Rivers flowing with wild untamed energy, lush hills touching the sky, and villages standing quietly like mysteries waiting to be discovered, the landscapes of Nepal are unique and have their own way of weaving magic. On my recent research trips to some of these breathtaking places, I remember standing on the bank of a river, the energy of water rushing with a force that felt both eternal and fragile. 

Every river in Nepal is a lifeline for many communities, their traditions, and their livelihoods. I couldn’t help but feel the sting of disillusionment. Sweet promises that had turned bitter, masked in the disguise of progress. Many developmental structures threaten to dam this flow and silence its roar along the voices it supports. My work of reviewing the efficacy of Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) reports for various hydropower projects has become a journey of shattered hopes and neglected responsibilities. The EIA reports I’ve studied often read like very hollow documents, technical jargon masking a lack of genuine intent. Mitigation measures were listed, committed, and costs allocated, but implementation had remained a distant dream. 

I experienced that the EIA process in Nepal is far removed from the idealistic theory we’re taught in university classrooms where EIA is pictured as a cornerstone of sustainable development, a means to balance human ambition with environmental stewardship. It’s a framework meant to foresee and mitigate development impacts, suggesting pathways that honor both progress and nature. The reality, however, feels like a betrayal of this noble intent. 

The process itself is riddled with flaws. Project proponents see EIAs as obstacles to their “smooth business”. For them, time and capital are precious commodities, and they are better spent on profits than on environmental safeguarding. I recall a project staff telling “We are obliged to mitigate the socio-economic impacts because locals protest for it, but trees do not speak, and fish don’t come fighting for their rights.” The loss was real, but who would listen?

EIA experts, often subcontracted by consultancies, approach this task as mere job-doers. Their reports are shaped not by the raw truths of the field but by the expectations of project proponents who prioritize profits over prudence. “Would this have been different,” I wonder, “if these experts had worked independently, free to honor their findings?” However, the system offers little freedom where ethical compromises are routine, field studies are insufficient, and public hearings are mere performances. 

Government oversight, meanwhile, feels like a faint shadow of what it ought to be. Policies and legal frameworks exist, but they are rarely enforced. Less than 10% of approved hydropower projects have been monitored, and auditing is practically nonexistent. I’ve sat through review meetings where grammatical errors in reports seemed to get more attention than the actual impacts of a project. It has sadly become a system that mistakes paperwork for progress and political interests for scientific reasoning. 

Even when monitoring does happen, it often lacks depth and consistency. There are no standardized protocols for monitoring or evaluating a project’s adherence to EIA guidelines. Political biases frequently dictate decisions, with influential projects receiving an easier pass while smaller, less connected endeavors get the hard way around. This patchy oversight perpetuates a culture of exemption, where non-compliance is tolerated and maybe even encouraged. Without robust enforcement mechanisms, the very purpose of EIA is undermined, leaving environmental concerns as mere afterthoughts in the rush for development. 

And then there are the locals the people who stand to lose the most yet are often the least informed. Most of them continue to prioritize short-term socioeconomic rewards over long-term ecological costs. Others are either hushed or ignored. I’ve met farmers who spoke nostalgically of the time fields were well-irrigated and lush, and fishermen who remembered how the river once thrived with life. Their voices echo in my mind, a poignant reminder of what is at stake. 

As I walked away from every such site visit, I couldn’t shake the weight of it all. Those hills bore the scars of blasting and the ground bruised with the growl of machinery. The remnants of broken earth had thickened the air, and these roaring rivers were silenced, their course was altered by human ambition. It was as if nature herself whispered, “How much more can I endure?” 

This journey has made me realize the gaps between policy and practice, the compromises we’ve normalized, and the urgent need for change. The EIA process in Nepal does hold immense potential, but it’s trapped in a cycle of negligence and exploitation. To break free, we must make informed decisions and demand more from our experts, proponents, government, and ourselves. We must value the rivers, the forests, and the communities who depend on them, not as resources to be exploited but as treasures to be used wisely. 

Hopefully one day these promises will be sincere commitments that are implemented rather than some charming lies, and we can finally call Nepal’s hydro power a real clean energy source. Until then, however, the river flows, sometimes powerful, sometimes quiet bearing witness to our decisions and reminding us that we could do better.