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A farmer in Nepal can legally lose an entire season’s harvest to monkeys and receive little more than sympathy in return. Imagine any other sector of the economy functioning this way. If a factory lost half of its production due to repeated external damage, the government would intervene. If a road project was destroyed year after year, emergency funds would be allocated. Yet when farmers lose maize, wheat, vegetables, fruits, and even their willingness to continue farming because of monkey attacks, the response is often limited to temporary solutions and political promises.

This is not just a wildlife issue. It is an agricultural crisis, a rural development crisis, and ultimately a policy crisis. For years, Nepal has approached monkey conflicts as though the monkeys themselves were the problem. Consequently, discussions have revolved around sterilization, relocation, capture, and population control. These measures may satisfy public anger, but they do little to address the underlying drivers of conflict. In fact, after decades of similar interventions in different parts of South Asia, monkey-human conflicts continue to increase. This should force policymakers to ask a simple question: if controlling monkeys was the solution, why does the problem keep getting worse?

The answer lies not in monkey biology but in human decisions. Nepal’s hills are changing rapidly. Villages that once were filled with agricultural activities are becoming quieter each year as young people migrate abroad. Terraces that produced maize and millet now lie abandoned. Shrubs and secondary forests have reclaimed large areas of farmland. Forest cover has increased nationally, a development often celebrated as an environmental success. Yet beneath the positive statistics lies a neglected reality: much of this forest recovery has occurred without strategic land-use planning.

The result is a fragmented landscape where forests, abandoned fields, settlements, and crop lands are intertwined. Ecologists call such areas ‘edge habitats’, zones where wildlife and humans interact most intensely. Unfortunately, edge habitats are exactly where rhesus macaques grow.

From the monkey’s perspective, modern Nepal is a land of opportunity. Natural predators are virtually absent. Forest patches provide shelter. Nearby farms provide abundant food. Abandoned lands serve as safe movement corridors. In ecological terms, Nepal has unintentionally engineered ideal conditions for monkey populations to expand. We have spent years asking how monkeys became so bold. A more honest question is: how did we make it so easy for them?

This distinction is crucial because it determines whether policies succeed or fail. When governments focus solely on reducing monkey numbers, they are treating symptoms. When governments address the landscape conditions encouraging conflict, they are treating causes.

The most overlooked policy tool in Nepal today may therefore be ecological buffering. Unlike sterilization or relocation, ecological buffering does not seek to fight wildlife. Instead, it seeks to redesign the interface between wildlife habitat and human activities. The concept is based on a simple principle: conflict becomes inevitable when attractive crops begin exactly where forests end.

Across much of Nepal, there is no transition zone between monkey habitat and human food production. A troop emerging from a forest can move directly into a maize field within minutes. For an intelligent, opportunistic primate, this is the equivalent of finding a supermarket at the forest gate. Ecological buffering seeks to remove that invitation. Strategically planted belts of bamboo, medicinal plants, aromatic crops, fodder species, or other vegetation that monkeys find less attractive can be established between forests and agricultural land. Such buffers do not function as physical barriers. Rather, they function as ecological filters. They alter movement patterns, reduce crop visibility, and increase the energetic cost of reaching cultivated areas.

The science behind this approach is supported by decades of wildlife management experience. Around the world, successful conflict mitigation increasingly relies on habitat management rather than population eradication. Whether the challenge involves elephants in Africa, wild boars in Europe, or deer in North America, experts have learned a common lesson: wildlife populations are shaped by landscapes. If landscapes encourage conflict, conflict will occur regardless of how many animals are removed.

Nepal’s monkey problem is no exception. Yet ecological buffering alone will not solve the issue. The government must also confront a more uncomfortable reality: monkey conflict has become a symptom of rural neglect. Farmers are being asked to protect food production with little institutional support. Many spend hours guarding fields that generate increasingly uncertain returns. Some have already abandoned cultivation altogether. Every abandoned field represents not only an agricultural loss but also an invitation for further wildlife encroachment.

Therefore, monkey management must be integrated into national agricultural policy. Farmers in high-conflict zones should receive incentives to establish buffer crops. Local governments should incorporate wildlife-conflict mapping into land-use plans. Agricultural extension programs should identify crops that are economically viable yet less attractive to monkeys. Compensation mechanisms must become faster, more transparent, and more realistic.

Most importantly, responsibility for monkey conflict should not rest solely with forestry agencies. This is where Nepal’s current approach falls short. Monkey conflict sits at the intersection of forestry, veterinary, agriculture, local governance, biodiversity conservation, and rural livelihoods. It requires a cross-sectoral response rather than isolated interventions.

There is also a broader lesson here. Nepal’s monkey conflict illustrates a growing challenge of the twenty-first century, the collision between ecological success and policy failure. Forest recovery without land-use planning can create new conflicts. Wildlife conservation without agricultural protection can undermine rural livelihoods. Environmental policies cannot be judged solely by the number of trees planted or hectares reforested. They must also be judged by how well people and wildlife coexist within those landscapes.

