at contesting leadership within the party were likely perceived as a direct threat by Oli, who has ruled UML unchallenged for years. But attempting to eliminate opposition through procedural justifications is not leadership—it’s suppression. And suppressing a leader like Bhandari, especially after her decades-long contribution to Nepal’s democratic movement, is not just unfair—it’s self-defeating for a party that claims to represent democratic ideals.
What’s more troubling is the gendered nature of this exclusion. When men return to active politics after high office, they are often hailed for their experience. When a woman does the same, she is told it undermines her dignity. This is a classic patriarchal double standard. It elevates women only when they are silent, symbolic and submissive—but excludes them when they seek actual power.
The logic used to bar Bhandari, wrapped in notions of “respect,” “republican values,” and “national unity,” is in fact a tool of silencing. It offers ceremonial honor in exchange for political irrelevance. But true dignity for women in politics lies in allowing them to lead, compete and challenge—just as their male counterparts do.
This sends a deeply discouraging message to Nepal’s women: that the presidency is not a platform for further leadership but a dead-end. That political achievements are valid only until they challenge existing male authority. That even after reaching the highest office, women must gracefully disappear from the political stage.
Nepal’s democracy cannot afford to send such a message.
Bhandari is not asking for favors. She is asserting a right she has earned through decades of political struggle—from student activism in the late 1970s to her contributions in constitutional processes and women’s representation. She remains one of the few women in Nepal with both national recognition and grassroots political experience. Silencing her does not protect democracy—it weakens it.
At a time when Nepal’s political environment is marked by fragmentation, volatility and declining public trust, the exclusion of a credible and experienced leader like Bhandari is a strategic blunder. Her return could help stabilize internal party conflicts, promote left unity and offer a counterbalance to male-dominated power blocs. Her leadership represents continuity, not disruption. Moreover, allowing her back into politics could rejuvenate faith among Nepal’s younger generation—especially women—that political space is open to all, not just a privileged male few.
Let’s also set the legal record straight: there is no constitutional clause that prevents a former president from joining a political party. The arguments being made in UML’s decision—the so-called “spirit” of Article 61—are interpretive at best. The same “spirit” was never invoked for male figures returning from constitutional positions. Why now?
Some claim that Bhandari’s political re-entry might damage the symbolic sanctity of the presidential office. But symbols don’t build nations—leaders do. And leaders must be allowed to evolve, contribute and contest. The presidency was a chapter in Bhandari’s political journey—not the conclusion. Letting her rejoin politics is not an attack on the republic—it is a celebration of its openness. Her participation will not break the system. In fact, excluding her weakens the very democratic spirit the UML claims to be protecting.
Democracies do not function by freezing capable leaders into statues of respect. They thrive when voices—especially those of women—are free to speak, challenge and lead. Nepal cannot claim to support women's empowerment while pushing its most experienced female politician into a corner. Ultimately, this is not just about Bidya Devi Bhandari. This is about what kind of republic we want to be. One that fears women’s power or one that embraces it?
Let her lead again—not as a symbol, but as a politician, a woman, and a citizen. Because the strength of Nepal’s democracy will be measured not by how well it confines women, but by how freely it lets them rise.
The author is a political observer and advocate for inclusive democratic processes
