In January 2026, a seemingly procedural decision inside Nepal’s Rastriya Swatantra Party revealed something far larger than internal party politics. It exposed how China’s influence now operates in the Himalayan region not through commands or public pressure, but through silence, fear, and anticipation.
Tashi Lhazom, a young environmental and cultural researcher from Nepal’s Himalayan belt, was removed from RSP’s proportional representation (PR) closed list without her consent. Her name had been ranked first under the Indigenous Women category, making her one of the strongest contenders for a parliamentary seat. She did not withdraw. She was not consulted. The Election Commission of Nepal later confirmed that her name had indeed been removed at the party’s request.
Tashi joined RSP after years of youth activism focused on ecology, culture, and community life in Nepal’s high mountain regions. She is a Nepali citizen, not Tibetan, and has publicly denied any association with Free Tibet activism or exile politics. None of this prevented her removal. In Nepal’s current political climate, denial is often irrelevant when perception alone is deemed dangerous.
The timing matters. The removal occurred in mid-January 2026, just days before final PR lists were locked in. It was a moment when parties traditionally become risk-averse, trimming anything that could invite controversy. This time, the perceived risk was geopolitical. Although no official statement named China, multiple political and media sources in Kathmandu indicated that diplomatic “sensitivities” were raised informally. The concern was not what Tashi had done, but what her background and public profile might represent to Beijing.
China did not issue a warning. It did not lodge a protest. It did not need to. In Nepal, the Tibet question has long ceased to be an open political matter. It has become a reflex. Any figure connected however loosely to Himalayan identity, border regions, cultural preservation, or environmental research near sensitive areas is quietly assessed through a single question: could this irritate China?
If the answer is uncertain, the safest response is removal.
This is how influence works today. It is not enforced; it is internalised. Political actors do not wait to be told what to do. They pre-emptively discipline themselves. Reformist parties like RSP are not immune. Economic dependence, infrastructure investment, border security cooperation, and decades of diplomatic conditioning have created an environment where silence is safer than principle.
Inside RSP, the decision was not uncontested. Several party figures reportedly objected, and leaders from Tashi’s home region in Karnali and Humla protested publicly, staging sit-ins and calling the move unjust. But these objections came after the fact. The decision had already been processed, submitted, and accepted. Procedure moved faster than conscience.
Legally, the process passed. Politically, it failed a deeper test. Nepal’s proportional representation system exists precisely to amplify marginalised voices – women, Indigenous communities, and remote regions. When those voices are removed due to external anxieties rather than internal misconduct, the democratic promise hollowly remains on paper.
What happened to Tashi Lhazom was not an aberration. It was a signal. It showed how geopolitical power now reaches into domestic democracy without ever appearing in official records. It demonstrated how rumor can outweigh rights, how representation can be quietly vetoed, and how sovereignty can erode without a single law being broken.
Nepal was not ordered to act. It already knew what not to allow.
And that is the most unsettling lesson of all. When power no longer needs to speak, democracy begins to whisper and eventually, to disappear.