The temptation will be to search for quick solutions. Sterilize more monkeys. Capture more monkeys. Move them elsewhere. Such measures generate headlines and create the appearance of action. However, the evidence from around the world suggests that lasting solutions rarely emerge from reacting to animals. They emerge from understanding systems.

The monkey raiding a farmer’s maize field is not the root of Nepal’s problem. It is the visible outcome of years of fragmented planning, unmanaged land-use change, and policy blind spots. In that sense, the monkey is not the villain of the story. It is the messenger. And unless policymakers listen to the message, Nepal may discover that controlling monkeys is far easier than controlling the consequences of ignoring the landscapes that created the conflict in the first place.

Former King Gyanendra Shah returned to Kathmandu from western Nepal recently amid rousing cheers and chants from thousands of supporters. This mass gathering at the airport and the subsequent rally in which thousands of people participated wasn’t just nostalgia for the bygone monarchy; it was a reflection of public frustration. A deep, simmering frustration of the unemployed youth who see no future in their own country, of parents left alone as their children work under the scorching heat in foreign lands, of spouses living apart, yearning for the family life they once dreamed of. It was a frustration of citizens who wake up every day to yet another news of corruption, scandals, and abuse of power, frustration of hardworking individuals whose opportunities are overtaken by the privileged few politicians, their families, and their inner circles.

For some, this support for monarchy comes from an experience; they lived under it and now compare it to what democracy has offered. For others, it was fueled by the sense of uncertainty; they never experienced monarchy but now wonder what if there was a monarchy in place? What if governance was about service rather than power? What if corruption was actually punished? What if the nation prioritized merit over political connections? What if development wasn’t just an election-time slogan? What if Nepalis didn’t have to celebrate something as basic as a newly paved road in the 21st century?

The frustration isn’t new. It has been brewing for years. The transition to democracy was supposed to bring change, but for many, it has brought only disappointment. Political instability has been a defining feature of Nepal’s governance for decades, with governments collapsing and forming at an alarming rate. Leaders rise to power promising reforms, only to repeat the same cycle of inefficiency and self-interest. Citizens are left watching as political infighting takes priority over national progress.

Nepal’s economy, once hoped to flourish under democratic rule, has struggled to provide for its people. The job market is stagnant, pushing millions of young Nepalis to seek employment abroad. The remittance economy sustains the country, but at a great emotional and social cost. Families are torn apart, children grow up without parents, and entire generations are raised with the mindset that their future lies outside Nepal, not within it.

Education is another area of disillusionment. Young people work hard to earn degrees, only to find that merit does not guarantee opportunities. Instead, it is nepotism, political connections, and bribery that open doors. Many educated individuals either leave for better prospects or settle for underemployment, their talents wasted in a system that does not value them.

The corruption that plagues Nepal is perhaps the most infuriating aspect of all. Scandals involving billions of rupees make headlines regularly, yet those responsible rarely face any real consequences. Politicians and bureaucrats enrich themselves while basic services crumble. Hospitals lack equipment, schools lack resources, and infrastructure projects remain unfinished for years, draining public funds while achieving little progress.

Infrastructure development moves at a snail’s pace. Roads, bridges, and essential facilities are often promised but rarely completed on time or with quality workmanship. When projects do finish, they are celebrated as major achievements—even though they are the bare minimum a functioning government should provide. Meanwhile, in other parts of the world, cities are being built from scratch in mere months, and technological advancements are reshaping economies.

The justice system, too, fails to inspire confidence. Laws exist on paper but are not enforced equally. The wealthy and powerful navigate the system with ease, while ordinary citizens struggle for even the most basic legal protection. Cases drag on for years without resolution, leaving victims with little hope for justice.

It is in this climate of frustration that the question of monarchy resurfaces—not necessarily as a solution, but as an alternative to the current mess. The sight of Former King Gyanendra being welcomed back in Kathmandu was not just about nostalgia; it was a loud and clear message that people are desperate for something different. They are not necessarily advocating for a return to absolute monarchy, but they are asking whether the current system has truly served them well.

As someone who was a child when Nepal was still a monarchy, I cannot claim firsthand knowledge of whether it was better or worse. But I see the frustration around me, and I, too, find myself asking: What if? Not because I believe monarchy is the perfect solution, but because I know that democracy, as it stands, is failing its people. It has become a tool for a handful of elites to consolidate wealth and power while millions struggle to get by.

This isn’t about choosing between democracy and monarchy, it is about demanding a system that works. A system that prioritizes governance, accountability, and opportunity. A system where politicians are held accountable, where corruption is punished, and where leadership is driven by service rather than self-interest.

So where do we go from here? The What ifs are questions that demand answers, not silence. Whether it is democracy or monarchy, the real concern should be about governance, accountability, and the future of Nepal. Because, at the end of the day, Nepalese are not demanding luxury; they are merely asking for dignity, fairness, and a chance to build a better future in their own homeland.